PalinDrone
I ran for Vice President
while killing a moose with an assault rifle
from a helicopter
during labor for my 28th child!
But my daughter flunked her abstinence class
While not as glamorous as the White House
Fox News gives me lots of air time
I go to lots of Tea Parties
and I finally got rid of Todd
Running for President? I’ll get back to ya!
I like to shop at consignment stores
like Bonwit Teller, you betcha
and Macy’s and Tiffany’s
But my favorite accessory is Trig
I carry him around like a badge
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
written for the Pyramid prompt at Poetic Asides
TAKING IT WITH THEM
The girls are taking it with them
The secret shame, the reasons why
The scattered scars of late-night carving
The feeling fat starved unpopular neglected
Unprotected sex with unworthy boys
One took the bun and the oven too
They’ve left it all behind
School, grades, finals, college apps
Took off debt-free; no degree, no debris
No suitcases or makeup bags
No books or beanie babies collected at the mall
perhaps on weekends when they still hung with girlfriends
The farm is minus one pair of helping hands
And the family room, one less Bills fan
The market, one less cashier
The camp, one less counselor
Their school stripped their lockers of all reminders
and called in counselors because
Two girls left our town forever this month
No notes, no clues, no cries for help, no cues
Each in her own way on a different day, in a different way
Finally having their say: This is my life and I’ll do what I want
And that they did – one with drugs, one with a rope out back
They’re gone and they took it all with them
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The prompt today was “After the Rain.” Took it to this past weekend in water-starved Philly; a mudslide in Topanga Canyon; and a flood in Attica, in which two people lost their lives trying to save animals from a vet’s office. But this one seemed apropos for today.
SALT WATER TORRENTIAL
Tears flow steadily surely certainly
Tissues stack teetering telling toppling
Therapist listens nodding knowing nudging
Time passes slowly softly swiftly
Tourist wonders why when how
she was brought to this strange place
of salt water headaches
of stories that go bump in the night
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My father could recite whole works of Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling… but oy, when he sang…
REALLY, REALLY BAD SINGER
Dad sang off key
Really off key. Tragically, even.
He dwelt among women who were
descended from sirens
A wife and three daughters
gifted by God with a keen sense of pitch
and an irrepressible desire to sing
Pop couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket
but he sang along anyway
(oblivious to our pinched noses and wincing)
(yeah, we were pretty snobbish, but only where music was concerned)
He also snapped his fingers out of time
as if completely unaware that rhythm had meaning
“You sing like Dad” was a grave insult
tantamount to an accusation of
letting loose a juicy fart in the car
or getting caught picking your nose
But when Dad sang, he did light up
While we suffered for art, mercifully critiquing each other
never satisfied with the result
Dad would burst into “Mule Train” with gusto
or grin as he stumbled through “Ghost Riders in the Sky”
He never knew he couldn’t sing
He just did it anyway
He didn’t care if anybody liked it or not
A life lesson in Q Flat
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It was just a little box made of popsicle sticks, painted with Cotillion Pink nail polish, with a shell glued to the top, lined with cloth. But for Mom, it was a treasure because I made it just for her.
THE PRECIOUS BOX
My mother’s “precious box” held sentimental doodads
The box was left to me when she died
Inside were Grandma’s fake diamond screwback earrings
(“Real ladies” didn’t pierce their ears in those days)
Grandpa’s ring, raw turquoise set in carved silver
Girl Scout leader pins, Dad’s cufflinks
A clip-on box tie from Mom’s singing days
And a skeleton key, antique silver, dim patina
For years I’ve pondered what lock would respond; where the “open sesame” lay
A room in a past apartment, the front door to a secret house?
A desk filled with dusty volumes of Kipling and Whitman
Perhaps a cache of cash?
Somewhere there is a house, a door, a drawer
Whose treasures will remain hidden
Because I hold in my palm
The answer to a question
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We were prompted to write about a fork in the road; a change in direction; a crossroads, and the path taken – or not taken.
As usual, I took a different path… on the prompt! Enjoy a bit of whimsy. Amy
SILVER WHERE (Writer’s Island, Imagine)
Humid sultry unbearable walking-through-hot-water August midday
Trying to catch even the echo of a slight breeze
Wandering in the shade trees of Topanga Canyon
A glint
A glimmer of shiny something
half-hidden under leaves blown to the side of the road
during yesterday’s languidly moving air
A fork
Did someone toss it out the window with their takeout Chinese
forgetting that it came from a drawer in their home
(the ants feast on leftover Boiled Tripe and Things in a nearby discard0
Was there a fight and it was flung in a rage? From a moving car?
Or was it Julia Butterfly Hill, who takes environmentalism so seriously
she packs knife, fork, spoon, napkin, cup, and plate in her handbag
lest she be served on styrofoam with plastic utensils
Did her legendary self wander this road? Did the fork get tired of wandering?
Did it share tearful, tarnish-inducing goodbyes
with her fellow knife and spoon
before skinnying out a hole in the bottom of Julia’s bag?
