LAKESIDE CONVERSATION
An autumn breeze caressed my cheek.
A moment with no words to speak
aloud, but softly, with great care:
“The end of this; we know it’s there.”
The carefree days, each careful kiss;
I know that life holds more than this
for me,” I sighed, and waited for
response from him. Then, this he swore:
“I’ll like you ‘til my dying day.
Please be my friend, although we’ll lay
apart, and in the arms of others.”
This is the love time never smothers:
The gift of letting passion go
because true friendship deems it so.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Bloomings was the first to inspire me after my break, with a lovely photo by Walt of lovers lounging by the lake. Please click HERE to see it, as I am unable to download from the site. Thanks, Marie and Walt! Also at Poets United, the poetry collective that rocks! Peace to all, and I’m SO relieved to be back! Amy
Thanks to my dear friend, David Fields, who graciously laid punch-up editing work on me from CA, I was offline for several days, but now I’m back and in a thoughtful, giving mood. These moods don’t always last long, and it’s a freebie, so read on!!
The editing gig gave me great confidence in my skills – it also reminded me that, when I read your poetry (as when you read mine and let me know), typos are easily missed… and my OCD kicks into a new, extremely useful gear.
SO, POETIC FRIENDS – if you are about to submit a poem for publication; if you are worried about the format of your cover letter; or if you just need that “second pair of eyes,” which are so valuable before sending your work to seasoned editors, USE ME. FOR FREE.
Send me up to three poems (.doc or .docx are fine), and I can email you back my proofs with changes which you may accept or reject, and it’s all free. (If I get deluged, I may start charging, but I’d announce well in advance – and the money will go toward my fund to attend the Dodge Poetry Festival next year.) Included with the three poems are cover letters and biographies. If it’s a full chapbook, I’ll charge $5 per manuscript up to 25 poems; just sent a check.
You can also “snail-mail” me your documents with a self-addressed, stamped envelope, and they will be returned to you (hopefully without lots of bloody red ink all over them!).
Amy Barlow Liberatore
email: sharplittlepencil AT gmail DOT com
snail: 1626 Fordem Avenue, #102, Madison, WI 53704
My poetry will commence tomorrow. I simply feel the need to give back to all the wonderful folks who have given me a glimpse of their souls, their whimsy, their dark sides… because rose buds or rusty, jagged edges, you all write your LIVES. I love that about each and every one of you.
Peace, Amy
To all my dear blogging poets and other writers and friends,
I am taking a two-week hiatus to do some technical work on a forthcoming book, the autobiography of Fred Weintraub, who’s a fascinating character in Hollywood and beyond. If you want to learn more about his history with Bruce Lee, Woodstock, The Bitter End, plus many actors and comedians, visit his website HERE. I mean it: You HAVE to check this guy out! He’s a mensch, but he’s also bigger than life.
I will catch up on comments as soon as possible (just came back from vacation), but I’m so excited that David Fields, a dear old friend and the “as told to” co-author of the book, invited me to take part in this endeavor. I’m farklempt!
Will be back blogging again very soon, answering prompts and, as always, visiting the sites of those who visit me. Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers for the completion of this editing with the integrity that Mr. Weintraub deserves.
Please don’t leave a comment to this, or I’ll just be farther behind on replies!
Peace to all, Amy
The Dark Side of the Moon
Nuclear plants faced big fines
They’d filled all cave and mines
In Vegas, locals now know
You can gamble AND can glow
Like the bright, full harvest moon
Edict came down from on high
Nuke garbage would now fly
And be stored, safe and secure
In a place with no allure
On the dark side of the moon
Computer parts also flown
With spent missiles to the Zone
That waited in deep space
Old Man Moon’s Janus face
On the dark side of the moon
Flotsam and jetsam were sent up
Poisons, deep-water sludge went up
And rich people paid good money
Ashes placed, “Him” and “Honey”
On the dark side of the moon
As long as folks could view
The same pizza-pie milieu
They wouldn’t burst the bubble
Nor cause a whit of trouble
‘Bout the dark side of the moon
Scientists perturbed
Moon’s balance was disturbed
The orbit now decayed,
There soon was no more shade
On the dark side of the moon
Imagine each frightened soul
When La Luna spun out of control
And the first place it hit
Was Alamos with nuke shit
From the dark side of the moon
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides, the blog that got me started in poetry (thanks, Robert Lee Brewer and all the Street gang!) had an intriguing prompt: Out of this world. I’d been thinking about this concept for a long while. Peace, and keep the moon crap-free! Amy
OK, I had to come up with a poem to meet my own prompt at We Write Poems!
The form is “3 + (x) = poem,” and today, as I rode the bus and hung out with a homeless Vietnam vet my age who’s been given six months to live, there was no place else to go but the steam grates and the fact that the two major refuges for homeless folks will be shut down this winter by our lame-ass governor, Scott Walker (brought to you by The Koch Brothers; paid for by same).
I’ll be away for the weekend, so pardon my not answering comments promptly. Have a peaceful Labor Day – if these guys get their way, that holiday will mean nothing in a few years. RIP, Triangle Shirtwaist Factory women – you are not forgotten. Amy
Homeless in Madison, Winter 2001
Homeless folks dread winter
This coming winter especially
We with homes worry for them, too
(Governor closed two safe havens)
Wisconsin is “penniless”
No money for “extras”
We with homes give to NGOs
(But the Guv has bucks to redo the Capitol Cafeteria – all winter long)
Ironic. That cafeteria provided
daily shelter for many residents
from punishing, sub-zero winds
(Merry Fucking Christmas)
Our governor “doesn’t hate anyone,
least of all, the poor”
We protest to remind him of his lies
(As he settles into his plush office for a toasty-warm Madison winter)
Politicians and the Constitution
don’t always agree… we need many
voices to speak on behalf of those in need
(and to recall this sorry excuse for a governor)
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Third Eye of the Sightless Woman
Deprived of what doctors call normal vision,
she still envisioned worlds beyond worlds;
seeing each person beneath their form or color,
she possessed the gift of sight in her ears.
