Keepin It Real
You’re keepin it real
ly? You sure a
bout this? A sin
gle night of his
tory and a life
time of raisin
g it
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Recently, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads had us looking at the work of e.e. cummings, asking us to play with poetic form in whimsical ways, unusual forms. Although I did not get the inspiration in time for the prompt, thank my lucky stars Real Toads has a Open Link Monday! It’s like winning… Amy
Whoops! forgot to credit image from Wikimedia Commons, and isn’t it a great portrait? Gyula Basch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Milk Shakes and Enemas
Some doctors are too strict about
a pregnant woman’s “dos” and don’ts”
So I went to a good midwife
so didn’t issue “can’ts” or “won’ts”
I kept up with my calcium
the folic acid, fruit treats, too
But when the temp hit 1-0-3
I called her, whining “What to do?
“I’m sweating like a roasted pig
I’ve showered cold three times today
I need the consummate relief…
I need it NOW, without delay!”
“You’re nine months in, due any day
May I suggest, indulge yourself
Choose something cold and make it sweet
Go get the blender off the shelf”
Now Baby kicked up quite the storm,
I took it as an omen good
Some chocolate ice cream, Hershey sauce
The ultra in forbidden food
Plopped by the air conditioner
set on Freeze Off My Toes,
as Baby did the Caffeine Dance
my smile bloomed like a perfect rose
Of course, that night, my water broke
and labor quickly did commence
with my intestines like a brick…
The milk shake, oy! No common sense
Now, enemas are never fun
Less so when huffing through the pain
Were I another babe to bear,
no third-trimester shakes again
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
And they all lived happily ever after
(Image from Amy’s private collection, pls. do not duplicate)
Poetic Bloomings wanted a poem about two contrasting things. This was the first “odd couple” to come to mind, and it’s a true story, ugh. The only good thing that came out of that ordeal (I spared you the boomerang Gatorade!) was Riley.
Also linked to my little slice of heaven, Imaginary Garden With Read Toads’ Open Link Monday!
YES, YOU CAN (vs. “I Got Mine, You’re Just Lazy”)
“We can’t afford health care for all.”
Give thought to this statement, really
feel the false sense for security and heed
the inherent greed of being American…
So you don’t get your MRI today.
If it’s not urgent, you can wait a week.
And speaking of tests, doctors overdo
that aspect, suspecting you might sue.
No one really needs a tummy tuck
as part of their health insurance.
How about a diet instead? Better saggy
than dead. Last longer, feel stronger.
My friend told me, in tears, that she
and her family of three have no doctor,
no clinic. Cynic that I am, I look to
Washington, awash in Cadillac plans
and think, “Let’s put their asses on Medicaid.
Let THEM go to the clinic, checking their
hair for lice, sitting among us Great Unwashed
waiting for their number to be called.”
Of all the reasons this season is prime time
for a sublime health care revolution, it’s the
evolution of the Tea Party, all soggy from
dunking once too often in a trough of crap.
I have had seven different types of insurance
in 55 years, my dears. Medicaid, Cadillac plan,
“from hunger” catastrophic, none at all…
Tell Congress they can’t drop the ball.
If corrupt morons on the Supreme Court
can tort their way through the insurance overhaul,
I think we can see our way clear to badgering
the Idol Rich Senate for Health Care for All.
And if you don’t want to give up what you have,
just remember – when they came to foreclose
on your neighbors over hospital bills and you
did not offer them hospitality, what does that say
about your values, your sense of responsibility?
You really want kids living in cars, the mentally ill
behind bars, because the fashion is to ration?
Search your heart… Commit to compassion.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday is up to the letter “Y.” This will also appear in the left column (not the Poetry Pantry) of Poets United, my well-care checkup clinic!
“You’re…” EEEEEK! uh…
Mammograms are the only day
when it doesn’t suck to be moi
I take ‘em out, I flop ‘em on
the glass, and they squish like foi gras
Then came two voice mails
on the same choice day
from the same office.
And suddenly my world morphed
from “as controlled as possible with meds”
to head-spinning dread, fed by
one freakin’ phone call.
All I must do is careen
back to the scene of the crime,
primed sans deodorant and scent,
rank with my own odor and fear.
It may be one mammo;
it may need more ammo.
a big needle thrust
to left of my bust.
“They’ll take the sample
with ample drama, mama,
and a big-ass needle, so
close your eyes and tell them
you have PTSD,” my beloved
survivor friend says.
“Then set phasers on STUN -it sounds
like a staple gun or Pac-Man as it
chomps in search of tissue.
Make them issue enough painkillers
to knock out a horse.”
“Of course,” I reply,
she laughs, knowing I
am immune to OTCs*
thanks to the 70’s…
…during which I imbibed
enough pharmaceuticals to
peel the cuticles off
a gorilla’s thumbnails.
It’s this Wednesday, folks,
please pray it’s a hoax,
and Old Leftie is “clean,”
if you know what I mean.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* OTCs are “over the counter” drugs like Advil, Tylenol, and aspirin. I could take a whole bottle for a headache and it would do nothing for the pain… but the Advil would trash my liver!
