Summer Treasures Remembered

22 May 2013 18 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Faith, Nature, Beginnings, POETRY, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Summer Treasures Remembered

Silence is for remembrance, thoughts of her childhood.

Summers… The dappled pony on Aunt Beth’s farm, riding at a canter back to the house. Shucking corn, peeling skin from squash, separating rind from dead-ripe melons. The tang of lemonade, made from scratch. Braised ribs from Moody, the steer who kicked and broke her wrist. Dinners on a platter; breakfast straight from Grandma’s cast-iron skillet.

There was no tomorrow, at least not until Ma came to collect her and the boys, back to the fast-paced, grimy city, home.

She switches gears to five years ago when, after careful moral inventory, she chose. Rejecting city life for the solace of the country cloister. Truth is transitory; choosing the habit over skinny jeans, long sleeves over skimpy T’s. Her chestnut hair fluttered to the floor, shorn like a sheep at Beth’s farm. Her simple cell: table with wash basin, lamp, bed, cross overhead.

A final goodbye to family as she enters the authenticity of spiritual life, simplicity over audacity. Ma lingers at the cloister gate, remembers how little Sandy (now Sister Joan) took catechism class so seriously. Sister Joan smiles from two floors above, then joins her order in preparing a home-cooked dinner to be driven into town for the homeless.

Shuck, peel, braise, remember.

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

This was for Kerry O’Connor’s Get Listed at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads; words can be found HERE. Yes, I took liberties with the word “malinger,” but hey, my Iroquois name would be “Plays With Words.”  Kerry said to use two or three, but I went to town and used ‘em all!

My BFF, John, was at one time a brother in the Franciscan Order; later, he became a priest. Now he’s thoroughly enjoying life as an ex-priest/healthcare worker, moonlighting as a piano bar player in Philadelphia. Man, John can SING. He even performed “New York, New York” at his ordination party (including key change, per his instructions to the band). Peace, Amy

 

In Step With Jesus (my 666th post!)

06 May 2013 19 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Activism, Faith, Social Justice Tags: , , , , , , ,

TO ALL: Whatever your faith, I invite you to read this. You may follow a
different path, but it’s really all about living in love.

In Step With Jesus
(For Bob Gwynne and Monica Wahlberg, with love and thanks)

To be in step with Jesus…
Stop. Wait. Listen.

Allow Jesus to choose your stride.
It may be slower; it may take you
down by the riverside or
wash you in rainfall.

You may see yourself
offering a hand to one whom
you wouldn’t have touched
the week before.

To be in step with Jesus…
Stop. Wait. Listen.
Allow the Spirit inside.
Let your soul be enveloped
by the Divine Sofia, Wisdom.

You may see yourself
in sandals, sharing love,
feeding those in need, even
acting up in the
“Temples of Power.”

You will change.

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Yes, it’s my 666th post. No, this is not the first horse of the Apocalypse, nor do I believe in “the mark of the Beast,” and I’m not going there with any jokes, either (although 6/66 is when my friend Monica was born, so there you go, one happy coincidence, an early birthday present).

This poem was inspired and written entirely at Sunday morning’s praise and worship service, during which guest “sermonator” Rev. Bob Gwynne (an activist of many years; he and his jubilant wife, Jesse, are respected senior members of our church), gave an excellent sermon about being in step with Christ.

For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.  Also, BIG ANNOUNCEMENT TOMORROW, SO STAY TUNED!  (ribit croak gruggle)  Peace to all, Amy

Lion-Hearted Man (RIP Marques Bovre)

12 Feb 2013 31 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Music Tags: , , , , , , ,

LION-HEARTED MAN (R.I.P. Marques Bovre)

From a distance
(when first I spied him
setting up his gear in church)
I thought he was an old man

He walked with a cane
Could barely negotiate
setting up his guitar
but his daughter helped

The closer I got to Marques
the clearer the view and
I knew this was a man
not only young, but vital

His face shined, his eyes
danced, and when he sang
it was coming from an old soul
with a kid’s sense of fun

The band played many of
his songs, the heart of
the ministry, seeds
sown for the Gospel

But it wasn’t a cult of
personality; Marques
was too humble for that
He said he was a servant

