A Poem a Day, Week 28, July 9 to July 15, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 28, July 9 to July 15, 2022

Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly blog and podcast of my poem-a-day challenge for 2022. I am your host, and poet, Emily Gibson. The poems for the 28th week of the year, July 9 to July 15, originated from nature and introspection.  As I navigate this healing journey, as I sift the rubble of my once-life to figure out what I will do next, I keep meditating on what it means to be human and live a life true to our purpose. 

As always, I must mention that these are 1 or 2 day poems, which have not gone through the grist of revision.  That comes later, something I truly look forward to doing.  For now, I release these new, freshly hatched poems to the world as my commitment to build my creative habit as a writer and a poet this year.  

You can keep track of Sifting the Rubble's posts on the Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram platforms:

Facebook (daily posts) : https://www.facebook.com/BlueheronELG
Twitter https://twitter.com/SiftingThe
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/sifting_the_rubble/

Please like and follow and share in whichever ways suit you. Thank you! :)

And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 28 Poetry Podcast

Poem #190, A Volcano Dream
by Emily Gibson, July 9, 2022

A cinder cone  
dreamed a volcanic memory.   
A bank of cumulus clouds 
brought illusion to life.

About "A Volcano Dream": On a drive a few weeks ago, I saw this image and heard this poem. This week, as I was sifting through my photo album in Google, I found this grainy photo I snapped through the car's windshield to remind me. Finally, this short poem came to life in print.

Poem #191, Arrange the Mind 
by Emily Gibson, July 10, 2022

Make up your mind,

like you make your bed,
first thing in the morning,
a ritual to set the day.
Arrange your mind
like you arrange
a vase of flowers,
focused and thoughtful.
How we choose to be
is a decision we make.
The more conscious,
the more intentional
that choice,
the better.
Feelings come and go
like weather.
It takes a conscious
state of mind
to resist weathering.

About "Arrange the Mind": In something I read this week, I saw the line 'Arrange your mind," in reference to how we get to decide how we feel, each day, if we make that conscious choice. It tied to an earlier poem about feelings being like weather, in a way. Writing this poem helped me shift my thinking a bit, and reminded me that what we think, we manifest.

Poem #192, 55 and Counting 
by Emily Gibson, July 11, 2022

Inside my bones are these little bones.
My feet still point in those arcs.
Muscles grew longer and stronger,
Neurons flew faster each year.
That white-blonde hair
Became darker, 
It glints of silver now.
Oh, to be that satisfied,
To be so in the moment,
Unable to consider
How time

Stretched ahead.
Just this moment
On the border of shade and sun,
With a brilliant red fuchsia
Dangled out of reach.
Me in my grub state,
Happy as I’ll ever be.

About "55 and Counting": This is my birthday poem to myself! One of my favorite photos of me from just before my parents split up. I love how I can see in this photo all of me (inside and out) as I am today.

Poem #193, Moving Day
by Emily Gibson, July 12, 2022

Under the van a shadow moves.

Suspected skunk prompts move
of van to load gear.  This move
reveals a family of ducks, moved
into shade as the heat moved
past 95. Unsure how to move
duck and ducklings to move
to nearby water source, Jay’s move
is to call home. His story moves 
me, with my recent duckling move.
I encourage him to quickly move
towards others to find help.  This move
unearths one experienced in moves
of ducks and ducklings.  They move
into action, grab the duck. Moved
to quack, the ducklings move,
scatter under cars.  Jay moved
with others to contain and move
ducklings and duck to pond. Move

accomplished.  Heart moved.

About "Moving Day": After last week's events with ducks, my partner Jay had his own intersection with them this week, at a golf course. While I wrote the first couple lines, I started looking for synonyms for "move" because I didn't want to overuse the word. Then I thought I could play with the different meanings of "move," and place the word at the end of each line. As a creative exercise. I want to repeat this idea in the future, as it made me really think and stretch!

