A Poem a Day, Week 44, Oct 29 to Nov 4, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 44, Oct 29 to Nov 4, 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 44th week of the year, October 29 to Nov 4, started in a variety of ways. Most came from prompts from a poetry class I am attending online through Coursera, "Sharpened Visions."  So far, it is an excellent course, and free as well!

I want to explain, for those new to this podcast, 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, as I sift the collection for poems to finalize. For now, they are new, not quite steady or solid, but each speaks of something, so I share them, uncensored. It is part of my healing challenge to write a poem every day this year.

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. Thank you! :)

And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 44 Poetry Podcast

Poem #302, Unsolicited Advice 

by Emily Gibson, Oct 29, 2022

My mom showed me

with actions and words.

I wouldn’t listen, 

felt I knew better,

heard her ideas 

as unrealistic, critical.

Survival in our world

relegated her wisdom

as unwanted information

no matter her intention.

Here I stand

to acknowledge,

humility in hand,

her rightness.

The greatest gift?

Health.

I didn’t listen

until my body 

said No.

About "Unsolicited Advice":  I started this poem a week or so ago, to the prompt "When have you gotten unwanted information, and how did you use it?" I thought of my mom, who tried every way she could to get me off the high-pressure track I put myself on. Before she died, I think she knew it was my rail to ride, and I'd either figure it out or not. This is my poem to her, because I did figure it out, thanks to the messenger of MS!

Poem #303 Silence of Dust Speaks Volumes

by Emily Gibson, Oct 30, 2022

Found Poem: excerpt from The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck 

Owners came onto the land, 

or spokesmen for owners came.

They came in closed cars.

They felt the dry earth 

with their fingers.

They drove big earth augers 

into the ground 

to test soils. 

Tenants watched uneasily 

from sun-beaten dooryards

whenever closed cars 

drove along their fields;

until, at last, owner men 

drove into the dooryards

to sit in their cars, 

to talk out of the windows. 

Beside the cars, 

tenant men stood 

for a while, then squatted

on their hams.  They found

sticks to mark their dust. 

From their open doors,

women stood and looked.

Behind, out peered the children— 

corn-headed, wide-eyed children, 

one bare foot pressed atop 

another bare foot, 

ten toes working. 

The women and children watched

their men talk 

to the owner men. 

They were silent…

About "Silence of Dust Speaks Volumes":  This poem is the first of my poems for the poetry class I am attending.  The assignment was to write a Found Poem, which creates a poem from text that already exists in the world. The text used in this poem comes from a paragraph from the Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. All I did was use line breaks to transform the paragraph and enhance the meaning. 

Poem #304, Recycled

by Emily Gibson, Oct 31, 2022

Each leaf, bud to green,

unfurled a magic of carbon,

a stockpile of light.

Each leaf, green to gold,

released a shock of salvaged

star onto gray sky.

Each leaf, gold to orange,

delivered solar brilliance back 

to ease winter’s set.  

Each leaf, orange to red,

left arboreal outlines

burned on retinas.

Each leaf, red to brown,

returned ingredients to earth

for next year’s go-round.

About "Recycled":  Inspired by the sights of the day, with flames of trees against grey skies. Overnight, the trees changed, but not all at once. So on this day, I could see all the colors mentioned here.  A vision of how the trees released the light they'd captured all year came to me.  I am not sure this poem captured my vision, but it will do for now.

Poem #305, Inch Worms Pupate, Too

by Emily Gibson, Nov 1, 2022

you

too

measure

the mortal

mystery of life

in that sharp moment between breaths

About "Inch Worms Pupate, Too":  A Fibonacci Poem follows the pattern of Fibonacci, with syllables. 1/1/2/3/5/8 (the pattern of Fibonacci: each number is the sum of the previous two numbers).  I have no real understanding of where this poem came from.   The title ties to the last line, where I envisioned the sharp moment between breaths to be like the inch worm inching along, and to the mortal mystery of life that is pupation.

Poem #306, The Stapler of Appetite 

by Emily Gibson, Nov 2, 2022

Affix your gaze on portion possibilities

afforded by a plate, a bowl, a cup!