Then came the diagnosis
Rumors of tumors, he
even gave them names:
Hobgoblin and The Creep

Hoped to see spring flowers
He loved Dandelions and
made me love them too
He struggled but always smiled

We lost him this week
A lion-hearted man who
knew who he was, whose he was
and where he was going

We had many months to prepare
for this day, this awful news
The truth is: You can prepare
for someone to be dying

but you can’t prepare for
when they are actually dead
Marques, brother, father, friend
We’ll sing your songs to the end

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Marques Bovre, singer, guitarist, composer, artist-in-residence at Lake Edge United Church of Christ’s “Worship at the Edge,” died this week at the age of 50.

There have been numerous fundraisers to help pay for his cancer treatments over the past year or so, which brings me back to the fundamental question: Why should ANYONE have to have fundraisers to pay for CEOs to have private planes and yacht trips to Bermuda? Health care is a right. Now, Marques would be the first to say he was no better than anyone else in this world (in fact, on his last CD, “Nashville Dandelion,” there was one song called, “On The Body Of Christ, I Am The A**hole.” That’s his wry sense of humor, and we loved him for it).

Please visit Marques’ site HERE. There are his songs, his story. He never proselytized, and yet a more fervent believer I never knew.  If you like what you hear, BUY SOME MUSIC. Tracy still has medical bills to cover, in the midst of her grief. It will mean a lot to the whole family, and to me.

Rest in peace, brother.  This poem will be at dverse Open Mic Night and at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads (man, Marques would have dug that title), where the garden is open for any and all new poems.  Love, Amy

Armed.

16 Jan 2013 30 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: , , , , , , ,

ARMED

Put yourself in his position.

The kid was always odd.
Mom got knocked up but
some guy married her to
keep her off welfare or worse.

He grew up. Spoke loudly
at worship when he should’ve
kept quiet, now they thought
he was more disturbed that ever.

Roamed around with a bunch of
homeless dudes, got kicked out
of his hometown, they booed him.
“Crazy,” they whispered. Harsh.

He gets in big trouble and
hides out in the woods, but
one of his gang gives him up to
the authorities. He is cornered.

If Jesus had had a gun in Gethsamane,
would he have taken aim at the guards?
Nowadays, it would barely make the crawl:
“Middle Eastern man, 33, guns down cops.”

Jesus would never own a gun; he shunned
violence. He preached unconditional love,
and that’s not shown with assault rifles.

Even when betrayed with a kiss.

Even when tortured by Roman soldiers.

Even when people screamed at him
on the long, laden perp walk to Golgotha.

Even bloodied, he forgave those who
drove nails into his body.

Even as he was raised up on the cross
and set up for display like a sick statue.

Suspend belief in the resurrection
for a moment. He had no idea what
was coming next, and still, he chose death
willingly, for the sake of others.

What if Jesus had an assault rifle or
a high-powered Palin moose killer?
If you’re Christian, ask yourself:
Whose message do you put more faith in?

The words of Christ… or the lobbyists of the NRA?

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For ABC Wednesday, we are back to Square One: A! I imagine this will ruffle some feathers, but remember, the crux of this not “either/or,” but rather, priorities. One can be a Christian and hunt, go to the shooting range. It’s a personal choice whether you feel safer with a pistol in the house, but if it’s stored and the ammo locked up, as it should be, that’s not a lot of help when, as Rush Limbaugh so eloquently put it today, “Obama’s thugs come to your door to seize your guns.” Ted Nugent would call me nuts, but I don’t think hunting requires Kalishnikovs. People are so fearful (some of that biracial man in the White House), they are stocking up on ammo!

FYI: Despite Rush’s ranting about the Commander In Chief (calling the president Socialist, Muslim, Nazi, racist, a traitor, and TAR BABY… let’s all throw up now), RUSH is the only radio talk show on the Armed Forces Network. This treason goes directly to the troops. Your tax dollars at work, and mine.)