Poem #194, Pound of Perseverance
by Emily Gibson, July 13, 2022

You can’t just go buy a pound of perseverance
at the Character Trait Emporium.
Though if you could, the shop clerk
would wrap it in three layers of butcher paper,
each pulled tight under packing tape--
the kind with threads embedded--
then each layer further secured 
with a triple knotted string.
Figuring out the hours of operation
and exact location
for such a store presents a hurdle.
It isn’t in the phone book, definitely
not on the internet, and in fact has no
known physical address.
You’d need to pay with a wheelbarrow
of pennies that you cursed for its
penny-sized hole where a bolt used to be, 
which dribbled pennies 
as you pushed along, paused,
picked them up and pushed along.
Until you patched the hole 
with a layer of green maple leaves.
Any store that sold such a thing
as perseverance,
by the pound,
would have to be located
a mile beyond the end of the bus line.
So even if the bus allowed wheelbarrows
onboard, with all your pennies,
it'd still be quite a push.
Eventually your efforts reveal

the store opens an average
of 36 minutes
on a randomly selected day
posted once a week.
When you do find the store
and arrive during business minutes,
you are grateful for the wheelbarrow
and the strength built
in pushing those pennies,
because you see how perseverance
takes up far more space
than you’d ever expect,
for just a pound.
After all that effort,
I expect you’d stop, 
leave the pennies
and the wheelbarrow,
and walk out with hands

an observer might think

empty.
But you know what they don't:

the mere act of seeking
a pound of perseverance
shows you had exactly

what you sought
all along.

About "Pound of Perseverance": A prompt from an online poetry resource started this poem: "You can't go buy a pound of ______." I really like this poem, for so many reasons. The word play, the humor, the story it tells, and the way the ending happened. It is one of those poems that feels like it was just delivered to the world through me, because it just flowed out of my pen with very little revision. Of course, I had been thinking about it and dreaming about it for a few weeks, so that may have helped with flow!

Poem #195, If This was a Poem about Doors
by Emily Gibson, July 14, 2022

If this was a poem about doors,
it might ramble on about
the enormity of transitions,
or how opening one door
closes another,
or how doors have locks and hinges
and handles to protect spaces,
belongings,
and other precious things.
If this was a poem about doors,
it might pontificate on how
the world would be better
with more curtains,
fewer locks
and an abundance of
open doors.
But this isn’t a poem about doors.
It’s a poem about door frames.
They clue the door opener
to the nature of what lies
on the other side.
And lead one to ponder
the purpose of crossing
that particular threshold
at that particular time.
A proper door frame
sets the stage to appreciate
and process that which resides
within the frame,
turning a simple door

into a piece of art
hung in a house
with care.

About "If This Was a Poem About Doors": This is a twist on another poetry prompt I saw, "If this was a _____Poem." I mulled the phrase over in my mind, and it morphed into "If this was a poem about ______." I truly have no idea where the topic of doors came from, or why I negated it in the middle, switching to door frames! This exercise, I feel, will be worth repeating in the future, as well, with different topics.

Poem #196, Hijack your Mind
by Emily Gibson, July 15, 2022

Senses directly tap the brain.
Sensory input registers first,
immediately,
priming the brain.
Emotions
memories
thoughts
all follow.
Know this:

your senses
hijack you.
Empowerment!
We can choose
what to remember
how to feel
where to transport
our selves

our minds
our day.
So, choose 
a song
or scent
or meal
and enjoy the ride.

About "Hijack Your Mind": In the book The Body Keeps the Score, there was a line about how the sensory system is the first stop for any input into the body. Our conscious mind takes longer to register the reason for any reaction that was triggered by the smell, sight, or sound. Similarly, memories are stored with sensory tags, an idea I wanted to explore with this poem. Choosing the memories we want to trigger, instead of getting hijacked unawares by sensory input.

And that concludes Sifting the Rubble's poetry for this week! I hope you enjoyed this collection of poems. Perhaps some of them spoke to you, or maybe you found one begging to be shared with someone else.  If so, I hope you will pass it on!  Either way, thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you next week!

