Authentically Fake
How come some have it all, she wonders
The clothes the Corvettes the coats so warm
Houses so big, all for one movie star and her boy toy
Pools they don’t swim in, just get drunk beside
More cars than they could ever drive
like little boys collecting marbles
Women panicked by age, skin stretched and sewn
Poisons injected into foreheads, butt fat into lips,
plastic made for Barbie breasts and big booty
Arnold must sit in a private spa with a head full
of foil to keep that blond, Redford, too
Hair Plugs For Men (I’m not only an action star;
I’m also a client) – only his agent knows for sure
Guys gayer than picnic baskets, hand on the girl’s
knee – but never higher than that.
Rich people dressed like… clowns.
BEIBER! Pull up your damned pants!
HEIDI KLUM! Put those girls in a bra!
KARDASHIANS! Just go away, now!
Jeez, they are all so fake…
My shopping cart, yeah, this is real
And my cup full of change from kind people
This bench, solid and all mine, for now
I may be homeless but I’m not a public joke
Here on Hollywood near Vine,
I’m the most authentic person in town
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United wanted poems on truth, on authenticity. As seen through the eyes of a homeless woman, we begin to question what is real and why some people work so hard at faking it to appear authentically young, perky, and prosperous. Peace, Amy
Let Your Heart Take the Reins
In Biblical times, the “heart”
was actually one’s gut.
To “know in one’s heart”
was to feel in the region
of the solar plexus the nexus
of thought and emotion,
an ocean of intuitive knowledge.
If you get that pain
in the pit of your stomach,
stop. Listen to your
better angels; let your heart
guide you, provide you with peace.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Kim Nelson at Poets United’s Verse First wanted a poem, in fewer than 13 lines, about our passions. Mine do not include brevity, so this was a good challenge for me!
Interpreting the Bible to relate to modern-day times is a passion of mine. So many folks use the Bible, as my friend Ben recently wrote, as a weapon… slandering gay folks, denying poor women health care. All the things Jesus decried when he said, “Love your neighbor as yourself…” Loving God brings me closer to doing the right thing. It’s hard, having manic depression and PTSD, to find that quiet place, but the ache in the pit of my gut I always pay attention to! Peace, Amy
SHADOWS OF GHOSTS*
The shadows of ghosts
are most feared
among the living
For the phantoms themselves
are but empty illusion
Yet their inkblot trails,
once perceived by mortals,
are evidence that
unfettered souls are still privy
to the whispers of men
Shadows of ghosts,
silent witnesses to
humankind’s
immoral deeds
on this earth
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Open Link Monday at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads; also at my poetic haunt, Poets United. Image by Wikipedia Commons.
This poem flew out of my pencil while watching “Elizabeth: The Golden Age.” Many good things to say about this movie, except that it reprises Elizabeth’s putting on armor and rallying the peasantry once more. Having said that, Clive Owen, Geoffrey Rush, Abbie Cornish, and especially the luminescent Samantha Morton (as Mary Queen of Scots), and Elizabeth herself in the person of Cate Blanchet, all did very well.
* The phrase, “the shadow of ghosts,” has nothing to do with the poem (plus it’s singular in the movie), but I had to give credit to the screenwriters, William Nicholson and Michael Hirst, for penning it and inspiring this poem. Peace, Amy
When prompts are posted, it’s common for me to miss the deadline. I still post these to my blog anyway, because that’s part of the work of the poet. Sort of like a rejection letter, and I respond to those surprisingly well considering my condition.
Anyway, Trifecta had called for “why we write” in exactly 33 words. I humbly offer this, better late than never! It will also be at my resting place, that little slice of blog heaven known as Poets United. Peace, Amy
Because I Can
My ears are seashells
My eyes see past the world
My brain harbors memories…
So much conquered, understood
I write so I can tell the misunderstood,
“It’ll be okay, I’ve been there, too.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thanks to all who sent notes of support during my recent “computer Blue Screen Of Death” crisis. Took a day or so to read the work of others before starting to post again.
To followers of this blog, THANK YOU for your patience. If Sadie doesn’t Blue Screen again, I’ll be happy and she won’t be carted back to the shop sniffling. (OK, I was the one sniffling…)
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about creativity. Seems like a good starting point for getting my groove back, also to post at dverse Open Mic Night, as well as the site that never BSODs me, Poets United (become a member, y’all!) and the whimsical Imaginary Garden with Read Toads for Open Link Monday. The seed for this poem was in a note to my dear friend Sidnie, with whom I share certain parts of the bozosphere.
Creative Juices
In the game of Poetry*
there are no winners, nor losers
Our creative juices flow
sometimes in rhythm and rhyme
or perhaps in chaotic streams of
consciousness
One man’s Keats
is another women’s drivel
So please accept
these dribblings
from the
howling bloodhound slobberjaws
of my
creatively juicy life
(or not)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Shout-out to Buddah Moskowitz, who disdains “Capital P” poetry!! You’re my bruddah from anudda mudda! Ameleh
OCD (Overwhelming Crucial Demands)
Rituals ruled his life
Tapping the front window four times when passing
Adjusting his chair twice after sitting down
Most noticeable at table, where his mother
would fret over her son’s obsession
Each bit chewed exactly 18 times
and finishing first the meat, then potatoes, and finally
vegetables – no portion touching the next
as his dish was divided into three compartments
Followed by a milk in his blue glass
swallowed in five long, perfectly even gulps
Napkin folded into a perfect triangle threading it through
a silver ring placed just so on the table
Brooks arranged first by genre, then by author,
then by color – spines aligned in precise rows
He measure boundaries for his daily routine;
I understand the gravity of crack avoided
One thousand, two hundred and eighty-nine
steps to the psychiatrist’s office downtown.
