At Three Word Wednesday, they gave us: Figure, Juicy, and Stress. (Wow, that could go in a lot of directions. Click the link and see what others have done!) Managed to combine it with ABC Wednesday, “brought to you by the letter F.” No, not THAT “F” word. Whattaya think, I’m that obvious? So, again, two prompts, one poem… from my third and “f”inal trip to the DMV with proper paperwork to secure my driver’s license! Amy
Finally Fit
Finally fit for the DMV
Forms filled out
Foto fixed (couldn’t forage the file from Friday. Go figure!)
No frustration, no fuss, stress–free
These folks, friendly and fine
Fruit-juicy satisfaction, this fact:
Finally, fully Wisconsinite!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Writer’s Island, the prompt is “Foretell.” This is my second of two! Enjoy a true moment… Amy
PROPHESY
Five-year-old
pulls up an ankle sock and
turns to the grown musicians
“In B Flat,” she whispers, “one-two-three-“
and launches into “K-K-K-Katy”
Two choruses, much applause
She’s found her spot:
Face to the crowd, in front of the band
Selling the song
No fortune teller could have read her palm
Nor Tarot deck have been laid
any better than this
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Honeymoon and Garlic (Writer’s Isle, Sun. Scribs)
Drove upstate after The Big Date…
Honeymooning in the most
romantic, exotic destination
his heart could conjure:
A state park near Ithaca, NY.
(I knew this was the beginning of the end.)
My idea of camping is:
Where do I plug in my hair dryer?
Dire situation: Pitching the tent
(bitching to myself about the
rocky terrain. And the park.
I had definite ideas about tent poles.
In general and in specific.
Now he was bossing me around
telling me how I had the doohickeys
upside down, here, let ME do it,
like it takes Einstein or a similar genius
(meaning him) to put the damned thing together.
My betrothed, until death do us part
(until I strangle him, I’m already thinking).
Stoking the fire with damp wood –
smoking grey and choking the cook (moi),
I began begetting dinner.
A large pot for boiling water.
A skillet, olive oil shimmered as
garlic and onion swam
in the hot, shallow pool.
Clams next; a pat of butter.
Folks at the next campsite stared.
Dad yelled, “What the hell ya cookin’?
Sure smells good!” But he was kinda snarky about it.
I chirped back, “Linguine with white clam sauce,”
shaking a bottle of homemade vinaigrette
to drizzle over crisp romaine.
Guffaws from the the old fart as he
shook his head. Then he whispered,
loud enough for me to hear,
“City folk,” burning his mystery meat wieners
on the disgusting camp grill.
His wife looked to me with longing,
grinning her approval at my audacity.
I shrugged back, as if to say, You pitched your tent,
now you have to eat his wieners.
(My husband had ridiculed my choice
of uppity food, no gratitude. He did like
the Corelle plates, environmentally correct.
But he didn’t help clean up, just meandered off
to commune with nature
or talk to some animal who understood him.)
Unzipping the “honeymoon suite”
for a 3 a.m. leak in the bushes,
I gazed at the pinspot-littered sky.
“Why?” I whispered to God.
“Why did I just sign up for a divorce?”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At We Write Poems, we were asked to write about a safe place, a refuge. Sometimes the best refuge is actually more like a foxhole or a bomb shelter… not necessarily bringing comfort, but warding off the enemy who is ever seeking out the vulnerable.
HIDING
When you go to bed,
always keep the covers tucked in
and lie face down between two pillows
with the sheets pulled up over your head,
hands clutching the top seam in a death grip.
He’ll never find you there.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
EN-credible! I managed to combine two – count ’em – two prompts in one poem. Others do this all the time; however, I hadn’t had the inspiration until Three Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday threw a nice, juicy grapefruit over the plate for me.
Three Word Wednesday gave us Blink, Kind, and Occasion; ABC concentrated on the letter E. Hence the bits in BOLD. Enjoy, and be sure to click on the links above to check out the takes of my fellow poets! Amy
The Ecstasy of Agony
An eclectic gathering, the occasion being
Ethelyn’s engagement to Egbert
(AKA Egghead behind his back)
Ethelyn, an exquisite, educated person.
What possessed her to choose entanglement
of the permanent kind to this egomaniac?
Savvier than we envisioned,
she eventually emptied her life of his eccentricities;
in the blink of an eye, single once more.
Then along came Edmund the entomologist…
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Sunday Scribblings, the prompt is “a thousand years.” Enjoy, and happy Sunday! Amy
A THOUSAND YEARS
A Fundie sighed
that if I died
today I’d go to hell
“How do you know
just where I’ll go;
and when we hear that bell?”
Until the “Rapture”
let us capture
what God bids us to do:
Doing justice
living kindness
and walking humbly, too
End it today?
Guess I’d say
I truly have no fears
I live as though
the earth will go
another thousand years
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Although it came to me too late for Writer’s Island, this poem found its way to me last night (and early this morning), as our cat, Gable, nestled at the foot of my bed. The prompt was “Beguile.” Better late than never! Amy
CATS (haiku)
Felines beguile us
With their soft, sweet, subtle ways
Purring, pawing, lap-nesting
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Take a trip to Three Word Wednesday, where this week’s challenge was to create a poem using the words Dare, Practical, and Essence. Click on the links of other poets and see the variety that emerges!
This is not a true story, by the way, except for the term “dust rhinos,” coined by my beloved Lex before we were married – at which point, I handed him a broom and said, “Go for it!” Amy
PERFECTLY ORDERED
She considered herself a practical person.
A place for everything; order ruled her world.
The little cup holding writing utensils was called,
“The Pencil Department,” setting a clear directive:
No scissors were allowed in that receptacle.
The essence of her need for these boundaries
came from (where else?) her childhood.
Mom was a gypsy tethered to a suburban home,
escaping for occasional adventures and
dragging daughter along for the ride.
Mom was not the housekeeper type;
her idea of ironing was catching Dad’s shirts
just as they came out of the dryer,
then folding faux creases in the collar and sleeves.
She only cooked frozen or canned foods.
The house was a mess, save the daughter’s room,
which sported a bedspread ready for
a drill sergeant’s quarter-toss and
neatly folded clothes, specifically spaced hangers.
All while Mom watched the soaps and drank.
Once on her own, the girl dared to let it slip a bit.
Her apartment was allowed to drift into disorder
until the day a dust rhino danced by her feet.
‘Twas then that her former, finicky self kicked into gear…
but every potential partner was repelled by her Pledge.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 