It’s all about choices. And politics. And remembering who, and whose, you are. As for me and mine, I’m with Jesus; Gandhi; Martin Luther King, Jr.; the Buddah…  you get the idea.  Peace, Amy

Healing and Healing

05 Nov 2012 26 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

First, I’d like to congratulate Laurie Kolp and Beth Winter for joining the Pretzels and Bullfights arena at dverse poetry. Both are wonderful, warm, talented women, and they will no doubt present us with challenging prompts!  I am adding this to the dverse Open Mic Night in their honor.

Sunday Scribblings (#344) asked for poems about healing. This is also at my “home base” blog, Poets United.

Healing and Healing

“But Aunt Nelda, God didn’t answer my prayer.”
And your prayer was…?

“I prayed for my mother to be healed.”
And what happened?

“She woke up one day in hospice – and,”
the boy breaks down in tears, tears hard won in a world that
doesn’t afford males the luxury of such a balm.

And?
“She was talkative, told me to stay in school,
reminded me of the walks we took in the forest,
pressing dried autumn leaves, all sorts of stuff.
Must have been hours, all about how I should
go to college and not decide my major right away,
that I should dabble with everything until
something catches me by the throat and won’t
let go! Funny, I’m only in eighth grade. Oh, and
the year she helped coach my baseball team, even though
she was the only mom to do that in the whole league. I
was embarrassed then, but I told her that day I was
so proud of her for doing it. I told her she had balls,
and she laughed so hard!”

And then?
“She seemed so well that afternoon, we thought she was
making a comeback, and that night I got on my knees and
thanked God for healing her. The next day, she died.”

Are you angry with God?
“Damn straight. Really pissed. I don’t give a shit about God
anymore. He didn’t give me what I needed most, my mom.
First, He made her suffer with the cancer, the chemo, the
radiation, and then he didn’t let her live.”

What do you think your mom needed?
“Well, healing, coming home, taking care of Dad, seeing
friends. Like it was last year.”

Honey, listen to me.
There’s healing and there’s Healing.
The first, you come home from the hospital, back to
the way things were for the most part, until the cancer
returns, as it often does, and you go through all the pain
and suffering and indignity all over again, until eventually,
your body gives up.

The second, you go home to God.
It’s called the Final Healing.
Your mom went through three rounds with the cancer, and
she didn’t have anything left to fight it. But one thing
God did give you was one last day to talk. It was her way of
saying goodbye, giving you the best memories as a gift.
Don’t blame your mom; she didn’t give up. And yell
all you want to at God, because God has the
widest shoulders you can imagine. God’s giving you
the gift of tears right now.

“So she was healed… but not in the way I wanted?”
Hon, we pray to God for all sorts of things, and
you prayed for your mother to have the best. It
wasn’t what you expected, but remember this:

Your mom doesn’t hurt anymore, doesn’t cry out
in her sleep from pain at 2 a.m. And she left with us
her greatest gift to the world – you.. You hold her
stories, you have her eyes. And trust me:

One day, you will know that God loves you.
Even when you yell and swear at him, God
still “gives a shit” about you. I know it.
So go to a counselor, here’s a card. After my mom died,
I screamed into pillows at my therapist’s office.
Sean, it was cleansing and it healed my grief.

So go ahead, rail at God, and you’ll do fine.
C’mere and give your auntie a hug…

and I dare you not to let go first.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Three Hymns (Naming Constellations)

20 Aug 2012 51 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Faith, POETRY Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

The amazing Joseph Harker of Naming Constellations asked for a personal hymn (or hymns), starting with something we have never heard a hymn written about… it’s a long prompt, so check it out HERE. These are the fruits of my labors, my three hymns in the heart of a Sunday night.  I will also post this on Tuesday at dverse Open Mic Night and at Poets United.  Thanks again, Joseph.  Peace, Amy

Hymn to Her

Trapped in the overgrown patch
called my garden. Titan prairie grasses
tickle the screens, engulf potted plants.

I, the prairie avenger, armed with
scissors, hacksaw, kneepads, and gloves
shape, tame, make symmetry of chaos

forgetting that grasses once ran wild here
long before my aim of a forced, polite posyland.
Blessed are those who walk in Her overgrown path.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Shrine

This is my shrine
It’s wholly mine

A framed reproduction of Kinkaide’s kitschy two-story clapboard
in muted tones, Photoshopped with images of prostitutes. The
ice cream truck parked out front says “Gone Fishing”;
silhouetted against a shade, Mr. Softee is obviously hard.

