This page will showcase the poetry of
Ursula T. Gibson
email to UrsulaTG@aol.com
Why Should I Cry
He is no longer here on Earth
in form my eyes can see,
where he was captured since his birth.
Now he again flies free.
He need not struggle against gravity
nor search for love, nor fear
the coming night, nor mankind's cruelty.
Why should I cry, now he is there?
The universe is his to find;
the answers to his many queries
rest open for his spirit mind
to dwell in perfect harmonies.
There is a promise at this time of year
that we will be together once again;
in certainty that dispels fear,
I await that hour, release of pain.
The days we spent together are not gone,
as I remember him. His smile and eager flight
will welcome me when I go home.
Why should I cry, when all will be made right?
WATTS
My little son and I lived among a
block of people in south central L.A.
Seven years of coming and going,
recipes and stories exchanged
over the fence, and walks around the block,
waving to the white-haired elderly
on their evening verandahs, with a word
or two on Sundays about the
goodness of the Lord.
My son played up and down the block,
cowboys and indians with his friends
(he was the Indian), rode his bike
in tandem with his friends. All of them
parked outside our door for milk and cookies,
and the bikes were safely left, day or night.
In the nearby tiny park, I sat on benches
with the other mothers, watching our children play
and trading information on how to get them
to eat this or that, to pick up toys, to listen,
where to buy good clothes for cheap,
why the rents were going up. I wrote letters
for those who wanted to reach back home but
could not write. We shared our money
for hot dogs and ice cream all around,
like neighbors do. Just like neighbors do.
Interruptions of calm by anger and shouting
when a lover got jealous or a woman ran from
knifethrust from her drunken man
to my safe screendoor and safety inside,
weeping, to tell me misunderstanding,
"He's really a good man;
he's just not himself just now."
While I, hugging her and wiping tears away,
bit my lips at life's cruelty and fear.
We shared those sorrows, seeking ways to heal.
When I was spent and frightened, I'd turn to
Jennie or Mildred or Marnesba or Sally Ann,
and they'd listen wisely and point out
my folly or my future, always true and fair.
We were all friends on my block; all friends.
The fire alarms and shrieking sirens,
black smoke from burning buildings, were
the first I knew of Watts, that day of
Black fury and frustration, hurling fire
at injustice, voicing hatred, practicing
destruction. On our block, all doors
were closed, faces peering warily past
lifted curtains for just a moment.
Cars drove past in haste; no one walked
the streets that day, except the
shouting, angry men in a cloud like fire smoke
up and down the streets, dragging fear and
separation with them.
Next day, I went outside again and walked
around our block. No one spoke to me.
No one waved. No one.
I learned I was White, when Watts happened.
Ursula T. Gibson, © 1990
Why I Write Poetry
There's this Muse, see?
She curiously pokes in on me
at odd hours of day or night
to peer at words. I'm not too bright
at figuring out her meaning,
so she kicks and whines
'till my attention and her tension
are aligned, words rush to the page,
without grace or dignity, not to mention
skill, poetic device or proper lines.
When that Muse is satisfied then,
treated to the agony of an adult
keeping up with her intensity -- when
she goes off to plague some other
victim, I read again what she provoked,
tweak and tune, sort, revise and bother
to hammer out, word by word, line by line
the poems you get to see as mine.
Ursula T. Gibson, 2-27-00
UrsulaTG@aol.com 01-11-01
Summer Afternoon
Trees go up; sun slants down.
Patterns fall on blankets of grass
where squirrels quarrel, tails flicking.
Chickadees flit, red cardinals flash.
Turtledoves coo curiously on a branch.
Yellow flicker's tail grasps his tree trunk.
The mourning cloak who fluttered by
like butterflies tend to do
soars from shade to sun and back
amid tranquillity of this peaceful
forest glade. A bee buzzes by,
attending to flowery business.
Nothing's happening,
but everything that matters is happening
during this gentle summer afternoon.
Ursula T. Gibson
UrsulaTG@aol.com
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