Unfortunately, he never opened the door,
lacking a Kleenex to ward off germs
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, “I Understand” was the prompt. Yeah, ya think?
Kids are cruel, and peers pick out students like this boy to bully, an easy target. While OCD is a minor part of my chemical imbalance, it loomed large when I was younger. One example: If I misspelled a word in English class, I first was compelled to complete writing it in full, and then, with a calm sweep, I would erase the entire word… but finishing it was critical. There were fingerprints by the exit to our bedroom from my habitual taps, and grazing a fence with a stick, if I missed a picket, it meant going back and starting the whole fence again. I get this kid because I was this kid, but the symptoms abated when manic depression started to take over. One pain in the ass replaced by another is small comfort.
Notice these traits and show understanding to the “different ones,” those who may not be diagnosed but whose disorders are easily recognizable. Good example, if you see a “twirler” who eventually singles out one hair to pluck, be aware. It’s called trichotillomania and can be managed NOT by drugs, but by behavior modification.
Peace and health – physical and mental, Amy
Comes the Revolution…
(For Riley)
Comes the revolution,
I want you in my trench.
Comes the day we say “No more!”
I want you at my side.
I schooled you on our rights;
you’re steeped in the shameful history
of slavery, of suffrage, of civil rights denied,
of how it’s always someone else’s turn
to be not white enough, not male enough,
not straight enough, not American enough;
to be trod upon, to be spat upon
especially via metaphor and the airwaves.
You, a Jew raised in the U.C.C.
(Upfront, Confrontational Christians!)
In your blood, remnants of the Holocaust;
in your training, social justice for all.
That pedigree makes for speaking truth to power,
for passion, for radical, unconditional love.
This revolution will be
one of words, not weapons
Only the undereducated run out of words,
falling back on hate speech and violence.
Though their sound bytes nip at our heels,
we will not run. We will turn and debate.
Comes the revolution, our trench will be
filled with books, journals, and understanding.
So keep sharp your mind, daughter mine
because the revolution is at our door:
The War on Women – our rights,
our bodies, our station, our future.
What we do now is “not for ourselves alone,”
but for all females in generations to come.
We claim our right as citizens of the world
to be who we are, love who we may, and
figure out for our selves what is best
when put to the test of The Pink Stick Follies.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, Revolution – and for dverse Open Mic Night. Also “in the margin” on Poets United. Also for Trifecta: Radical.
The quote “Not For Ourselves Alone” is usually attributed to Elizabeth Cady Stanton, but its first usage came from a man, Marcus Tullius Cicero: “Non nobis solum nati sumus. (Not for ourselves alone are we born.)”
NOTE: When Riley was a senior in high school, I wrote a piece for her yearbook, as did many parents. Mine included the phrase, “Comes the revolution, I want you in my trench.” Since then, she has come out, moved West, entered an art institute, and continues to blossom. Happy birthday, beba.
It seems quite ironic that we are indeed on the verge of an actual revolution, and the stakes could not be higher. We are lucky to have so many enlightened men alongside us in the fight. Let’s hope that the “White is Right and Women Should Shut the Hell Up” militias disband… due to pressure from their mothers!
I’m finally back from vacation. We are well but tired… I watched most of the Republican Convention and am in the midst of reviewing the Democratic Convention. I wish more people would watch BOTH sides of the damned “aisle”!
Couldn’t stop thinking about the troops as I watched those foolish delegates in their funny hats, all having fun during what should be a defining moment in politics. So here is my tribute to one selfless servant. Peace, Amy
Nurse in the Field (Afghanistan)
Nine hours into her shift
she steals a moment to smooth
errant hairs, captured and secured by
mock tortoise side combs.
The last wave was
a mind-numbing parade of
the barely living
and the too-soon dead.
Checking the morphine drip on
an amputee, she wonders why
nurses dress in pastel scrubs.
Cruel joke, the blood spatter,
carrying iodine-splattered lost limbs
across to the bins.
She used to count the number
of fingers and toes per shift; something
to divert her mind from the horror.
Now she breathes in madness, exhales exhaustion.
In WWI, they were gassed and blinded.
In the Second, shot or blown to pieces by grenades.
In Nam (where her mom served), they bathed our boys
in the finest toxins Dow and co. could manufacture.
Agent Orange could kick 007’s ass easily, if slowly.
Now men and women are hit by drones, as
stateside geeks “do battle” like a game of Pac-Man.
They cannot be sure of their target other than from
“actionable (questionable) intelligence.” Tonight
it might be a grandmother and her family, or the
piece de resistance of warspeak: “Friendly fire.”
The nurse strips fatigues from a screaming airman.
His legs lie still but arms are flailing like a meth-head.
Restraints: cruel but necessary as she injects morphine.
Evidence of spinal damage, extensive brain trauma…
She croons, “Slooooow down, we’ve gotcha.” Her
honeyed voice seems to sooth him, “You’re gonna
be all ri-” Then the flat line no greased paddles will stir.
She’ll hear five final, strangled exhalations before
her break comes up. A few hours of sleep, and
she’ll emerge looking refreshed, gearing up for
the second-roughest game in Kabul:
Patching up the pawns, gurneyed pieces
from the chess board of battle.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle is shown below), dverse Open Mic Night, and Sunday Scribblings (the prompt was Soothe). Also at the site where I am always soothed: Poets United.
Our First Actual Date
I fumble pouring beer from the pitcher
We banter: Work, our daily bread, church
His gentle way assures me that
he doesn’t expect this date to end up in bed
We’re long-time friends, he respects
my role as a single mother, and my kid likes him
Then a simple glance, and we realize
we’re meant for each other
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Dedicated to my husband and partner of almost 14 years, Lex.
For Three Word Wednesday (words in bold), and the heartbeat my collective work, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 