Copyright Michael Coatesworth

Last revised: September 21, 2006

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The Magazine

For all the Family

Poet's Corner

Ursula T Gibson

What the Librarian Said

You cannot meet all the interesting people
who occupy this world now
or those who have lived before,

       the mystics, astronomers, poets,
       entertainers, physicists, economists,
       artists, world leaders, musicians, biologists,
       mothers, horse trainers, cosmologists,

who create our times or change our minds.
There are hundreds of thousands you should know,
to spend time with, absorb their insights,
learn their worlds.

But books are "condensed people",
and if you start reading now,
steadily, weekly, all your life,
you can meet and know
ten thousand or so
of all these condensed people.

Ursula T. Gibson
UrsulaTG1@aol.com

*****

Names and Numbers in My Mind

Sitting in leisure under the hand-planted,
hand-watered poplar trees at the
western edge of El Leoncito's Observatory lot,
I look southward toward Mendoza,
to Tupangaro (twenty-two thousand feet)
one hundred sixty five miles away
through clearest, tranquil air;
and northward toward little Jachal
tucked in the northern Calingasta Valley,
one hundred sixty miles away.
The distant hills are in sharp detail,
just as those surrounding me, so clear the air!
No mists obscure the fingers of relentless erosion.
An artist would have miserable problems to show
depth, perspective, distance here; no bluing of
the mountain slopes, no mystery in space.

From El Leoncito, perched on this Tontales range
foothill outpost at eight thousand, three hundred feet,
my view extends westward across the dry lake bed
in the Barreal-Calingasta Valley,
cut by the gravel road, the washboarded road
two thousand feet below me, that runs to
Uspallata of Christ-of-the-Andes fame,
but that road vanishes behind the high rises
which form the base of this hemisphere's
highest mountain, Aconcagua, hidden from view
from here, but present, even though invisible.

I stand on my low mountain, vast landscape
before me, evening light painting
long dark shadows of the western mountains
across the valley, almost to where I stand,
surrounded by eroded hills and alluvial fans;
my gaze flicks past the dry lake bed
to the cleft of the Rio de Los Patos,
stretching in its canyon and plunging northward
to water Barreal's apple orchards and its sheep.

My vision travels upward then,
following tempting paths and easy traverses,
caressing the rugged lower peaks
and jagged, tilted eastern slope,
the dry, ragged scarp of the
young and dominating Andes Mountains,
soaring along the entire western horizon,
twenty thousand to twenty-two thousand feet,
a mere twenty-five miles away from me.

The evening light of the sun setting
in the Pacific Ocean, the other side of Chile,
sixty miles behind the high mountains,
has caught in the wind-whipped snow banners of
Mercedario, Ramada, and Pico Polaco,
turning them into fire banners
blowing in the fierce winds, the cloudless winds,
the high mountain winds of western Argentina.

Ursula T. Gibson © 12-12-88

Serene Moments, a List Poem

            When I can see the horizon,
            Wind stops blowing,
            The lights turn off,
            The moon slips below the edge of earth,
            letting stars show their power.

            When I learn an unfamiliar flower's name,
            A bird cascades music,
            The lake laps a little at the shore,
            You come into the room.

            When the kitten purrs,
            Joyful eyes meet,
            Friends hug,
            The tea is warm and ready,
            The fire turns to gentle embers,
            The baby falls asleep,
            You hold me.

Ursula T. Gibson © 6-20-2000

UrsulaTG1@aol.com

*****

You Asked, "What is a Poem?"

A poem is not a recipe
nor an architect's blueprint.
The need to penetrate the heart
with select words is more
than design, plan, or story.

A poem is not a cloud
or fluttering butterfly,
a soaring mountain peak,
body of moving sea, serene
blue heavens, or even love.

A poem is internal pulse,
a recognition of verity,
inquiring mind, heart in process
of breaking or healing,
discovery of wonder or spread of joy.

A poem is all of these: a reason,
a feeling, a history, a future,
an insight, a hope, a prayer,
a knowledge, a human aspiration,
a dream, a realization, an ending.

*****

Geography Lesson

The farthest West
I've lifetime been is
Cape Blanco, Oregon, USA.

