Polly at Journal Read asked us to create an alternative reality. Since most of my reality is alternative already, this didn’t seem much of a stretch, and yet…
Sky Green
As I loll beneath a laughing willow
reading The Wit of Virginia Woolf,
sipping lemon juice from a
ceramic to-go cup…
I am struck by passersby who,
in the cool breeze of mid-August,
saunter to urgent meetings
when they should be hustling fast as sloths.
My blue hair is showing traces of
youth these days, bits of gold that
catch the noonday moonlight,
reflecting a crown-like glory.
Shall I stay on the lush red grass
or wander off past the former Starbucks
(now a café for overground art)
to catch the stagecoach back home?
Green sky at morning,
sailors take warning.
Grey sky at night,
sailors delight.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my trusty REAL reality, Poets United.
Trifecta asked us to write a piece including the third definition of “scandal,” which you can view by clicking on their link. Unfortunately, I missed their deadline, but hell, I’m posting anyway. The prompt gave me a sense of whimsy which resulted in the following. NOTE: Show folk often include wild falsehoods in their program autobiographies; I’m not sure whether it’s for fun or to see if anyone reads the darned things, but I thought I should have an “alter ego “bio ready. You never know when you’ll need one, especially depending on the elections. Amy
Biography of Amy Barlow Liberatore, writing as Cavolfiore Odore:
Cavolfiore Odore is a native of Rutherford, New Jersey, where she slept with the entire RHS football team, often in simultaneous configurations. Odore’s works include, Who Are You? (and tell me why I should care); the definitive English translation of Stefania Naranja’s Qué Pasó con Norteamericanos y Bush?,” and Judy/Liza/Lorna: What about Joey?. She recently published a wildly successful “how-to” guide for budding poets, Write Me/Cite Me/Bite Me. Her first autobiographical short story, “Close, Yucky Encounters With Bill Clinton,” made her the scandal of the Beltline and resulted in record sales for Esquire Magazine.
Odore, once poet-in-residence at the Ramada Inn, Promiscuto, NH, is now High Goddess of Writing Stuff That Rhymes at Pottawattamie University, Council Bluffs, Iowa. She lives in Wisconsin (after being asked to reside outside Iowa during her tenure) with her husband, who prefers to remain anonymous, and her pet ferrets, Tooth and Nails.
PROCESS NOTES: “Cavolfiore” means “cauliflower” in Italian; “Odore” means “smell,” so you get it. As for Promiscuto, c’mon, I don’t have to explain that one, do I? Having a fun week…
Just found out about a new site, launched by Leigh (“Old Altonian”) and Kwee of “Akweelife.” “The Tale Tellers” has one rule: NO PROMPTS. They invite stories, flash fiction, poetry… and they encourage constructive criticism and grammatical suggestions. So this post will be my first for The Tale Tellers! Come join in the fun – follow the link above!
FILM FILLY’S FRACTIOUS FRICTION
Feeling friendly,
phoned Fiona Fleshpot.
Faded fashion filly
facing failed flick – fetid flop.
FLASH! (flotsam for females)
fancied former, firmer,
flexible, “fine” Fiona.
Furnished factoids.
Fix festivities.
Fry fast foods…
fling fresh fare
(fodder for former fatties).
Flaming flambes,
frozen Frangipani,
Früzen-Gladje,
fudgy fondues.
Fiona feels friction falter;
feeds fairly full…
Finally, farts.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic oasis, Poets United.
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
Just when you thought she’d reached her maximum ditz quote, Sarah makes that mistake… opening her mouth about Paul Revere “ringing them bells”! So ABC Wednesday wanted a “V” poem… and of course, Poets United will also get a posting! Posting from the Left, I wish you peace… and a break from FAUX News! Amy
Vile, Yet Vapid
Her smile is so sweet,
but vile is her mind.
Her style, “thrift store” neat –
beguiling her kind.
Her words are quite vapid
(though written by others)
Her speech, shrill and rapid;
she’s one grizzly mother.
She writes talking points
in the palm of her hand.
Just where her sycophants
all want to stand…
Don’t call her a Guv:
Never finished her term.
So why do folks love
this Tea Party germ?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A Piku, according to We Write Poems, is like a haiku except for syllablic form: 3,1,4. Most folks who read my work know my disdain for writing in forms, simply because I’m so undisciplined (although an occasional shadorma, haiku, or limerick may emerge). I prefer free-wheeling, come-what-may poetry, but what the hell?
Apologies to Hammerstein, plus Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh (they did best lyrics) for the title…! Also posted at Poets United. Peace, Amy
I Won’t Piku (Don’t Ask Me)
I hate math.
Did,
and always will.
A Piku?
Huh?
A Manga sprite:
Japanese,
small,
round, smiling, pink
But instead,
yuck…
poetic form.
Don’t like forms,
so
I won’t do it.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
What can I say? Three Word Wednesday asked for poems with the words Grin, Jumble, and Naked. So first a little fun, and then… a little more fun. Peace, Amy (Also posted at my fave poetic collective, Poets United.)
Rugby Gone Wrong
Post-rugby match, Stan, with a grin,
said, “Never mix scrumming with gin:
From deep in the jumble
We heard someone mumble,
‘Good Lord, I’m as naked as sin!’”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
““““““““““““`
Time Goes By
They mesh peacefully
‘neath sheets weathered
from years of laundering
He grins; her finger traces the deep lines
engraved from years of laughter and from struggle,
the hardscrabble jumble of their lives together
Her naked breasts sag off to the side
She doesn’t care; he thinks she’s as lovely a lass
as ever a man was blessed to wed.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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
Writer’s Island wanted an answer to the prompt: SIZZLE. Perfect time of year to contemplate that notion! Also posted at my poetic home-away-from-blog, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Summer Sizzle
Surrender your boots and your tight-knitted cap
This summer, silk underwear’s taking a nap
Let’s throw all the earmuffs into winter storage
And stock up on ice cream, forsaking hot porridge
Unpack all the swimwear and beach towels as well
Sunscreen 64, lest I burn all to hell
The long winter’s passed, all we see is sunshine
Surrender to summer, a true state of mind
The burgers will sizzle out on the gas grill
We’ll put local microbrews on ice to chill
And speaking of “sizzle,” because I’m so teeny
Just wait ‘til you see me new hot-pink bikini
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Damp Laundry
Mom and damp laundry
Despite new products, incensed:
The skid marks remained
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Damp, Incensed, Skid
…and your second helping (hope you already ate dinner!):
Rank
The new apartment was spotless:
Creamy carpets calming, yet daring any mud
to tread or trespass.
Spacious closets; bathroom, a religious experience.
We moved in, delighted to have found
a small space offering big comfort.
Then I stepped into the hallway
shared by a dozen apartment front doors.
Smacked in the schnozz by a complicated, rank odor.
Some good: Spices, worthy chefs working ethnic magic.
Much more body odor… culturally acceptable
where the bodies originated, harking back to my East Side days.
Worst – cigarette smoke sneaking out to play hookie,
curling, wending its way from under some front doors.
Lingering like a London pea-souper, toxic fog.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday – R, and Poetic Asides, “Telling it like it is.” Also at my poetic home-away-from-blog, Poets United!
Sharp Little Pencil 