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
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
FUNDAY
Today she will wear pjs to the market
part her hair on the other side
run a teabag through the coffee grinder
and put orange juice on her cereal
Today is a turquiose-eye-shadow kind of day
A braless Wednesday
as The Girls dangle near her belt
A day for Dollar Store shopping
She’ll buy a Liberace DVD
and two cans of Beefaroni, even though she’s vegan
Barefoot on the sidewalk
Deliberately stepping in dog poop just to feel the squish
and leaving human pawprints behind as she
heads for the library to read Ayn Rand
backwards
Today is a day for yodeling
on Main Street
And writing lesbian love letters to Sara Palin
Wednesdays are made for fun
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
If you are manic-depressive, you’ll understand. If you’re not, try to understand… and ‘walk a mile in my Keds’! Amy
ON A DIME, IN A FLASH
Flopped on the couch like a road toad
flat as flannel
Brain accepts invisible code
BING! A channel
goes live – I’m up and about
Pop! Goes the manic
Look! The sun’s shining after all
Outside in a panic
Walking so fast my mind can’t keep up
Store. Buy. Food.
On the way walk home, starting to slip
home… not so… good…
Now that was one fast-cycling episode
Food barely to the kitchen
I’m back on the couch, potato load
Bipolar bitchin’
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My first time at this site, Sunday Scribblings. We were challenged to think up our own super power and then write a poem. Start the rhythm track and get ready to rap!!!
VOLUME CONTROL GRRRRRL (the rap you wish was true)
Sidewalk café, we’re having a bite
Big fat Hummer pulls up at the light
White kid low in the driver’s seat
Windows up but you can feel the beat
“F* F* motherf*in bitch ho bling”
Don’t you hate it when the singer can’t sing
Flick of my wrist, there goes the sound
One more nuisance off my merry-go-round
I’m Volume Control Grrrrrl
Volume Control Grrrrrl
Turn it down to low, girl
I’m Volume Control Grrrrrl
Down the block, the lawn boy’s at work
He looks like a hottie but he’s kind of a jerk
Six am, already gunnin’ the mower
Then he’s goin’ at it with the damned leaf blower
We’re trying to sleep here, the neighbors yell
It’s Saturday morning, so what the hell?
He can’t hear cause he’s got an IPod
I throw back my curtain, they say, “Oh, thank God, it’s
“Volume Control Grrrrrl
Volume Control Grrrrrl”
The neighbors say, “Go, girl
She’s Volume Control Grrrrrl”
Superpowers came easy to me
Started shutting people up when I was only three
Big sister sassin’ at my mom and then
WHAM! She went mute, never talked again
Now I’m the scourge of the city street
Cell phone shouters, they can feel my heart
Don’t turn up the CD til your windows shake
Cause Volume Grrrrrrl won’t give you a break
I’m Volume Control Grrrrrl
Volume Control Grrrrrl
Turn it down to low, girl
I’m Volume Control Grrrrrrl
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 