Life Cycling

Life Cycling

First come the three little words
Then, “I’ll love you ‘til I die”
Vows to share a lifetime as one
Down the aisle into Real Street

Change begins to take hold
She feels faint over nothing
After a march to the drug store, she
Places calls to her doctor and OB

Family planning worked, a baby is on the way
To create life within is a special calling
She doesn’t mind the stringy stretch marks
Nor the RR train to La Maze classes

in order to master the art of patience and breath
while bringing new life into the light

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Riley tattoo b and w

I remember being pregnant with Riley.  Ask women who’s ever been pregnant, and they’ll probably say they felt like the most powerful person in the world. Submerged, cradled within, this growing child… I am getting misty because my girlfriend and bandmate Karen’s daughter Amanda is in hospital just now, dilating and all that good stuff.

Riley is the best thing I ever did. Not just giving birth, but raising her, watching her tap out complicated drumbeats from the age of four; seeing her first pictures – and for years to come, finding manga characters scribbled on the margins of homework. Startlingly smart, easy to be with, and wicked talented… she’s a force to be reckoned with, and, as you can see by this photo shoot (body painting, not tattoos), she’s gorgeous.  Love you, Riles. Mom

For the Sunday Whirl, the wordle can be found HERE
. Check out the other poets as well! Peace and soda crackers for the first trimester (!), Amy

San Juan por la noche

At dverse, Hobgoblin asked us to attempt a poem in a foreign language. While I did spend years in Puerto Rico, my Spanish is a mite rusty; that’s why I buy bilingual volumes of Neruda, to strengthen that connection. Let’s see what you think (the English translation follows).

San Juan por la noche

Noches en la playa
de mi Borrinquen querido

Con mi amor, sin abarcas en la arena
y la aroma del mar

Besos dulces, cervezas frias
Manos entrelazarse

Estrellas bialando
por la cadencia de nos corazones

Muchos anos pasados,
yo recuerdo este amor… suave y eterno

TRANSLATION

San Juan at Night

Nights on the beach
of my beloved Puerto Rico

With my love, barefoot in the sand
and the scent of the sea

Sweet kisses, cold beer
Hands intertwined

The stars dancing
to the rhythm of our hearts

After so many years,
I remember that love… tender and eternal

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Also at “la casa de poecia,” Poets United!

Unsung Heroes of My Inkwell

UNSUNG HEROES IN MY INKWELL

My ubiquitous inkwell, home of
fluid blue poems-yet-to-be

Out pops an indigo sprite who
scribbles sillies and twizzles about
the ‘California daze’ or who’ll
juke-jive to the jazz

Sometimes a slate drudgeluckless
slithers over the side of the inkwell
seeps to the page
smears thoughts of illness and
acidic, acrid, lucid memories

There’s a crotchety navy man
who marches out, ten-huts at paper’s edge
and vigilantly decries the evils of war
He’s a vet of many battles and says
victory has neither a smell nor a hint of glory

My favorite inkwell denizen is
the periwinkle fairy who dusts the page
with a harvest heart and loving words
Who inspires hope with ageless
meditations on love

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For Three Word Wednesday (Battle, sumptous, harvest – what a combination of words!), and for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter U. Hope I post this in time…

And to tell the truth, I do have an inkwell on my desk for inspiration, but I write with my trusty Ticonderoga #2 pencil. Peace, Amy

First Time, No Charm

First Time, No Charm

Fifteen
and the only girl in her class
who hadn’t “done it” yet

Sharp gossipy tongues
of her peers rendered her
brittle, an underachiever

Sure, she had the fever, but
no boy had the charm, the
romance she longed for

Fearing she would develop
a discernible crust beneath which
no one would wish to explore

she began to wear shorter skirts,
willowy legs bending, swaying
as a breeze blew through her branches

She spied one guy, gave him the eye
that said, “I want,” and he knew he’d be
Her First, and thus accoladed by his buds

That night, they threw down a blanket
Some pot he’d rustled up for the occasion
dilated their pupils, lazy balloon eyes

A few harsh kisses, some fumbling
some mumbling, but not calling her name
He opened the packet of the sheik sheath

Almost exploding as she put it on him
(like the banana in health class) and then he
crushed her with his weight, piercing her

It was all of ten minutes, leaving her with
the wound that never needs mending
And an unbearable feeling that there must be

more than sex than this, a barbarian invasion
Otherwise, why would musicians bother to write
love songs?

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Sheaths, Explode, Unbearable, Fever, Willows, Crust, Mending, Breeze, Piercing, Brittle, and Rustle. Click on the blog name and see what everyone else got from this interesting group on the Wordle! I am glad to say this is NOT autobiographical.

I’ve chosen this poem for dverse Open Mic Night. Also at my home base for all things poetic, Poets United.

Real Women (dverse)

Real Women

Real women have curves
nerves of tempered steel
Watching promotions
granted to men of
lesser talent,
their hearts stolen by
lesser loves
until…

Real women revel in truth,
revive opinions stifled
again and again,
say their piece and
back it up with actions.

Some women shape the future
by giving the world
the next wild, willful
generation of humanity,
nurturing and guiding.

Others act as guides,
spiritual doulas,
friends who also nurture
the character of those children.
The Aunties Extraordinaire.

Real women love.
We love to love.
To make love, to share body and soul.
Even when swallowed by self-doubt,
surfacing with the pliable beauty
of sirens,
assured,
assuring,
ascendant.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo from History Central, archival shot of the inimitable Mae West, who once said, “No man ever loved me like I love myself.”
For dverse Open Mic Night, because real women ROCK!