Fasten your belt to the dimension

necessary for comfort, not fashion.

Adhere to this rule alone: when 

hungry, eat, but as a sloth, slow.

Clench not your teeth, nor suck

in your gut to stave off a meal.

Nail down regular mealtimes

that every cell gets the message.

Screw down your resolve to choose

the healthier option for future’s sake.

Link today’s meals to tomorrow’s

goals: eat to live, live to eat!

About "The Stapler of Appetite":   This started with an exercise in a poetry class to make lists of concrete nouns (like Stapler) and abstract nouns (like Appetite) and make titles of poems from these lists ( The _______ of _______) to see what inspires a poem. I made about 15 potential titles from my lists.   This is a poem inspired by the exercise.

Poem #307, Portrait of a Ripe Mango

by Emily Gibson, Nov 3, 2022

Perfectly ripe, a mango fruit’s complexion

of yellows, oranges, and flecks of red,  

merge into an edible sunset.  

Devoured, slippery syrup drips and sticks 

down chin and wrist, neck and elbow. 

When perfectly ripe, a mango’s textured flesh 

cushions teeth into gentle, easy, 

smoothly satisfied bites of bliss. 

Peeled, a citrus undercurrent emits 

invisible zest at skin’s edge. 

If perfectly ripe, a mango’s aroma 

sets off a riot of taste bud 

signals that hint of ambrosia. 

Eaten, sandpaper seeds strand threads among juice 

to snag the spaces between teeth.  

Mango perfection, like an avocado, 

is a goldilocks state of mind 

led by vigilant fingertips

that palpate a rind’s imperceptible give 

to hint at ripeness underneath.  

About "Portrait of a Ripe Mango": Written for a prompt to write a deep portrait of an object, using sensory imagery. I chose a mango because just thinking about a mango brings so many textures, colors, and images to mind.  On top of sensory details, I explored syllables, giving each stanza 5 lines of 11/8/8/11/8.  

Poem #308, My Ear is an Amusement Park, a Conceit Poem

by Emily Gibson, Nov 4, 2022

Sound careens down and around,

through the tunnel-ear cochlea.

Most of the track is out of sight

though you can travel in the dark

since sound knows where to go.

Once the waves disappear from view,

no one knows what happens

like the magic of a tunnel of love.

Voila, passenger sounds do arrive

at brain’s door, translated and known. 

When the tracks are out, 

the popcorn’s burnt, 

and the animals all have hurt paws,

the show shuts down:

without an ear, can we know 

if it’s fun, or scary or worth an “again!”

Is it better to never know the experience

or to have had sound only to lose it?

Reviews are mixed at best

and subject to personal interpretation.

After all the screams are gone,

the cotton candy melted in mouths,

and heartbeats stuck on high,

a view in a funhouse mirror shows

every hair on end, shocked by sound.

Only time restores function

after episodes of high volume,

as a roller coaster eases to the end

to expel passengers out of time.

About " My Ear is an Amusement Park, a Conceit Poem": This was another assignment from a poetry class I am taking. A Conceit Poem is one which sustains a metaphor over the entire poem. A metaphor comparing two things that a person might never normally consider as similar. The goal is to convince readers that there is actually similarity. 

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 with seven new poems!

A Poem a Day, Week 43, Oct 22 to Oct 28, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 43, Oct 22 to Oct 28, 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 43rd week of the year, October 22 to 28, started in a variety of ways. Some from prompts that went in interesting directions, others from ideas that have been swirling in the stew of my brain for a day or week or more.  

I must explain for those new to this podcast 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, as I sift the collection for poems to submit. For now, they are new, not quite steady or solid, but each speaks of something, so I share them, uncensored. It is part of my healing challenge to write a poem every day this year.

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. Thank you! :)

And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 43 Poetry Podcast

Poem #295, Selfish as Death 

by Emily Gibson, Oct 22, 2022

Pages from our story 

flutter in a sirocco 

of our own creation,

ripple like semaphores

none take time to read

before they self-destruct.

It isn’t Neanderthal science.

Or is it? Our story goes back

and back and back to stone:

take what you need,

use it all, every bit,

waste not the sweat

of precious steps.