This is my shrine
It’s wholly mine

This may seem odd for inclusion in my confusion of a
work space, but, with other talisman… a rainbow glass fish,
pads and pencils, Riley at seven – little hippie in Lennon glasses,
all these stir my imagination, invite the spirit in to dwell within

this sinner.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Give Me But One Chance

Give me but one chance
to teach another to dance

To look upon others
not as “them” but as brothers

Give me a servant’s hands
fulfilling needs, not commands

Help me to hold close those
whose ribs I can feel ‘neath clothes

Keep me awake, aware
to go where others never dare

Keep me just off kilter
so I possess no societal filter

And thus remind all humankind
our common threads are the ties that bind

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Sure To Cause Controversy…

20 Sep 2011 48 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Faith Tags: , , , , , , ,

I missed church this week because I was down with the flu. So it’s only right that, I should post a revised version of a religious “food-for-thought” poem I wrote long ago.. Whether you agree or disagree, ALL comments are respected and appear unedited on this blog (unless you use the F word or something really tacky like that). Only hateful comments which are directed at OTHER bloggers will be deleted; hateful comments directed at me are fine, I don’t mind the heat and I love all haters (which just kills them!).

Also posted at Poets United, the poetic collective. Peace to all, Amy

ACCORDING TO SCRIPTURE

When confronted with yet another conundrum,
the umpteenth tease to ensnare the “troublemaker,”
the Learned Ones asked,
“Should we pay tax to Rome?”
Jesus replied, “Give to http:Caesar that which is Caesar’s;
give the rest to God.”

If we wiped “In God We Trust” off every coin,
all forms of currency,
would God be offended?
Cease to exist?
Wipe a soon-to-be-designation “sinful city” off the map?
(Those pastors never predict; they only proclaim)

“Under God” inserted in the Pledge in the 1950s
assuring all that we were not a Godless nation
(like those Commies in Russia)
Would God disappear from our lives should we
revise the pledge, restoring it to the original?

If the Word is written on our hearts
why do we need it minted as well?
What reassurance does it give the poor man
who inserts In God We Trust into a slot machine
hoping to stave off foreclosure?

God is our Creator, and genderless:
This is my personal belief, not a universal truth.

Do schoolchildren, reciting the Pledge by rote,
paying no particular attention to one word over another,
believe in God more because God’s name is in it?

No Godless person am I
nor spiteful
Just pondering what I read in my Bible today

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

I Never Lost Faith In Love (ABC)

19 Sep 2011 43 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Still under the weather – and yet, there’s that dizzy, “you ain’t goin’ nowhere” feeling of the flu that still gives rise to interesting thoughts.

First off, you MUST check out this link if you interested in (and, like me, vociferously object to) the Nazi/Fascist/Far-Right phenomenon of banning and/or burning books.  Some might not like it (not because of subject, but because the title is something about “booksluts” and they use the “vee-jay-jay” word (yes, I have one, too.  What’s the big deal?).  There are some useful links.  I BOUGHT my daughter a copy of The Jungle by Upton Sinclair when she was a teen.  BANNED!  SOCIALIST LEANINGS! Click HERE.

Please do check it out, but NOT until you have read this poem, for ABC Wednesday, and, of course, my poetic heartbeat, Poets United.  Amy

I Never Lost Faith in Love

For all the sorry-ass excuses for men
who double-crossed my path,
through every mischievous menace who
left me drained and feeling inadequate,

I never lost faith in love.

Through many mistakes whose lips met mine
with divinely inspired kisses
(but the Devil’s own heart), plus
all the power of commitment God gave an ashtray,

I never lost faith in love.

For every hairy-dick tomcat
who yowled ‘til I let him in,
through every door that slammed in my face
once he got his share of the kitty,

I never lost faith in love.

On this earth, once I found the one
who is plush to my blush,
ever-after to my laughter,
I thank God every day,

I never lost faith in love.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Sunday Prompts: “Praise” and “Televangelists are Full of Crap”

18 Jul 2011 46 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Faith, Free Verse, Music, Sunday Scribblings, Sunday Whirl Tags: , , , , , ,

With The Sunday Whirl, wordler-in-chief Brenda posed the words in bold – a baker’s dozen.  Also, Sunday Scribblings wanted us to write on the word “Captivate.”  These are both Sunday-based poems, the second being a haiku.   Also posted at my poetic home away from home, Poets United.