Life Without Limits (Sun Scribs, 3WW)

LIFE WITHOUT LIMITS

Were I granted
life without limits
I would bind hatred,
tangle it in silk threads
all shades of red, gold, green
and send it hurtling
into space, no trace
of meanness left to feel.

I would surround
a golden box of pure love
with small fans
pointed up at
wind turbines
and set it free in
breezes of sweet thoughts
strong enough to
surround the earth and,
if the silk balloon’s helium should fail,
all hatred would drift into space
and be forgotten.

Were I granted
life without limits,
I’d press the edge of
the invisible envelope
until
peace
would
reign.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For Sunday Scribblings, which asked us to envision “no limits,” and for Three Word Wednesday: Tangle, Shade, and Feel. Also for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, in honor of Nelson Mandela’s 94th birthday. Well done, good servant of humankind, and good health to you, sir. Peace, Amy

Snapshots of Then (dverse), I’m Back!!

Five BSODs (Blue Screens of Death, so, grammatically speaking, perhaps it’s BSsOD) in two days, and my computer was out for the weekend… and then some. So glad to be back.

About comments… I am hopelessly behind in replying! I’ll peruse and visit you all, but if I ever hope to get a chapbook together (and most people don’t read responses anyway, which is fine), I will take a break on the last few poems and start fresh. If anyone has a comment on that policy, please let me know. Hey, take it from me: Don’t hold back; tell me what you REALLY feel!

A peaceful Independence Day to my US friends, and prayers for folks in Colorado who are suffering with wildfires, as well as all who are in the grip of this heat wave. Peace, Amy

SNAPSHOTS OF THEN

Mom’s crimson best, one sister
colors the other’s lips with the delicacy of Monet

Big sis hanging from
the branch of an apple tree

Small moments
The ways of children
A gesture, a look
Laughter caught in
grimaces of belly-aching joy

Little sis tries to puff powder
on the older girl, whose skin

needs no embellishment
but whose soul craves it

These moments
This places, close to heaven
A wink, a giggle, teasing
A kick under the table
An unforeseen hug from behind

They stand still for the Easter snapshot
Shoulders almost touching, like troops

The Christmas tree, stringing red lights
Middle sis rearranging tinsel “until it’s perfect”

Brief moments caught
by the old Ansco camera
Sweet, looking back
Who knew? Who could guess
how far apart they would grow?

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night – and for Poets United’s Poetry Pantry.

An Honor, plus a poem! (Passionate…)

Well, I’m not one for bragging (and if I am, will someone please let me know so I can stuff some humble pie in my face), but Polly Robinson of Polly: Writings and Witterings posed what may be her first prompt, and I could not resist. After posting, I found out it was one of three favorites! To see her comments, and other winners as well, please see: THIS POST.  And now let’s get down to some poeting.  Poemizing.  Poemization.  Er, writing poetry:

Remember Passion

Passion – all-consuming,
glorious blaze of every
sense alive and alight,
every synapse snapping,

a fire for
the belly
the brain
the heart
the hearth that hums beneath
her sheath and his jeans

Passion burns benevolently
for a time, somewhat contained
(but if the team mascot loves the
place-kicker, they head for a
fireproof locker, kissing in shadows
of the homecoming bonfire)

The fire can consume lovers.
The burn doesn’t always hurt.
Passion will wane, but
the reflection will remain
in the rearview mirror of their minds,
glowing on lonely nights,
a long-gone ember of…

Remember?

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For Poetic Bloomings, a poem about fire, burning passion… and all that follows. Also at my poetic bonfire, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy

Vessel

Vessel
(based on the Prayer of St. Francis)

Make me an instrument of your peace
Make me a vessel of your love
Your walk, my way
Your truth, my life
Your light, my joy
Your breath, my song

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “V.”
The prayer of St. Francis has always intrigued me, because Francis took Jesus’ teachings on giving and acted on them all his life. His is a good example of a life lived in pure love. LOVE is not only for Christians – it’s for all faith paths and for those who don’t believe in a Higher Power… but I wrote this hoping that I, too, will be a vessel of love, at all times and in all places. Peace, Amy

My Cat (original song, with music track) for dverse

dverse wanted poems about music. How about lyrics to an original song, WITH the music track? (smile)

A lot of you know I’m a singer/songwriter. This is a demo (no great studio quality here, just the straight voice and piano) for a long-planned but yet-to-be-financed jazz album to follow up “Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride.” Click on the track name; lyrics are below. And John, my BFF, this one’s for you!

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THE SONG:
My Cat Sure Misses You A Lot

My Cat Sure Misses You A Lot
Words and Music by Amy Barlow Liberatore © 1998

She sits on the window seat and waits for your return
She stretches lazily, ’cause she’s got time to burn
She thinks you’re running late, or maybe you forgot
But oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot

Remember how she’d snuggle up and commandeer your lap
And how you’d hold her tenderly when she’d settle in to nap
I’m sleeping well these days, or so I thought
But oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot

She’s mine and always was, but she gave her heart away
To a man who up and left one day
I’m fine, I’m over you… I only called to say
There’s someone in the house who wants you back to stay

Why don’t you come around and visit her sometime
An hour on the front porch swing would do just fine
Or maybe you miss her the way she’s missing you
Why don’t you take her home a day, or maybe two
‘Cause oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot

She’s mine and always was, but she gave her heart away
To a man who up and left one day
I’m fine, I’m over you – I only called to say
There’s someone in the house who wants you back to stay

Why don’t you come around and visit her sometime
An hour on the front porch swing would do just fine
Or maybe you miss her the way she’s missing you
Why don’t you take her home – and take me, too
‘Cause oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you…

Recording published by Beehat Baby Music, copyright 2012

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