Two poems – I hope both will bring a smile.
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter X, and with a nod to Gary Larson of “The Far Side.”
Instrumentation (haiku)
Welcome to Heaven
Here is your full Steinway Grand
Hell? A xylophone.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday words: Bump, Transfix, Knuckle. Odd set of words, but here’s mine!
The Thump
My pregnancy was no mere baby bump.
More like a lump, and a thumper to boot.
Alone in the evening, we
(baby plus me) would sprawl on the bed, shirt lifted up.
A sight to tranfix Mesmer himself,
the balloon-within-a-balloon,
my belly encased her home,
my womb.
I’d poke, she’d kick back.
I’d sing, she’d sway to an internal rhythm.
Her foot would push against the edge of her universe,
like a knuckle bulging inside a glove.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Two for ABC Wednesday. Two divergent subjects: Innocence and Iniquity. First, free verse; second, another “snowball poem,” with a descending number of syllables, one through ten. Don’t ask me why, but this form has me spellbound. Thanks to Joseph Harker for letting me know the name of the form!
Welcome
Welcome to the world
little wonder, who
worked her way
from my womb,
winding through the waterslide
into the waiting hands
of a woman who already knew
we two would make it work
without him.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
————————————
Witch
She’s
a witch,
there’s no doubt.
Vipers emerge
from her mouth; venom
paralyzing those who
get in her way, considered
inconvenient or bothersome.
You’d never guess, beneath her perfect
new frock lies a heart cold as charity.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at the poets’ collective, Poets United
Three Word Wednesday gave us Gag, Maintain, and Omit. Also at Poets United, my poetic community of friends. Peace, Amy
Who’s Crying Now?
The only way he could shut her up
was to gag her with a bandana.
The only way he could maintain control
was to try tying her to a chair
The only mistake he made was to omit
searching her pockets for pepper spray.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
From A Wordling Whirl of Sundays, Brenda Warren’s creation. Prompt words in bold. Also at my poetry resting and nesting place, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
Renata’s Scarves
Renata’s scarves hold exotic stories.
One reveals a temple, columns casting shadow on light.
A gossamer veil with sparks in its threads
etches a pattern that glints when held to the lamp.
But the most telling of all:
A tangled sky-blue sheath, slit down the center,
where his knife cut clear to her thighbone.
Demons and diamonds,
serpents and stardust.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Two girls in one… both of them me before I got the right mix of meds and therapy. A note to folks who have the same condition, please know I’m NOT making fun of anybody living with any type of mental disorder or chemical imbalance. I learned how to laugh at myself as part of my therapy and to be open to that wacky part of my heritage. I’m also part of NAMI Stigma Busters. Amy (For Poets United’s Poetry Pantry.)
DEPRESSED (a dirge)
Leaden footsteps dog my pace
Straining, forcing smile on face
Gravity has conquered me
Hard to muster strength to… be
Wheels are grinding ever slower
Ten more steps to my front door
Dropping bags and sloughing coat
Sitting in a sinking boat
———————————————-
MANIC (an effervescent Peter Cottontail hippity-hop)
Wow I feel great I’m late for work but it’s
not my fault this jerk on TV was sooooooooo
fascinating I had to watch this invention
and the audience was soooooooo enthusiastic
about it just twelve payments of $19.95 plus
shipping so I called oops that credit card
is maxed, went through three before I hit
the jackpot it’s a juicer that also vacuums
your cat whattaya think about that? Gotta
run run run I’m late for work wait there’s
the cafe need coffee and a biscotti really bad
catch you later what’s your name again?
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “T.” Also posted at Poets United, natch. My daughter is visiting, and this was composed in her honor, not to make fun! (And actually, her posture is better than this indicates. It’s a composite of the entire generation!) Amy
Techie Twentysomething
Got an IHop plugged in one ear
and a Blueberry hangin off the other
“Wii love the Tech Age and
text ’til our thumbs go numb.”
Shoulders slump from hauling backpacks
since second grade.
Laptop, pursewalletID, keys, cell sardine-crammed
(stash stashed in secret side pocket).
Turn on, tune in, drop out?
