ELEANOR ROOSEVELT (haiku)
Face like a barn door
Heart of a lioness; she
craved justice for all
Franklin got the press
But her work on behalf of
others is legend
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “E,” and for my poetic haven, Poets United.
Eleanor Roosevelt was, in my opinion, the greatest First Lady in history. Not only was she an invaluable advisor to her husband, but she constantly fought for human rights, for women’s causes… and she did so knowing that she was neither “comely” nor possessing of any powers other than her own personal tenacity. She loved Nancy Hickock (AKA “Hick”) for years, and although her embarrassed family attempted to destroy any evidence of that relationship, many letters survived. Franklin, likewise, had extramarital affairs; however, they remained a couple committed to the common good.
Eleanor is a hero of mine. A class act, a diplomat, she could talk to haves and have-nots with equal comfort and lucidity. She was, as they used to say, “a game girl,” ready for anything. God rest her soul. Peace, Amy
I love the blog, “Imaginary Garden with Real Toads,” several writers who toss out different prompts. I saw Kerry’s challenge to write from the oral tradition, a story one would tell a small audience seated on the rug all around. Instantly I heard my grandma Blanche and imagined how she might tell of her long-ago relatives in the old country. I don’t do prose very often, but I do hope you enjoy this, offered with all my Shanty Irish heart. Peace, Amy
Long Ago and Far Away (the soil from which I spring)
Long ago, our ancestors dwelt far away, in a harsh land. Soil so rocky, for every shovel that dug in, two stones came out, and the walls and cottages were built with these. What was a hindrance became a treasure.
Men and tall enough boys tilled the landlords’ fields or worked the mines. Hardship was their way of life; the flintiest labor therefore must be rewarded in a friendly, communal atmosphere. Those who had pushed a plow or descended into the pitch black nether to dig for coal gathered nightly at the public meeting house, which was meant for all meetings pertaining to village life, but mostly beloved for its bar. Every village had a “pub,” as well as a church or two (the second being Anglican, depending on how England’s will held sway in town).
Soon, a tankard was banged on the bar and silence would come over them like a fog. A singer – Lord, you cannot toss a pebble in all of Eire without hitting a fine tenor! Someone offered a song. The verse was his to sing, and all voices joined in on the chorus. Some were mournful, in minor key, recalling a death or the loss of a plot of land, such as “Four Fields.” Others were rollicking, bawdy reels sung so loud they’d bring on the need for “just one more drink, and then I’ll see the missus.”
Meanwhile, the lady of the house, having milked the cow, drawn water from the well for washing faces of little ones, cleaning clothes, and scrubbing floors on her knees; having beaten blankets, spanked a naughty one or cupped another’s face in her palm, chopped wood for the fireplace to keep the house warm and roast the meat, stoked the stove for baking and invited the widow over to gossip over a cup of tea; having worked miracles with the potatoes yet again, fed the children, told them a story before prayers and kisses… After all this, she’d sit in her rocking chair, waiting for her man to stumble in, doff his hat, and eat his portion.
Then it was up the stairs together and, should the drink not have deprived him of his manhood, they would have a go at making another baby. As for how that happens, my dears, well, that would be a story for another day…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic pub, Poets United, for their Poetry Pantry!
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, ancestry, oral tradition
Having been passed over for The Rapture – oh, it’s been rescheduled for October now. How many millions has this crotchety fool made, donated by suckers who want to “be right”? I am now Left Behind (nice behind, and I’m most assuredly Left!) to ponder not the End of Days, but the Beginning.
(And guys, please this is “to laugh.” I love y’all, as you know from my comments on your posts. Couldn’t avoid having some fun with this one, especially after all the crap creation (and the banks and oil companies) have put us through during the past few months.) Amy
Creation, From a Woman’s P.O.V.
First there was God.
A grey-haired, bearded Dude who created
the heavens, the waters, wind, rain, tornadoes, and dirt.
Also the platypus, ostrich, and armadillo,
just for shits and giggles.
Then He made cows, pig, sheep, and other
exploitable creatures, for food and, well, stuff.
But who, thought the Dude, would be able to
exploit them to the max, and with the most
barbaric methods? MAN! And I’ll make him
Just Like Me, except he’ll have to wait for
the beard and the grey to set in.
Like Me, but a facsimile.
God named him Adam, later saying, “It’s short for
A Damned Mistake,” after the H-bomb leveled Hiroshima.
Then the man was lonely, so God created Dog.
But the man was not lonely in that way, so God said,
“Here let me show you how to inflict maximum pain
in the animals I gave you (but go easy on the dog),”
and performed non-anaesthetized surgery,
grabbing a rib out of the man’s side.
“OMG!” screamed the man.
“What?” said God.
The rib somehow got turned into a woman named Eve
(short for, “Eventually the pain will stop,” meaning the surgery).
Then came the Great Apple Debate: Who really did worse?
Eve, for talking it over with the snake and deciding to take the apple,
or Adam, for saying, “Whatever,” and eating without thought,
then blabbing to God that it was all Eve’s fault?
Adding insult to hasty judgment, Eve not only needed
more clothing than the Adam; she got a monthly bout with cramps,
as well as nauseatingly painful childbirth, when God could have
let her drop ‘em like tadpoles. But NOOOOOOO…
God didn’t bother to create marriage;
Adam and Eve just went at it.
Two brothers: One killed the other.
Dudes are violent, women suffer.
Creation was a crappy deal for females
and has pretty much remained so since Day Six.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This Creation prompt will appear (if I remember) on next Wednesday’s “We Write Poems” blog; it will automatically feed to my poetry home, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
Poetic Asides had an interesting challenge: “A World Without ____________.” Yeah, go figure how this one came to mind (wink)! Amy
A World Without Gay Men (what a bore)
No Dr. Kildare
Nor “Night and Day”
No “Pillow Talk”
‘cause Rock was gay
No Sistine Chapel
Virtruvian Man
No Mona Lisa
No inventions grand
No Karloff’s Monster
(James Whale’s work of art)
No Benjamin Britten
Johnny Mathis, my heart
Gershwin, Sweet
Embraceable You,
the Man I Love
is a classic, it’s true
Greg Louganis’
diving perfection
Leonard Bernstein’s
symphonic direction
The list could go on
til night turns to day
but what a dull world
without men born that way
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, Writer’s Island, and at Poets United.
Anyone who’s thought of writing poetry should check out Three Word Wednesday. That’s the heart of it – you get three words to play with, once a week. If you have a blog, link your poem to the site and get visits from other poets, then visit them back… if you don’t have a blog, click on the names listed, and you’ll see what they have done! It’s a nice way to get started in poetry. Also: Leave a pad and paper in three places: In the bathroom (!), by your bed, and next to where you usually waste time watching reality TV! You just might come up with something! Peace, Amy
IN LEANER TIMES
We the hardscrabbles
etched our names on our forearms
lest we be found in a ditch
with no one to utter our names
The nights in dim pubs
speaking easily of all we intended to do
dabbling in art, thinking youth and inspiration
would always be on tap, like Guinness
Those were the leaner times
Now most sit in cubicles or
stand in unemployment lines
remembering the joy of possessing nothing
…save inspiration
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 