The farthest East
I've lifetime been is
Pretoria, South Africa.

The farthest South
I've lifetime been is
Mar del Plata, Argentina, South America.

The farthest North
I've lifetime been is
Bremerhaven, Germany, Europe

My geographical world
encompasses only
a third of the Earth.

Next time around
I'll have to do
the other two-thirds.

Ursula T. Gibson, (c) 10-1-99
UrsulaTG@aol.com

*****

Caged

Hot day, hard pavements, black iron cages,
capabaras grazing on green grass meadows,
trotting from lea to lea at the Buenos Aires Zoo.
The deer, looking longingly at open spaces,
the rheas fluffing wings that could not fly,
and a lioness pacing her hot, iron cage
from one end to the other, ten feet, not more.

The guide at the Buenos Aires Zoo then
proudly stated, "We are converting to
the open area moat system for our animals.
The lion cage is finished, and a week ago
we released three cats into their large,
African veldt environment. Let me show you."

We obediently followed her to an iron fence
surrounding an enormous plain with
grass, trees, and a high rock pile at the far end,
where to golden lionesses lay, studying visitors
with great disinterest, licking a paw, blinking eyes.
Two cubs rolled in the dirt just below us,
growling ferociously as they tumbled and
practiced their coming might and skill.

And under a tall tree with cooling branches,
the lion, black mane luxurious, paced,
wearing down the grass to sandy earth,
from one end of his path to the other,
ten feet, never taking one step farther
before he turned around and strode
ten feet once more, under the tree
in the open moat environment
he did not understand.

Ursula T. Gibson
(UrsulaTG@aol.com)

*****

Call Them By Name!

Peach tree, date palm,
live oak, locust,
pine tree, juniper,
deodar (Cedar of Lebanon),
Japanese maple, Chinese elm,
oleander just budding,
night-blooming cereus
soaking in the sun.

I sit on my front porch in shade and comfort,
feeling the sunlight warm the pavement,
the two ginger cats basking in luxury
in half-shade and dappled sunlight.
I watch the breezes roll the road dust,
play with the green friends who surround me
to the west, north and east of my porch.
A branch tosses lightly in the slight wind,
shaking leaves to turn and shimmer in the sun.

Again, I review the names of majesty
and ages, some newly planted, some
older than the house my porch belongs to:

Peach tree, date palm,
live oak, locust,
pine tree, juniper,
deodar, Japanese maple,
Chinese elm, oleander
night-blooming cereus.

Variety of greens that would look gaudy
on a painted canvas are natural and lovely
against a background of high mountains.
I am joined to the friendship of greenery,
because, fortunately, I can call them by name.

Ursula T. Gibson
(UrsulaTG@aol.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Phone Might Ring

Don't let me get that phone call
that says he's dead.
The Astronomer is in the mountains,
lugging his 13-inch telescope around,
studying stars, planets,
comets and asteroids.
He'll drive a hundred miles
before the night is through
to find his special places:
no city lights to dim the sky,
no trees to hide the quadrant
that attracts him
like a siren in the blue sea.

He would not notice a car,
lights out, creeping up behind him,
or hear footsteps in the dark,
he concentrates so fiercely
on the focus, the position,
the blazing light in the eyepiece.
He could be mugged in a minute,
never knowing what hit him.

Don't let me get that phone call
that tells me of the accident
when he drives around in the night
and someone drunk doesn't see him.

Don't call me after dark,
breathing sexual snorts in my ear,
saying nothing, when I expect
that call saying The Astronomer is dead.

Don't call me about insurance,
phone rate differences,
health plans, investment programs,
when I hold my breath if the phone rings.

Don't call me to chat about
"woman things" when I'm straining
to be occupied by work or reading,
to escape from the phone in my head.

Don't call me until the morning's dawn
brings him home again, and I know
he's safe and sound, telescope and all.
Don't call! Don't call!

Ursula T. Gibson, copyright 7-9-00

~~~~~~~~~~

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
'til my attention and her tension
are aligned, and 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.

Copyright 2-27-2000 Ursula T. Gibson

UrsulaTG@aol.com

*****

Poet's Corner (Sheila Littleton)

Norbert (Doc Gater) Smith

Anne Brett