I love the blog, “Imaginary Garden with Real Toads,” several writers who toss out different prompts. I saw Kerry’s challenge to write from the oral tradition, a story one would tell a small audience seated on the rug all around. Instantly I heard my grandma Blanche and imagined how she might tell of her long-ago relatives in the old country. I don’t do prose very often, but I do hope you enjoy this, offered with all my Shanty Irish heart. Peace, Amy
Long Ago and Far Away (the soil from which I spring)
Long ago, our ancestors dwelt far away, in a harsh land. Soil so rocky, for every shovel that dug in, two stones came out, and the walls and cottages were built with these. What was a hindrance became a treasure.
Men and tall enough boys tilled the landlords’ fields or worked the mines. Hardship was their way of life; the flintiest labor therefore must be rewarded in a friendly, communal atmosphere. Those who had pushed a plow or descended into the pitch black nether to dig for coal gathered nightly at the public meeting house, which was meant for all meetings pertaining to village life, but mostly beloved for its bar. Every village had a “pub,” as well as a church or two (the second being Anglican, depending on how England’s will held sway in town).
Soon, a tankard was banged on the bar and silence would come over them like a fog. A singer – Lord, you cannot toss a pebble in all of Eire without hitting a fine tenor! Someone offered a song. The verse was his to sing, and all voices joined in on the chorus. Some were mournful, in minor key, recalling a death or the loss of a plot of land, such as “Four Fields.” Others were rollicking, bawdy reels sung so loud they’d bring on the need for “just one more drink, and then I’ll see the missus.”
Meanwhile, the lady of the house, having milked the cow, drawn water from the well for washing faces of little ones, cleaning clothes, and scrubbing floors on her knees; having beaten blankets, spanked a naughty one or cupped another’s face in her palm, chopped wood for the fireplace to keep the house warm and roast the meat, stoked the stove for baking and invited the widow over to gossip over a cup of tea; having worked miracles with the potatoes yet again, fed the children, told them a story before prayers and kisses… After all this, she’d sit in her rocking chair, waiting for her man to stumble in, doff his hat, and eat his portion.
Then it was up the stairs together and, should the drink not have deprived him of his manhood, they would have a go at making another baby. As for how that happens, my dears, well, that would be a story for another day…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic pub, Poets United, for their Poetry Pantry!
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, ancestry, oral tradition
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “A as in Amy.” There were two of us on State Street today, plus a Michael and an Alex (who is probably muttering, “A is for Alex, guys”). Also posted at my fave poetry saloon, er, salon, Poets United.
After All
Old friends, long time since last
we shared a table in a café
We talk old days, school,
kids when they were anecdotal fodder
Then politics, the dumbing down of America
The Hemlock Party and educating barbarians
Unions, pros and cons
Dems, Reps, Libs, and Cons
The future… they visited Glacier Park
and saw mostly wildflowers and a bit of ice
But after all our kvetching and laughter, it ends in this:
GROUP HUG!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Absolutely true story, and managed to write it in Poetic Asides’ 10×10 form as well. My cousin Gregg and I are a lot alike: Complete unimpressed by celebrity, and able to get off a one-liner without cracking up (until later). You go, cuzzy!
Carradine vs. Laughlin (0-1)
You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead
But this one’s too funny to go untold
David Carradine, in his “Kung Fu” days
Came to a rest’rant my cousin Gregg ran
Carradine went barefoot a lot back then
and Gregg said, “Sorry, no shoes, no service”
All puffed up, the star went on to protest
“Don’t you know who I am? Any bistro
would be glad to serve me, barefoot or not!”
Gregg deadpanned, “I suggest you go find one.”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at Writer’s Island, my NaPoWriMo home, and at Poetic Asides, plus, as always, Poets United.
Brenda’s Wordle at Beyond The Bozone including silver, phrase, forever, scars, crescendo, crude, recount, perfume, message, and bottle; also, this works with Poetic Asides’ “Message in a Bottle.”
Cobalt Blue Bottle
Auntie Ruth’s perfume in a cobalt blue bottle
embossed with the phrase, “April in Paris.”
Twirling open the fluted silver cap,
I’d sneak a sniff.
Stronger than a crescendo of crude
on a Texas Tuesday,
the scent still held a message
of forbidden romance (one that might leave scars).
Recounting those afternoons
I used to while away
in Ruthie’s room…
Memories I’ll treasure forever.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You can also see this poem at my NaPoWriMo site, Writer’s Island, and, as always, at Poets United. Check out these poets!
Answered the call at We Write Poems (although we won’t post there until Wednesday) to write a poem that begins, “I’m willing to eat ____.” Tried to avoid the most obvious noun (ha ha), because, although I have consumed a fair amount of shit in my life, rarely was it willingly!
Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, We Write Poems, and at Poets United. Peace, Amy
Willing to Eat Worms
I’m willing to eat worms
or walk through fire for you
Shield you from harm
Comfort you when thunder
steamrolls over your sleep
Hold you when you weep after
someone calls you a name
Why? Because I’m your mother.
I’m willing to swallow all pride
…except my pride in you, kiddo
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “L.” I could have declare my last posting, a limerick, as my “L,” but today they are counting votes in Wisconsin and I haven’t gotten in trouble for voicing my polarizing views on political morality (oxymoron, I know) in almost a week. So get ready, here it comes, from the cranky menopausal mom…! Amy
Loud, Lecherous Legislators
Family Values legislators jump through hoops
to prove they love Jesus, America, and “traditional marriage”
(not necessarily in that order)
Problem is, their hero is Newt Gingrich
who has been married three times
who left his first wife while she was in cancer treatment
who the Bible says is a fornicator, since he re-married
with this ex-wife still alive.