She heard beauty, shame, promise of each person
and saw their auras while listening to their stories.
Behind the vague stare was a screen of inner vision,
and here ran a constant stream of color and shape,
as all things passed her acute field of hearing.
Dogs barking in sharp blacks and whites.
Birds whirling in dissipating pinks and ochres.
Breezes green with promise of pale cyan rain.
But music – ah! music held the entire palette.
Symphonic orchestras, brilliant watercolor fields.
Strings pulling rakes to mingle azures and apricots,
brass spotting canvas with dots and long sturdy lines
of coral and dust, the silverfoil tingle of cymbals.
Jazz was denser; oils, perhaps, a thicker base.
Saxes hacking crimson into piano’s sepia lines.
drums ticking tapping low, inking ebony onto the canvas.
The singer could be violet, Ivy Anderson; sapphire,
Ethel Waters; or Julie London’s burgundy midnight.
And Billie: Dry-brushed for texture, always blue.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse poetry asked for poems about opening one’s third eye. My best vision has always been heard (synesthesia adds to this; because of my condition, I often hear sight patterns). And so I gifted my subject with a different kind of sight. This is also posted at my poetic heart, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Sunday Scribblings asked for thoughts about each poet’s muse. I believe I was one of the lucky ones; I also believe this may account for my poor grades in school! No blame at all, only gratitude for being so blessed. Peace, Amy
PS This is also at Poets United, the poetic collective.
I Met My Muse When I Was Two
Dancing, glittering over my playpen.
Sweet music singing when the record player was silent.
During school, whispering secrets to me
(so much more enticing than scribbles on the chalkboard).
Winding in a scenting breeze, gentle on my nose as I
walked the streets of a smelly, gritty city.
Capturing the intake of my every breath,
flowing through my body, creating peace within my harried soul.
Inspiring luscious, ludicrous, outlandish, lovely thoughts…
my Muse.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Bloomings (a newer prompt site – check it out!) asked for poems using the most irresistible prompt: “There’s a moon out tonight.” Aaaaaah. Amy
La Bella Luna
Grab a jacket and take my hand, darlin’.
Tonight, Monona’s lakeside is calling out to us.
La bella luna want to bathe all lovers
in beams of reflected light.
Here by the shore, slight chill of the autumn to come,
we’ll stroll, serenaded by so many crickets
and the soft paddle of ducks, looking for a late-night snack.
Though full-faced Old Man looms above, silverfoiled and shining,
the lightning bugs are not overwhelmed.
Blinking gold, ruby, emerald… just out of reach,
yet so near, teasing us, same as they did
when we were kids lying in field of wild grasses.
City lights are low, revealing buckets of stars
spilled in horoscope formations.
We needn’t prove our love beneath this panorama.
We are no longer teenagers, needing it now, now.
The silver moon lingers in streaks of our hair
as we walk and whisper, my hand in your jacket,
you arm slung around my shoulder as we make our way home.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
DISCLAIMER: Actually, we live near the shore of Lake Mendota; Monona is to the north of our skinny stretch of the East Side of Madison, WI. I felt the name “Monona” was a bit more poetic. Apologies to all Tenney Park neighbors!
As the New Year approaches, I felt the time was right to post this, based on a person (whose name has been changed) who hung around Court Street in Binghamton, NY, back in the 70s. I didn’t know her personally… but she was different. And she was persecuted for it. This year, let’s be kind to everyone – especially “The Others,” those whom we may not understand, but who are just as worthy of respect as the next person. Let’s make this the year we put an end to homophobia and prejudice against all who buck the stereotypes.
Here’s the story of a fighter. Peace, Amy
FRANCES BY NIGHT
Frances took a lot of shit
back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood
On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines
Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps
The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her
Sometimes she’d get bounced early for
flouncing around the married guys too much
(They were undercover, like the CIA)
This was back in the day of “those bars”
When you came in the back door and showed ID
Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances
who had to show her license with her real name, Frank
It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her
A few cocktails would set her right
She’d be fine ‘til closing time
If no prime escort took the bait
she’d wait as long as she could
before leaving for good (or for worse)
Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat
Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”
Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!”
No cops were ever around that part of town
despite the shouts of the frantic rumble
She put up a good fight, that little queen
for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper
Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles
of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her
but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies
“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”
“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!
You need it more than I do”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic hearth and home, Poets United, for their Poetry Pantry.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Men (for We Write Poems, with a nod to Wallace Stevens)
I. They’re different in certain ways, but what’s in common reigns.
II. Through the bottom of a shot glass, darkly.
III. Millions are fathers deserving of respect, when respect is due.
IV. Sometimes, they are bullies or abusive and deserving of no respect at all.
V. As leaders of our nation; therefore, we should elect more women to level the playing field.
VI. Warily.
VII. As warmongers and war profiteers… and troops who actually have to fight the battles.
VIII. While wearing rose-colored glasses (which you will eventually lose).
IX. As friends who are with you no matter what the circumstance, especially if they are gay and you are one of those straight girls who just loves them to death (like me).
X. As husbands or committed partners – in which case, keep your hands off them (straight OR gay!). Monogamy should be honored (and polygamy, well, eeeeeeeew).
XI. As co-founders of our country, along with the mostly forgotten Founding Mothers.
XII. As white/Anglo and born to privilege, never having to earn the money they now fight so hard to keep.
XIII. As people of color who are often overlooked, profiled, or assumed to be criminals, in the US illegally… or born in Indonesia, so he can’t REALLY be president.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 