A Poem a Day, Week 27, July 2 to July 8, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 27, July 2 to July 8, 2022

Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly blog and podcast of my poem-a-day challenge for 2022. I am your host, and poet, Emily Gibson. As I navigate this healing journey, as I sift the rubble of my once-life to figure out what I will do next, I find myself relishing each day's poem, as I often do not know what will come from my pen! The poems for the 27th week of the year, July 2 to July 8, find their origins primarily from introspection on nature, nurture, and celebrations.    

It is worth mentioning that these are 1 or 2 day poems, which have not gone through the grist of word smithing and review.  That comes later, something I truly look forward to doing.  For now, they are freshly hatched, still a little wet around the ears, maybe begging for a revision.   But that is the purpose for this challenge, to be a writer, every day, without censor.  

As always, you can keep track of Sifting the Rubble's posts on the Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram platforms:

Facebook (daily posts) : https://www.facebook.com/BlueheronELG
Twitter https://twitter.com/SiftingThe
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/sifting_the_rubble/

I hope you will like and follow and share in whichever ways suit you. I do thank you! :)

And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 27 Poetry Podcast

Poem #183, Long Like Kite Strings

by Emily Gibson, July 2, 2022

Your 77 years

measures long

like kite strings

or a drive on 101 from 

north to south,

tip to stern.

But maybe not long enough

for you to see and do

all you wanted just yet.

Keeper of memories 

of brothers six,

and giver of memories
to children four.

May you make,

for yourself,

memories more.

About "Long Like Kite Strings": I wrote this poem to commemorate my father's 77th birthday. He sent me a wonderful selfie. Comparing this photo to one of his much younger self, on a porch in upstate New York, sitting (on right) with his brother, Phil (on left), led me to these words.

Poem #184,  Skip-Jump-Step

by Emily Gibson, July 3, 2022

I used to walk 

behind

and do this skip-jump-step

to try and keep up.

My 7-year-old legs

were no match.

I wonder if you

did the same

to your father’s

long-legged stride

before you grew

to be my dad. 

About "Skip-Step-Jump": I often think about walking with my dad, and trying to keep up with his long, easy stride. When I saw this photo of him (in center) with his brother, Rob, and their father, it got me thinking what it might have been like for him.

Poem #185, Sparklers

by Emily Gibson, July 4, 2022

Simple fizz of sparks

tinted hands red or green,

silver or blue.

A box of multicolored

sticks, treasured.

Traced letters on the sky

or flashed like a meteor.

Ground lit up in old movie style

by dropped bits of molten lead.

Safe from wildfires

in our next-door rock quarry

celebrating summer

innocently.

About "Sparklers": As a child, I loved the Fourth of July for all the celebrating and fun, as innocent children will do. But I really viewed it as a celebration of summer. Now, as an adult, I know more about the history of the country I live in, and I choose not to celebrate our independence. I detest the fireworks that sound like gunfire and bombs. This country was built on denying independence to others through slavery, land theft, and capitalism. Truly dealing with that history? Now that would be something to celebrate!

Poem #186, The Capacity to Dream

by Emily Gibson, July 5, 2022

Humans can’t help 

dream in possibilities.
To lust after that which others 
possess or embody.
To consider off-limits territories
like sky and water, 
snow and desert,
and make them 
habitable,
at least for a few, 
for a moment.
Are we the only species that visions
other ways of being?
Can an African Baobab tree
comprehend life 
as a flexible willow or aspen,
and dream to bow
and sway in a breeze?
Would a cranky heron wish
to be content in a school of tuna
flying below the waves,
hundreds moving as one?
Might a whale crave legs
to run across a desert
and feel hot sand between its toes?
Or a cheetah determine to be slow,
to crawl a branch, upside down,
in search of a most delectable leaf?
Perhaps life is richer and deeper
when one’s roots are secure in 
what is, 
not obsessively reaching for what
could be.
Maybe an absence of possibility
could eradicate anxieties of “what if.”
I’ll never know,
for I am human.
This capacity to dream
is our birthright.