Plug in, click on, tune out.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Women, Woman
In a sea of Marthas
She remained the Magdalene
Neither wanton, nor wayward, still
different, misunderstood
Her gestures of sisterhood
looked upon as threats by
the many married mommies
who kept their men on short leashes, well-heeled
Had they taken time
to listen to her thoughts
How she cared for their town
How she admired their ability to maintain stability
They might have warmed to her
But women are women, and
wives are wives, gathered in hives
And single mothers lead separate lives
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings (“Flock”) and my poetic home, Poets United.
This happened long ago and far away, but the memory still stings. Mental health consumers, take note. Amy
Dark Place In An Old-Time Church
Once upon a time, I, Sunday School teacher and wife of the preacher
asked for prayers for my falling, frail state of
misdiagnosed psychiatric overdose.
What a head-first dive into the greasy gruel of the gossip pool.
Mental illness was whispered there with vague disgust.
These were tough folks, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps”
Could spare no time for a mental lapse
Manic = panic = Someone Else’s Family
Treat diabetes with insulin
No reason my skin should’ve been thought thin
Imbalance of a chemical nature, a different nomenclature
My bootstraps are still pharmaceutical
Incidental mental quirks, deep emotion runs
through my family like Drano through pipes
creative, self-deprecating, frustrating, flustered
mermaids – hilarious but precariously perched on the rocks
It was no a sin, this place I was in,
and not theirs to judge,
for as they whispered uneducated superstitions behind me back,
they were also mocking Jesus’ message of love
I sing praise to the God who has seen me at my lowest and pulled me higher.
While I was wrapped in darkness
God lit the fire, showed me the light, and
got me from uptight to upright
They stared as I took my fall;
I scared them all, even as I forgave them in my heart.
Upright eventually, but when would I fall again?
And then – when would I mend?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my poetic home, Poets United.
Creation Circles
Circling dew-drenched winds
Particles settle, drawn into a core
Water seeps over to shore
and upward to the clearing sky
A sphere, then
Slowing moving, a circular wholeness takes shape
Revolving, arcing around a star
as other spheres form
In the waters, moving creatures differentiate
Unique beings, yet still part of the whole
They swim, consume, reproduce
as nature will allow
Some beings are drawn to the shore lines,
dwelling near coral reefs for eons
until fins lengthen, gills morph into lungs,
and land beckons them to a new home.
They reproduce as they did in the sea:
Those with penises plunge into waiting wombs;
babes pop from the penetrated and drink milk
from that parent’s body as they learn to live.
Some come to shore without gender.
They adapt as they must to continue the species.
Some beings take to the air, darting into water
to devour their forgotten cousins.
There is a Creator of all this fecund beauty
Whether it is Nature or God or Gaia or a
legend born of necessity to explain the world…
We will only know when we leave this place
Once there was a void of intermixed, intermittent
molecular flotsam floating, flung far and near
Now there is something so ancient, so precious,
all humans do is fight about where it came from
But I know this much…
It is and
it is beautiful and
it is worth preserving for as long as we deserve it
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems (Creation) and my poetic home, Poets United
Sarah’s Schnooks
“Such a schlemiel Sarah’s seeing,” said Shamira.
“The sort who schleps in for supper at seven when he
was invited at six. Sorry-ass schmuck.”
Aunt Sophie, sporting the same schmatta she’s worn since
the seventies, sighs. “Never simple for Sarah. She
schooled at City and now seems to savor those
simpletons and shegetzes. Shitheads who schmooze
soup to shtup!” She giggles. “And sure, I know from
shtupping, don’t look so surprised.”
Shamira, stirring soup (matzoh balls soft as satin),
says, “Stanley should have stepped up seven years ago.
Sarah could do worse than the cantor of our shul.”
Sophie smiles. “Sarah with Stanley? Sterling cantor,
but that schnozz! And I suspect he’s a snore in the sack.
He schpritzes during prayers and his spiel is too slick.
If Sarah doesn’t size them up,” she snickers, “there’s always
Sylvie the yenta!”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter S and the extensive Yiddish I learned in my youth. Always fascinated with Jewish culture, my daughter’s father is Jewish. Consult Wiki for words you don’t know! Also at Poets United, my poetic home. Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 