I pick up a torn page

weighted in worry

and find insight

borne by time:

when a people’s focus

trends to wants 

and greed, not need,

civilization’s light dims,

snuffs itself out,

waits for a saner flame.

Is it our turn, yet?

About "Selfish as Death ": This poem came to me, half formed, after rising one morning this week. I appreciate these gifts, which come from writing every day. That habit seems to prime the subconscious pump, I believe. These lines are a reflection on the idea that history is full of all we need to know, if we'd just look.  Every civilization that crashed and burned has lessons for us, and we ignore that wisdom to our own peril, selfishly.

Poem #296, The Doll Everyone Called Geranium

by Emily Gibson, Oct 23, 2022

I found her at a thrift store,
formerly a fancy doll
with a mouth to eat and drink
and exit holes as well.
Dark hair coiffed into close curls
reminded me of dark pink flowers
with tight petals and a fragrance
that pricked my nose,
like the smell of her hair.
I named her Geranium.

My mom transformed

a green velvet baby's dress

with lace at the neck

and sleeve cuffs,

into Geranium's first

lavish outfit, decorated

with a lattice of seed

beads on the bodice,

and tucks here and there

to build a pouf at the back

from gathered fabric.

My Great Aunt Julia

requested measurements

of my doll’s dimensions

and secretly sewed a wardrobe

of fancy outfits.

The arrival of that box

still marvels in memory,

a great surprise to me,

from someone I had never met.

I still remember the feel of a soft

velveteen leopard print

tube dress with faux fur

edges on the collar and cap sleeves.

When I learned to sew,

I made a new wardrobe.

An outfit of red velvet

like the first green one

with an added velvet cape

and a shawl with a hood

trimmed in salvaged fur.

A quilt, a summer dress,

a pantsuit, and a swimsuit

followed, long after I

no longer played with dolls.

Our puppies chewed off

her toes and fingers,

in a fit of teething,

but she stayed,

token of my childhood

and my sense of responsibility.

Until a day, in my 40s,

when I packed her up,

along with her wardrobe

of dresses, a quilt of wool,

and a complete sheet set.

I included a note in purple,

from my hopeful younger self

to whoever might receive this

relic of my childhood,

(though she likely would

be sent to the rubbish bin).

I left her to a thrift store

like where I found her.

The other day, I found

a portrait I drew with pastels

in elementary school.

It was Geranium,

wearing her leopard print

dress from Great Aunt Julia.

Across the bottom, her name

in my child’s phonetic scrawl:

D-i-r-a-i-n-i-a-m-e.

About "The Doll Everyone Called Geranium": Just a poem documenting this piece of my childhood, my constant companion through many, many years and versions of myself. I remember trying to write her name on the pastel art, asking my mom how to spell it, and hearing her answer "Sound it out."  Later, she told me that she wanted to see what I would write, because she didn't want to assume that what I said was actually "Geranium."  Well, it was, but not spelled at all the way she expected.

Poem #297, A Monopoly That Could Have Brought Prosperity

by Emily Gibson, Oct 24, 2022

In 1904, Elizabeth Magie Phillips

dreamed up

The Landlord’s Game,

to teach us we had choice.

Those who wore gold spats

crushed it under hard heels.

Its title, a likely downfall,

hinted a radical lens

focused on parents who

suffered in shacks

with squalling infants,

sewage in the streets,

no water or heat or hope.

Perhaps more tool to teach

than foundation of fun,

the game was complex,

with two sets of rules.

Choose to play Prosperity,

and everyone wins

when everyone is okay.

Choose to play Monopoly

and everyone loses

when one person wins it all.

How different our world

could be, would be,

if we played Prosperity.

But the men in spats

stole Ms. Phillips’ idea,

erased her gestation of the game,

and made sure Monopoly

ruled the day. Imagine…

generation after generation

could have learned

to take care of each other.

In true spirit of her game,

Elizabeth would likely proclaim

it isn’t too late, let’s try again.

About "A Monopoly That Could Have Brought Prosperity": This poem began with an article I read about The Landlord Game and the origins of Monopoly. It fit with one of my ongoing themes, that of social justice and unequal distribution of power. I felt this poem in my mind for a couple of weeks before I could figure it out onto paper.