About "The Capacity to Dream": This is a companion poem to one from last week, "I Used to be a Teacher." That we can dream of other realities, and stretch ourselves to new capacities is truly a human birthright, and I don't believe any other species on earth does this. Among all the discussions about what makes humans different from other animals, it is, in my opinion, this ability.

Poem #187, Not This One

by Emily Gibson, July 6, 2022

When the orange cat I  

chased away

with sticks and threats

was a wee kitten

it would have engendered a softness

that I reserved for the duckling

that devil cat nearly ate today.

It was just doing what cats do:

programmed to hunt

torment

torture

weak young things.

Ducks have a dozen ducklings

or more, to ensure

plenty to spare,

some make it, some don’t.

But I don't hear the panicked

peep-peep-peep

of all the baby birds

this feral cat takes

to survive.

Just this one,

today.

About "Not This One": In keeping with a theme of nature, nurture, and the ways of different species that has played in many of this week's poems, this poem describes a real incident from the day, when my work at my computer was interrupted by a neighborhood cat's hunt. Understanding that nature will take its course, and standing by to watch are two different things, entirely. Holding the duckling in my hand, feeling its heart beat, I couldn't help but save it.

Poem #188, How Insignificant 

by Emily Gibson, July 7, 2022

I am insignificant, 

that is not news,

merely a single human 

in a long line of humans,

on a single planet.

Oh, how magnificent a planet!

Circling around a grand sun.

Yet our sun is just one star

of many millions in our galaxy.

Oh, such a perfect spiral galaxy!

Sadly, a common, mundane one

among the sea of brilliantly formed galaxies 

like plankton clustered across our universe.

We are so small, 

it is impossible to grasp, unless

we could pull back far enough to see

how common our universe might be,

among a flotilla of other universes?

Scale is everything.

Still, tiny as I am,

I did something only I could do

on this day

on this planet,

in this corner of our galaxy,

hidden in deep space.

Something that mattered more

than all the stars in the universe.

I saved a duckling’s life,

to be free as a duck once more.

In repayment, I received

a lesson in presence.

That duckling likely died 

soon after, from a fellow duck's rejection

or later that night by predator’s jaw.

Yet that swim across a pond,

that delight in fellow ducks,

that insistent peep to belong...

It is the stuff of life.

What could be more significant?

About "How Insignificant": The second poem birthed by the duckling rescue, I wanted to play with the layers of existence, and how on one level, something can be superlative, but looked at from another level, merely common and mundane.

Poem #189, Three Flocks Feed 

by Emily Gibson, July 8, 2022

If not for their colors,

the flickers, jays, and robins

hunting on my lawn

could be birds of the same feather.

They come in waves,

each bird’s cheerful chirrup

brings others of its kind to feast.

First the orange breasted robins

then the flash of blue jays,

later the flickers with side stripes like gills.

Only one species at a time,

perhaps as different meals

come up for grabs.

Maybe they hear a “Ding!”

signaling their order is up?

Stretched tall and slim and still,

eye and ear tuned to ground,

a silent stab

turns grub

or hatched moth

or worm

or beetle

into a meal

for a bird's stomach now,

or hungry hatchlings later.

About "Three Flocks Feed": On this day, I noticed the waves of birds, and how similar their silhouettes were, if not for their differences in plumage. I also noticed that each bird type was hunting specific catch. With this poem, I wanted to document this bit of nature I was able to observe.

And that concludes Sifting the Rubble's poetry for this week! I hope you enjoyed this collection of poems. Perhaps some of them spoke to you, or maybe you found one begging to be shared with someone else.  If so, I hope you will pass it on!  Either way, thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you next week!