The fork is with me today; I shine it often and smile at happenstance
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
We were asked to conduct an interview… here is one conversation I would love to have. Amy
A SEEKER SPEAKS TO THE MAGDALENE (Interview, Big Tent)
(Seeker) To witness your Lord
hanging on that cross
Bloodied, his voice parched
Can you see it, even now?
(Mary Magdalene) Waving crows off his face
lest they peck out his eyes
That vision is burned into my mind
My heart is crushed again and again
(S) They called you crazy
A whore and more
So afraid of you, the men
threw out your Gospel
(MM) Over the years, I was
discredited, my story edited
Details tacked on me
like cheap jewels, it’s true
(S) You used your wealth
to finance the ministry
You learned to heal
Trained, same as the men
(MM) But men had the power
Freer to travel alone in the world
I tried to teach, but without the Rabbi
they berated me
(S) We know your strength, sister
You risked your life to find his grave
He revealed his risen self to you first
You never ran away to hide
(MM) Women are the bearers and keepers
Women understand risk
We bleed; we heal; we wait
We love; we are patient, like the Spirit
(S) Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
The Epistles of Paul
The Revelation of John
But no Gospel of the Magdelene
(MM) I was left out of the Bible
But I don’t need that validation
The Divine Sofia, the Spirit of Wisdom spoke
Her voice is true… I am content with love
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Another take on that lovely word, Imagine. Most of us fly in our dreams – sometimes it seems quite real…
FREE FLIGHT (Writer’s Island, Imagine)
Wandering into the enchanted field
petting daisies, grazing the tips of
grasses grown wild and tall
She centers herself
gripping damp ground with her toes
Eyes close and her face turns skyward
Arms rise from her sides and she
wills her body to follow
Heels peel off the earth, then her toes
Opening her eyes, she is just off the ground
hovering, delighted, a featherweight being
Now comes the real work
She launches into a vertical breaststroke
slowly, loving the feel of her fingers moving through
humid air as though along a pond
The field is far below her now; her house is
a Lego-sized block. She levels off her ascent
and pushes farther into the atmosphere
Over hills, touching the tops of Douglas firs
Swooping down over the river, she waves to
kids swimming on the lakeshore
Look, they whisper, Why don’t our parents
believe us? She doesn’t wait for night
She take flight when we can watch her
But the grownups are too busy, away from the
places in nature where she can be spied
so only children are inspired to try and fly
Someday, she muses, I will have a daughter
and we will take a night flight, hand in hand, close to
the harvest moon, as fireflies light the way
And when we’ve had enough of airborne travel
we’ll come to rest on our own roof
feet dangling over the eaves. Wondering, laughing
How many are blessed with the power of flight?
She doesn’t know, but thinks it must be very few
for she’s never seen another in all her travels
Her mother taught her the secret: Let go of the world
let the air fill you up past your lungs, so deeply
that you are the air. Let go and be free
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
We were asked to think about the word Imagine in all its guises. This is the first of two.
DAY OF SILENCE (Writer’s Island, Imagine)
If a single day
could be set aside
for silence
For contemplations
No TV, no radio
no voices
Expressing ourselves only
with our faces and eyes
Opening our souls
Experiencing neighbors, friends
without the burden of words
Our eyes alone would speak
A day for books
for walks, to listen as Nature
had her say
A true Sabbath
One day set aside to remember
who we are to one another
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
At Poetic Asides, we’re filling in the blanks: “The Meaning Of _______”
THE MEANINGS OF SUMMERTIME
At three, summertime meant
my sisters stayed home all day
We’d play together, the whole neighborhood
Every mom our mom, watching over us
At five, summertime meant
No more Kindergarten
No more snacks or naptime giggles
I missed my new friends and wondered about first grade
At eight, summertime meant
a nice, long vacation
Swimming in the backyard
Sneaking sips of beer at Mom’s jazz parties
At twelve, summertime meant
the awakening of my body, my first cramps
Denied the pool because I couldn’t navigate tampons
and Mom didn’t want to talk about it
At sixteen, summertime meant
School friends would drive out to see me, the country mouse
I didn’t have to miss them all summer
Backgammon with my best friend John til dawn
At twenty-five, summertime meant
lots of gigs – weddings, bar mitzvahs
Sweating out Village piano bars for extra cash
Saving money because August is dead in the City
At thirty-four, summertime meant
Puerto Rican beaches with my baby girl
Her first swims were off the shore, in my arms
We were always salty, sweating, smiling
At forty-nine, summertime meant
hard times for my girl as she
battled disturbing trends of mindset
She, solitary; me, worried; doctors, experimenting
Now it’s my fifties and summertime means
Hot flashes accentuate the humidity
My days are my own and so is my illness
Tricking myself into getting outside for sunshine
No matter the person, summertime means
different pleasures at different ages
different pressures at different ages
Seasons are like mood swings, summertime having the advantage of sun
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
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