Poem #298, When I was 10, I Thought I’d be a 

Biologist; When I was 17, I got a Job 

by Emily Gibson, Oct 25, 2022

Turn back, look back,

though you can never 

GO back, it’s true.

Remember the snake skins--

salvaged roadkill-- 

you stretched on pins to cure.

Remember the orange-bellied

newts and green tree frogs

you raised in tanks, how you

watched life quicken

and mourned the eggs

turned to mold, unhatchable.

Remember you dug mycelium

to plant in the yard

for future mushroom displays,

always hoping for a fairy ring.

Remember the microscope slides

of pond water that exploded

into life under magnification.

Remember you watched tide tables

to plan tidepool explorations

Remember the reams of paper

you filled with elaborately

labeled illustrations and notes.

Remember you loved life

before you called it Biology.

And you didn’t pursue a BS

because you had a horse

named Red to feed.

About "When I was 10, I Thought I’d be a 

Biologist; When I was 17, I got a Job ": This poem began with the prompt, "Think of a job you wanted to do when you were younger and use that as a start to a poem." I had wanted to be a Biologist, specifically someone who studied amphibians, since I was very young. I had an incredible high school biology teacher who set my inner biologist on fire. But there was just no way I could afford to go to a good school that would set me up to work in the science field. Plus, I had a horse that I wanted to care for. So, I went to the local college and became a teacher instead. 

Poem #299, Again, Without Conviction  

by Emily Gibson, Oct 26, 2022

Without much fanfare

the mountains sported 

new coats today,

thick as quilt batting

fresh off the roll.

The fog parted,

like subway doors,

to reveal how

fall had shifted

towards winter

without conviction

or equivocation.

About "Again, Without Conviction": I followed a prompt to grab a book and use the very first line as a starting point for a poem.  My first line inspiration came from The Guest Book by Sarah Blake: “The fall had turned to winter and then back again without conviction.”  I hadn't seen the mountains for days due to cloud cover, and when the clouds lifted one evening, I was stunned at the transformation to our summer-barren mountains! 

Poem #300, In a Queue, What Do You Do?  

by Emily Gibson, Oct 27, 2022

Stare at the back

of someone’s head;

Attempt to track

what that couple said.

Fidget on your feet

so they don’t go to sleep;

Think about what you’ll eat

after your floor you sweep.

Daydream about a blizzard

as you wring your hands;

Pretend to be a wizard

who gives stern commands.

Study the patterned floor tiles

in search of tessellations;

Dream of travel to far isles

to witness mysterious cetaceans.

Play a game on your phone

or I-spy with the kid behind;

Try not to loudly moan,

better to not terribly mind.

About "In a Queue, What Do You Do?": This poem celebrates the 300th poem of my year-long quest to write and share a poem every day! Only 65 poems to go. This is just a fun poem considering what we do with our minds when we stand in lines.  I enjoyed playing with rhyme in short 4-line stanzas.

Poem #301, My Thanksgiving Cactus Turns 37

by Emily Gibson, Oct 28, 2022

For my seventeenth birthday, 

the year 1984, a friend,

Becky, gifted a flowering cactus

started from her long-lived plant.

It bloomed in fuchsia filigree 

flowers, often late November

but sometimes winter solstice,

or Valentine’s Day, and even

one memorable Fourth of July!

I renamed it a “holiday cactus”

so whenever it blooms,

it is always just in time.

The story of this cactus

is the story of my adult life.

Where I have lived, it has lived.

What I endured, it endured.

When I celebrated or felt lost, 

I doubt it understood why.

The brown-green pottery pot 

of its arrival is crowded

with roots. My cactus strikes 

a bonsai silhouette, stunted 

yet perfect,

like anyone raised

in benign neglect.

About "My Thanksgiving Cactus Turns 37": This is a true story about my cactus. I have no idea why this topic came to me. It may have originated with a prompt about writing about something in your environment. I had been thinking about this idea for a while, or every time I passed this plant recently. I was glad to finally put the words to paper.

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 with seven new poems!