A Poem a Day, Week 26, June 25 to July 1, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 26, June 25 to July 1, 2022

Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly blog and podcast of my poem-a-day challenge for 2022. I am your host, and poet, Emily Gibson. The poems for the 26th week of the year, June 25 to July 1, have a wide variety of origins, including interesting quotes showing up on my social media feed and poetic insights that come in that time between awake and asleep, at both ends of the night. This is a week in which I found myself recommitting to my task of sifting the rubble of my once life to figure out my "next" as well as recommitting myself to my poem-a-day challenge after getting derailed by Covid illness for two weeks. I am focused on addressing stress and anxiety in a new way, with my MS symptoms as a cue.

The poems I write during this challenge are, as you may know, 1 or 2 day poems, which have not gone through the grist of revision. That comes later, something I truly look forward to doing. For now, they are freshly hatched, still a little wet around the ears, maybe somewhat awkward with a phrasing or word choice. But that is the purpose for this challenge, to be a poet, every day, without censor.

As always, you can keep track of Sifting the Rubble's posts on the Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram platforms:

Facebook (daily posts) https://www.facebook.com/BlueheronELG
Twitter https://twitter.com/SiftingThe
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/sifting_the_rubble/

Please like and follow and share in whichever ways suit you. I do thank you! :)

And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 26 Poetry Podcast

Poem #176, Ten Truths
by Emily Gibson, June 25, 2022

1. Everyone’s minute is worth 60 seconds.
2. Communication requires at least one sensory system.
3. Possessions don’t define people.
4. Humans have the capacity to be kind to people they don’t like.
5. Success doesn’t mean failure will never happen again.
6. Thinking without doing is never a crime.
7. If you don’t like the present, just wait.
8. The alphabet is randomly ordered.
9. Unlike pencils, brains get sharper with use.
10. The metric system makes sense.


About "Ten Truths": The idea for this poem came from a meme called Ten Ugly Truths. I wanted to turn the idea on its head, and make a list of ten things that, though maybe not beautiful, might give peace or satisfaction to the mind.


Poem #177, Calm Waters
by Emily Gibson, June 26, 2022

Children cannot see their beauty
in mirrors blurred by criticism.
They cannot speak their truth
with voices muffled by shame.
Nor can they feel love in a touch
on skin numbed from trauma.
Children of any age
need safe harbor
where calm waters
dry mirrors,
erase shame,
liven skin.


About "Calm Waters": The idea for this poem also started with a meme with the line "you can't see your reflection in boiling water." Being a teacher, I thought about kids, and how they learn what they experience. I am also reading a book, The Body Keeps the Score, which also factored into this poem. It is about trauma and the brain, which I am finding helpful in my MS journey, to understand the role trauma has in my dis-ease.


Poem #178, Sphere of Possible
by Emily Gibson, June 27, 2022

Around us shimmers
a sphere of possible.
Inside is all we know
and believe.
Outside is all we
can’t, won’t
shouldn’t, mustn’t.
When we envision new
possibles
our sphere adds a color,
stretches,
plays a different instrument.
Think it first,
and watch it grow.
Or act on it
and see the show.
Believe you can
or believe you can’t.
Either way
you make your possible
possible.


About "Sphere of Possible": The idea for this poem came from a quote I heard at a virtual MS Symptom Free Summit I attended over the last two weeks. The actual quote was "Notice your sphere of possibility." I am familiar with the notion of "sphere of influence" which helps one let go of things they cannot control. But this just made my mind dance because it is rooted in mindfulness, and the power of our intention. I enjoyed the rhythms that came out in this poem.


Poem #179, Petrichor
by Emily Gibson, June 28, 2022

Petrichor:
a pleasant smell
with the first rain after
a long, warm, dry time.
The flavors of petrichor
could fill a box of 64 crayons
or an ice cream parlor.
Can you conjure
a memory for each?
Petrichor of:
pavement,
green grass,
dry hay,
beach sand,
needles on a forest floor.
Petrichor of:
a plastic tarp,
cattail reeds in a ditch,
a dirt path,
a gravel road,
a wooden deck.
Rain reconstitutes
dust for a moment
and leaves
a memory trace
for your lifetime.


