A Poem a Day, Week 11: March 12 to 18, 2022
Poem #71 Study in Lenticular
by Emily Gibson, Mar 12, 2022
This afternoon, a master class displayed
in our sky to the west.
Apprentice cloud makers
practicing the art of lenticulars;
a study in gradients of white and gray on blue.
Layers of hillocks smooth enough to ski;
Pillows of down on beds of down comforters
covered in crisp cotton duvets;
Dollops of whipped cream in smooth
ceramic white diner mugs;
Merengue in heaps and lofty peaks,
waiting to bake;
Swaths of white table cloth dotted with multi-sized
dinner mints and butter mints,
bellies of white darkening to gray
at the edges.
Oval dinner rolls ready to brown in the oven;
And Chinese dumplings of rice flour dough
holding pockets of some mystery.
I don’t envy the judges in choosing the best,
We can only hope a runoff match is next.
About "Study in Lenticular": I composed this poem in my mind while out with my horse, Ber, at the ranch where he lives. It was just as described here, a stunning display of lenticular clouds. Often, the photos of lenticulars are of the amazing and rare instances of them stacking up around a mountain peak. I like when they fill the sky like they did on this day, like herds of smooth, oval sheep.
Poem #72 Steel Blues
by Emily Gibson, Mar 13 2022
Riding homeward,
wheels spinning,
grateful for this tailwind,
a relief, a change
from 20 miles of bitter
cold pushing me back.
Over home, in the distance,
a wall of layered steel blues waits,
thick,
full of rain
or hail
or even snow,
Portent, ominous.
Will it stand by?
Will it hold back?
No matter,
only one way
through.
Pedal.
About "Steel Blues": Cycling is such a great opportunity for observing the world, and thinking on those observations. This was a hard ride out against a head wind, with some rain and snow pelting me as I first left home. So I had hoped for a fun ride back, but it was equally hard. The wind had shifted a bit, so it was a side wind for most of my return. But I was able to watch these layers of cold steel blue and gray line up above Bend, and ponder what it would be like when I was under them. Turns out, they were further east, and it was just cold when I got home!
Poem #73 Cue the Tumbleweeds
by Emily Gibson, Mar 14, 2022
Up ahead,
I think there’s a missed opportunity
for a Tumbleweed crossing sign.
Perfect nexus of crossroad,
western born wind,
and high desert flat lands
punctuated by individual junipers.
Gusts permeate, sandblasting
the landscape, herding
unfocused tumbleweeds
over blockades
of ditches,
tree trunks,
and occasional boulders,
until they find the road,
where they roll with glee,
free.
Only to catch on a bush or shrub
on the other side,
waiting for the next wall of wind.
Growing up, we watched old Westerns
on our black & white television
with questionable reception.
My mom would holler
“Cue the tumbleweeds”
when they rolled across camera.
Same for chickens, cows, and
wayward toddlers,
anything that crossed the path
of the characters on screen,
perfectly timed,
as if by divine intervention.
Like an inside joke, we knew
it was the wranglers and grips.
But sometimes,
when my life is perfectly unfolding
I laugh, and wonder who
is cuing the tumbleweeds.
Poem #74 Corner of the Eye
by Emily Gibson, Mar 15, 2022
In the sand, under a sagebrush,
beyond the barbed wire,
they catch my eye as I pedal past,
scattered like a super-sized
set of Jacks:
six white vertebrae,
bovine in nature,
bleached from sun and wind.
No wonder the game was abandoned.
Balls won’t bounce
without hard ground.
About "Corner of the Eye": Another poem gleaned from cycling. As I ride along, things catch the corner of my eye. Sometimes I stop, like when I saw something round on the pavement and I thought it might be some cyclist's compass from their handlebar stem. I've always wanted one of those! It turned out to just be a bottle cap. I didn't stop for these bones, but I enjoyed thinking about them for a few miles.
Poem #75 Stained Glass Moment
by Emily Gibson, Mar 16, 2022
A cow thuds to the ground,
soft dry manure
cushions
her bony hips,
scars etch her neck
from some mishap survived.
Something begs me
"Look closer."
I see sun
shooting through
a protruding placenta
glowing red from within
and a calf’s tiny head
in silhouette.
15 miles later,
on my return,
cow back on her feet,
back with the herd,
her mini me, without scars,
attempting to stay on its feet
not yet hardwired
to its brain.
The cow massages and dries her calf,
like a spa attendant,
slapping her 50-pound tongue
on whatever bit of calf is nearest.
I sense her urgency
in the cold evening
and her calf’s “Mooooooom”
as it tries
to stand upright
to nurse.
About "Stained Glass Moment": This poem began with seeing the sun's light through the placenta, and how it looked red like stained glass. When I returned, and found the newborn calf and the mama cow, I thought about how often stained glass was used to capture biblical moments. All life has great reverence, so the title of this poem was born, and eventually the poem. I still laugh, thinking about the cow's singular mind (must get you dry!) and the calf's struggle to stay upright and get the nutrition it needed to get stronger.
Poem #76 Unwieldy Weight
by Emily Gibson, Mar 17, 2022
The first time I straddled my loaded touring bike,
A monstrosity of unwieldy weight
With a mind of its own,
And attempted to pedal
Almost 5 years ago,
I cried
Tears of fear, overwhelm,
I’d bitten off more than I could handle.
The first hill?
Had to get off and push,
Hot tears of shame brimming.
This time, over 8,000 miles later,
My bike loaded for bear for another tour
I swung my leg over
And pushed off.
The tears flowed.
Gratitude, triumph
An unshakable understanding
That I can handle it,
No matter
What it takes to get up
The next hill.
About "Unwieldy Weight": This week I loaded my bicycle up, so I could start training with the added weight for a few weeks before the upcoming trip. After everything I have worked with over the past year, the lifequakes, and sifting the rubble to find what is next, I just feel really happy to be in this moment. This time last year, the debilitating fatigue hit, yet I kept on training for our bike ride planned for July and August 2021. Eventually, the cascade of symptoms was named (MS), and I accepted the reality that I would not be riding on tour that summer. It was the second cancelation--the prior summer we put off the trip due to Covid, but I rode over 3,000 miles on my bike (unloaded) around my home in Bend. As I pedaled off the first time this week, fully loaded, I was overwhelmed, but in a good way. And I thought about that first trip we took in the Palouse region of SE Washington and that first little hill I struggled up. We've come a long way, and not just in miles!
Poem #77 Triumph
by Emily Gibson, Mar 18, 2022
2,000 miles lie ahead,
Many rain slick or gritty
Narrow, rough, or congested.
Every mile will be measured
By pedal strokes one after
Another, steady and strong
Like a metronome’s cadence.
After the year past’s hurdles,
Challenges, tears and struggles,
Riding is celebration.
Every chain revolution
Turns the tide toward triumph.