Sunday Scribblings asked us to come up with a poem about a “Eureka moment.” This is the down side of that concept, and we’re hoping and praying it has a happy ending! Will keep you posted. Also at the one office where nothing ever hurts… Poets United! Peace, Amy
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter, “Z”! (Do we start on the Cyrillic alphabet now?) Also at the poetic collective, Poets United.
This poem is based on the phenomenon that effectively destroyed my piano-bar career… Amy
Zithromax (Think Before Lighting Up Indoors)
A smoky club, the trapped wait staff
take your orders and get the shaft.
While you puff a cig or two,
others do just as you do.
You can leave and breathe fresh air;
singers, barkeeps, stuck in there
Low-wage job with no insurance;
Z-pac samples help endurance.
When you blithely light that match
think of what the workers catch.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides had an interesting prompt: Sound.
I don’t often indulge in haiku, but Sensational Haiku Weds. on You Know… that Blog? posed a single word: Wish.
So it’s one cynical and one hopeful. Both are also at the poetic collective, Poets United, where I think my interview is still posted as well! Peace, Amy
FOR POETIC ASIDES (also posted on their blog)
Snap, Crackle, Plop
The sizzle of a full-pound burger hitting the grill
The crackle of a Snickers bar just dropped in a deep prayer
The burble of Mountain Dew as it glugs from a 2-liter bottle
The pop of an opened Pringles can
The crunch of hot, salted french fries.
The hiss of whole milk foaming for a macchiato,
another hiss for the extra whipped cream
The snap of a third or fourth Twix bar.
The plop of millions of butts onto sofas
for “Dancing With The Stars,”
plus whatever else will fill a full four hours
of family television viewing.
The click of the computer mouse
as Facebook meets Farmville.
The thumbpunch on a keypad, texting
from a comfy chair at the Internet café.
The huff-puff of labored breathing
and murmured swears as the businessman
struggles to climb a single flight of stairs
(elevator out of order).
These are the sounds of obesity.
The sounds of Americans feeding not only their addiction,
but the corporate coffers of people so rich, they
laugh all the way to their next liposuction appointment.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
“““““““““““““““““““““““““““
FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY
Wishing and Doing
Wishing on a star
mimics prayer, save but one thing:
Invoking God’s name
Praying for world peace
Will not ever be enough
We must work for it
We must all cry, Stop!
Take it to the streets, until
real peace is world-waged
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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.
Johann Ink and I were comparing notes on psychiatry today; much of this poem is derived directly from our three-hour conversation. Johann is a budding poet; we are both what is genially called in our society, “mental health consumers” (in other words, we’re both nuckin’ futs!). If you’ve never had the joy, the incredible honor, of being granted a meeting with a real live board-certified psychiatrist… consider yourself fortunate! Amy
(PS This poem also appears at Writer’s Island for NaPoWriMo 12.)
New Shrink Rap
(from a conversation with Johann Ink)
I’m checking in with my new shrink
society having granted me leave
from my sleeve-silky cubicle (AKA “acting normal”)
Now I sit in a leather chair so large
my feet dangle like Edith Ann
Doc is regally ensconced behind
an impressive antique desk
Drawers full of free pens from drug reps
Myriad diplomas staring me down
and sneering, “We’re smarter than you”
He’s new, at least to me, and eager
to change what my last psychiatrist did
He’s ready to rearrange my brain plane
because he has sample of a new drug
(They tested it on lab rats, so, hey, it must of OK for me)
I state flatly, “I want to maintain my current regimen”
He stiffens, doesn’t care to listen even thoug
I’ve been to the brink and back
(while he’s just read about it a whole lot)
Experience vs. experiments: The Great Battle of Which
“Man,” I itch to say,
“if you want to pimp for Big Pharma,
why not go all the way? Get yourself a solid gold chain
and maybe a diamond in your front tooth…
or don’t monster tires and hydraulics work on a Corvette?”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
No prompts today… just some thoughts. Hope they help you find your “safe place.” Amy
Island Dweller
When the dentist’s drill begins shrill keening
in my latest in a series of root canals
When the physical therapist says, “This
might hurt a little”
When the Red Cross phlebotomist
tries to mine my blood, missing the vein
or my legs are in stirrups, awaiting
the pinch of the Pap
I go to my island
The passport is breath
often deeeeeep breath
and I though I am prone
it’s on a bed of warm sand
Relaxed by water lapping my toes
on the shore of an endless beach
Every breath is music
Every moment is relief
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
YESTERDAY TODAY TOMORROW
Last night slumped in an armchair
A barely lucid lump of woman
Juiced up on cough syrup to quell
the oncoming bronchial nasties
This morning, hastily dressing for church
Chipper, ready to play both carols
and hipper tunes for kids as they
pieced together ornaments for the church’s tree
Tomorrow is whatever it will be
Be it fancy free or down in the dumps
Crummy weather or fair smattering of sun, it’s still
the gray matter under my gray hair that gets the final say
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 