About "Petrichor": One of my "words of the day" this week was petrichor. Though I didn't know this word even existed, as soon as I saw it, I started smelling all the different petrichor's of my life. The memories flooded my senses.


Poem #180 Try Harder?
by Emily Gibson, June 29, 2022


Try harder?
You try
living
here.
Not a spot of green
to mar the concrete,
There’s no dirt
to nourish life
in this nightmare
of sensory overload.
No place is safe,
just go numb to it all.

You go ahead,
show us how it’s done,
this gospel of try
that you preach.
But leave your notion of hope,
your Hollywood resilience,
your volcano of can-do spirit.
No, start from scratch, here,
be shaped and formed by here.
Hope?
it’s really an ember,
a coal
on the verge of snuffed.
Try living as we live,
above a convenience store
or 4 floors up in a tenement slum
or buried in a low-income housing complex,
with no grocery store,
no health clinic,

no childcare,
no humanity,
no hot water.
Just a broken sewer,
rusted shower,
uncurtained windows,
and a keyless door.

Better your life, you say!
Get an education, you say.
Our schools are warehouses 
of leaking rooms with rodent tracks
in the dust on the floors
and cobwebs in every window.
We are stuffed into rooms 

with too few desks,
too few lights,
and no hope.
Where is the education?
Where are the Jaime Escalante's?
The teachers who stand and deliver
dead poets to lift us up?
There aren’t enough of them
to go around.
They burn out.
They get tired of trying.
They get better jobs.
They get a life.

You need this crush
of learned helplessness
of hopelessness.
Then you can see
how your
try harder
falls.

Try harder only works
when you haven’t
tried hard enough already,
every moment of your life.

Try harder doesn't work
when the system
works exactly as designed.

About "Try Harder?": I get weary, and furious, at comments that blame people for getting stuck. Stuck in the inner city, stuck on reservations, stuck out in tiny towns with no way to make livings. This poem is for all the children failed by this system, this country. We all need to keep trying harder to make things better for everybody. That's the try harder I can get behind!


Poem #181, I Used to be a Teacher
by Emily Gibson, June 30, 2022

I used to be a teacher.
That’s not like saying
I used to be an elephant
or I used to be a scotch pine.
Though imagining
being either
is a brilliance of a brain.
I used to be a teacher
because that’s what I did.
Just like you,
I can redefine myself
with something else,
though I will remain me.


About "I Used to be a Teacher": This poem, or rather the first three lines, came to me as I was falling asleep. I turned the light on and wrote it down. In the end, those lines scribbled in half sleep birthed two poems, this one, about my struggle to find identity and purpose after losing my ability to be a teacher in public schools, and another poem that I'll share next week.



Poem #182, All Together Now
by Emily Gibson, July 1, 2022

I thought I understood
lessons of this disease
or is it dis-ease?
In my heady, giddy thoughts
I surmounted the challenge!
Beaten this, I have!.
Then, dove into
"back to life."


Tut-tut-tut,
my brain reminded
with electric shocks.

Ah-ah-ah,
my body chimed
with leadened limbs.

Not so fast,
my spirit soothed,
You forget the lesson
to listen.
You blaze on
leaving us behind.
Breathe.
Close your eyes.
Feel.
Notice.

Reminder taken.
Now we can respond,
all of me,
together.


About "All Together Now": With this poem, I was exploring the notion of identifying parts of ourselves as separate. I hear others, and myself, refer to their body, their mind, and their spirit as almost separate entities, instead of parts of a unified whole. Health and wellness, I theorize, require us to be unified, working together, instead of "me" being my mind, and these other parts, the body and spirit, being separate. It is another facet, I believe, of mindfulness.


And that concludes Sifting the Rubble's poetry for this week! I hope you enjoyed this collection of poems. Perhaps some of them spoke to you, or maybe you found one begging to be shared with someone else. If so, I hope you will pass it on! Either way, thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you next week!