FOR THE SUNDAY WHIRL

Sunday Praise Service

Hot coffee to stir the ominous ache in her weary bones. 
She chooses an emerald empire-waist dress;
the illusion of a full front covers
the void of her shrinking frame.

Time to observe the celestial, to worship the Divine.
As her sandals flip, flop, flap into the sanctuary,
a kid jostles past her up the balcony stairs to sit with his mom.
She smiles, remembering her own scrambles up there;
the rhythm of life is upbeat and present
here in this church.

Church services are usually holy pantomime, but
not here.  The sermon moves her – and the music?
It rocks like the ages!

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

““““““““““““““““““““

FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS

Televangelists Are Full Of Crap

Captivate
with delusions of riches,
Joel Osteen.

Captivate
with tales of earthly wealth,
Graham Junior.

Hold captive
those prisoners of Rapture,
who crave flight.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Day 29 BLAST of poems

29 Apr 2011 37 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Activism, Faith, Free Speech, Free Verse, Humor, Poets United, Politics, Racism, Sensational Haiku Weds., Social Justice Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

OK, I had a HUGE blast of energy after the sun came out, my cough abated, my lungs cleared, and I rode a bike for the first time in 7 years! THREE, count ‘em, THREE poems today, so scroll all the way down. One haiku, one thumping Trump (hey, who doesn’t wanna do that?), and a final meditation to bring it all to a proper close. Peace to all who visit this blog, and remember, the Mayans didn’t predict Cortez, so quit sweating 2012!   Amy

First, for ABC Wednesday and that pesky letter, “O,” as well as Sensational Haiku Wednesday:

“O” is for Obama

Birthers, just admit
since proof of birth has been shown:
You hate his black skin.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

———————————

Now, this is for ABC Wednesday and any blog that included prompts about idiots, f***wits, greedy rich straight white men, and egotists in general:

Obnoxious and Overbearing

Reporters live for this crap
(as Murrow turns slowly in his grave).

The brave blond/redheaded billionaire,
multiple times bankrupt
(and that’s just financially speaking)
arrives in his airbus.

Airbrushed hair sculpted to his scalp
(paging Mr. Softee!).
Face like a sphincter
mind like a gumball machine
mouth like a garbage disposal
spewing mindless accusations about
Place Of Birth and how Proud He Is Of Himself
that He forced the airing of Proof,
the truth that our president is…
well, our president.

TV reality show host,
scion of the sleaziest game in town:
Casinos (the house always wins,
but he still manages to go belly-up again and again).
Three wives (so far), but he’s rich again;
there may be more.

Anderson Cooper’s,
Jon Stewart’s, and
Stephen Colbert’s
collective wet dream:

Trump/Palin 2012!

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

—————————————————————-

Finally, for Three Word Wednesday, using the words, Foolish, Mercy, and Relish. It’s Threefer Friday. Freaky Friday. A good Friday. Peace, Amy

Dry Bones

Bones weathered, dry, sun-bleached
Souls weary, drained, damaged

Who will raise them?
What will give them life, the power
to give and to receive love?
How will they rise from death?

Miracles happen.
The Bible says Ezekiel witnessed
the stop-action resurrection
of a thousand Jack Skellingtons.

Miracles happen
when we see ourselves
in the eyes of the homeless, the starving, the addicted.

Miracles happen
when we see past
our plasma screens, Starbucks, Mastercards
the restaurants we relish,
the foolish ways we overextend ourselves…
and show mercy to those who have nothing.

Miracles happen
when we listen to
our better angels.

Look past things of this world,
take on the burden.
Walk that mile.
Reach out to those who need your touch,
and your sorry, dry bones will be renewed.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, Writer’s Island, and at Poets United. Thanks to Rob at Writer’s Island for giving us all a prompt-free space for posting. Allows all of us to use prompts and ideas from different sites, as well as free writes from our own musings. A real blessing to me this year! Kudos, Rob.

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