(Maybe Mitt gets a pass on his three marriages because he’s Mormon?
Except they don’t condone divorce, so is he really Mormon now?
Lord, this gets confusing, using the Bible as a salad bar.)
Family Values should be about loving families
but for these louts, the family must be straight
and have two parents of opposite gender
and produce children (so infertile people must not count)
and not rely on any public assistance
(even as their corporate masters take massive tax breaks,
sucking on the public teat like it’s a Dairy Queen)
Family Values lackeys are also homophobes
The louder they scream how they don’t believe
in “Adam and Steve,” the more often
get caught on the Down Low, their lover
ensconced in a cozy nest (charged to taxpayers)
or sliding a loafer under the men’s room stall
“It slipped.” (No, you slipped, sir)
Lest I be taken as a “lying Liberal,” I admit:
The Left does it too, in spades
We know most of them screw around
I mean, look at Bill Clinton
The difference is, they live and let live
They don’t tell us how to pursue love
or where, or when, or how many times
or with whom
So when you hear from “Family Values” candidates, remember
their values are flawed and loose
and their families often vamoose
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My second April “Poem A Day,” which I am posting at Writer’s Island as well as here. Check out more poets at the Island and at Poetic Asides, which offers a prompt a day as well. Sitting in a cafe, trying to balance our checkbook (and only off by a couple thousand dollars right now…), this came to me. And thus, the clicking on the keys stopped and the lovely, organic scritch-scratch of pencil on paper began… Amy
The Revolving Balance
Balancing finances, fell off wire
Landed in mesh, entwined in string
as random numbers bounced about the calculator
Makes no sense, these dollars
Balancing meds, try not to trip
by “missing” highs and skipping dosages
or using other yummies to alter mood
My hold on the pole determines my dynamics
Balancing “mad at government” with happy home
Guilt over our plenty, while others starve
Well, radiation got to the Midwest – we’re sharing that a bit
It snowed yesterday. He said, “Look, honey, nuclear winter.”
I have to laugh at depressing thoughts to keep my balance
despite the fact the Gilbert Gottfried tweets tastelessly
despite our struggle to bolster union and human rights
despite Japan, Katrina, the Gulf, the war, and rumors of more
Balance is a gift from God bestowed through vessels:
Doctors, friends, therapists
my church family, my FAMILY family,
and by patience in the process of breathing… of being
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Carry On Tuesday gave us an interesting prompt: Somewhere within our poem, we were supposed to use the phrase, “But that is the beginning of a new story.” I decided to write an account – only the names and genders of kids have been changed – of an actual story, told to Buffalo’s DIVA by DIVA: A Celebration of Women, a group of “gals” who glitz up and tell stories, sing songs, and raise funds for Cornerstone Manor, run by a wonderful woman named in the poem.
Learn more about Cornerstone Manor, and maybe even throw a few bucks their way! Trust me, it’s worth every penny you can spare: CLICK HERE.
Gimme Shelter
Two girls with this man, and he let her bring her boy into the family.
He was so righteous (at first), so good with her son (before the whippings),
and kind to the girls (she caught him, that was the breaking point).
He had been the answer to her every prayer, the man of her dreams.
Now she realized that, with some prayers, the devil tends to
listen in on the party line, get in on the action.
Nowadays he nightly, neatly folded up their clothes, seized their shoes,
and put them under lock and key before going out to party every night.
This ensured his family would be there when he decided to come home.
This night, she could only see with the one eye not swollen shut.
He shut her up real good before slamming the door behind him
and going out to party with who knows who, who knows where.
Her son, still awake, said, “Mom, enough, OK?”
He’d tried to pry them apart; now, blood dripped slowly
down his chin, like a leaky faucet. He’d tried his best.
He was just sprouting his first proud whiskers and
thought he could take on The Big Man, but he found out
it wasn’t gonna happen. Not this year. He hugged his mother.
So they woke up the girls, wrapped themselves in bedsheets,
pried open the side window, and climbed out. Their feet fell
into three inches of Buffalo February, brutal snow and ice.
Mom carried baby Keesha and her son offered Kendra
a piggy back ride, sacrificing his own natural speed
to take on the growing five-year-old as his load.
They made their way to the women’s shelter two miles away.
Mom rang the bell and Dr. Laura (not that woman on the radio, thank God)
hustled them inside and drew the blinds. She called for help.
Soon, they were covered in blankets; their feet were washed
in warm water (Jesus washed his disciples’ feet). Injuries were
tended to (when I was sick…) and clothing found (when I was naked…).
This shelter for battered women and children had no scheduled
“date of departure”; families left when they were ready. In days to come,
the girls let go of some of the trauma and began to play with others.
Her son enrolled in a new middle school, hoping
he could stay under the radar and not be found by his stepdad.
And if found, he vowed not to give up his mom’s location.
Mom chats with her peers – they’ve all been there. Now they
begin classes on computers; they are coached for interviews
and given donated professional clothes for a new start.
These miracles are the blessings of Cornerstone Manor.
She found work downtown. Soon, her survival skills showed
a unique talent for relating to others facing trouble.
“What about social work?” she thought, as she leafed through
pamphlets for local community education programs.
But that is the beginning of a whole new story…
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 