LION-HEARTED MAN (R.I.P. Marques Bovre)
From a distance
(when first I spied him
setting up his gear in church)
I thought he was an old man
He walked with a cane
Could barely negotiate
setting up his guitar
but his daughter helped
The closer I got to Marques
the clearer the view and
I knew this was a man
not only young, but vital
His face shined, his eyes
danced, and when he sang
it was coming from an old soul
with a kid’s sense of fun
The band played many of
his songs, the heart of
the ministry, seeds
sown for the Gospel
But it wasn’t a cult of
personality; Marques
was too humble for that
He said he was a servant
Then came the diagnosis
Rumors of tumors, he
even gave them names:
Hobgoblin and The Creep
Hoped to see spring flowers
He loved Dandelions and
made me love them too
He struggled but always smiled
We lost him this week
A lion-hearted man who
knew who he was, whose he was
and where he was going
We had many months to prepare
for this day, this awful news
The truth is: You can prepare
for someone to be dying
but you can’t prepare for
when they are actually dead
Marques, brother, father, friend
We’ll sing your songs to the end
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Marques Bovre, singer, guitarist, composer, artist-in-residence at Lake Edge United Church of Christ’s “Worship at the Edge,” died this week at the age of 50.
There have been numerous fundraisers to help pay for his cancer treatments over the past year or so, which brings me back to the fundamental question: Why should ANYONE have to have fundraisers to pay for CEOs to have private planes and yacht trips to Bermuda? Health care is a right. Now, Marques would be the first to say he was no better than anyone else in this world (in fact, on his last CD, “Nashville Dandelion,” there was one song called, “On The Body Of Christ, I Am The A**hole.” That’s his wry sense of humor, and we loved him for it).
Please visit Marques’ site HERE. There are his songs, his story. He never proselytized, and yet a more fervent believer I never knew. If you like what you hear, BUY SOME MUSIC. Tracy still has medical bills to cover, in the midst of her grief. It will mean a lot to the whole family, and to me.
Rest in peace, brother. This poem will be at dverse Open Mic Night and at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads (man, Marques would have dug that title), where the garden is open for any and all new poems. Love, Amy
(NOTE: This instrument, called the hang, is pronounced “hong.” Click on the video before you read the poem!)
ZEN MAN
Find him in nature
a shaded nook where
trees whisper stories of
the ancient ones.
Matthew finds a
perfect perch and
carefully lifts his hang,
its song to share.
Nimble, careful,
deliberate fingers seem
carved from soft wood,
burnished brown.
He conjures chords,
soothing harmonies,
unearthly sounds, yet
so natural: Soul songs.
In this moment there is only
Matt, the hang, and strains
of unrestrained bliss;
the gods conjured his gift.
And we, who were
a moment ago merely
bumps on a log are
lifted to a higher place…
Musical, ethereal, reflective, mindful.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Perfect moment for ABC Wednesday to feature the letter “Z.”
Also, Kim Nelson at Poets United (my poetic shady nook) asked for poems about reflection.
My cousin by marriage, Matt Venuti, is a soulful musician. Please visit his site, www.mattvenuti.com, for more videos and information about his art. He also plays the EVI and a variety of other instruments, but the hang has his heart at present.
He is also one of those musicians who didn’t get into it so he could drink and smoke on the job! He’s a gentle soul, utterly sincere, and wildly talented… yet humble. If you’re lucky, you’ll experience him performing live.
Peace from a lucky cousin, Amy
Incantations in Jazz
Back in The Day
jam sessions were serious affairs
Jazz hinged on trust, ears, collaboration, and rotgut
Cat would stay
Play for no pay
‘Til break of day
Strayhorn charts in clouds of smoke or
off-the-top-of -your head bebop
Slammin duels or cozy duets
Soubrettes mimicked Ella, got laid
Torchettes dug deeper, got respect
Getz and Jobim brought bossa to the scene
Miles straight up in any incantation
Trane proclaiming A Love Supreme
but his lover was the needle, the ride
Recording sessions went straight to vinyl
Benny, Lionel, Slam – his high-pitched, mellow voice
doubling his bass lines, so fine, class, no sass
Basie showed Sinatra how to swing
(before the “ring-a-ding-ding”)
All live, driving, vibrant, vital
Women with ample curves strung like pearls
Billie moaning, Ella owning the scat, Bessie howling
Flat-out fine, no whine about the need for pay
Getting laid, getting high, getting by
by the grace of jazz, flowing like honey or
slappin you upside the head like a pissed-off date
He’d make love to her later
after the session cooled off, horns packed up.
Then everyone got down to real business
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “I”; Three Word Wednesday (Need, Hinge, Lethal); the open call at Real Toads, AND Trifecta’s word, “Ample.” Also at the place where I’m always jammin, Poets United.
This is the soil from which I spring. Call it a dangerous environment for a young girl, but I was right at home with the old cats, the ones who gave Art Tatum driving lessons (he was blind)… the ones who ruined their voices on bathtub gin and took up the drums to keep bread on the table. Imagine my luck, a little white girl who could sing blues, accepted by musicians of all colors and lifestyles! Peace, Amy
Heart.
Muscle.
Pump.
Can be defeated by eating “to your heart’s desire,”
yet your heart desires it not,
only your want to fill
that empty spot.
Heart.
Symbol.
Red.
A child hangs his Valentine on the fridge,
only to find the dog
thought it interesting;
she nuzzled it down, chewed it to bits.
He runs crying to Mom.
Heart.
Soul.
Passion.
She now grants access carefully. Her heart
has been broken before,
but it healed, gained resilience.
The scars may show,
but she will live
to love again.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads: We were asked to post the song that helps us through our heartbreaks and write a poem about it. This prompt caught me by the tear ducts.
The YouTube track is, of course, Rickie Lee Jones (not “Ricky,” spelled wrong on the title page). Tom Waits wrote this song for her, and she sang it every night as the encore during her first national tour. I went to this song for solace time and again, in the years before Lex. She is a treasure trove of writing talent on her own, but here is where an angel’s voice meets the song the actual writer could never sing to great effect.
THE TROUBADOUR
He’s parked and playing
outside the Willy St. Coop.
Walnut guitar strummed by
chestnut fingers. A smile
as he soulslides his way
through “Stand By Me.”
I stand swaying, appreciating;
we share a grin and I join in
on the chorus. We sing
in pitchpricklingperfect harmony.
“Take a verse, little sister.”
I slip in that side door of possibility
and respond in a gritty voice
from my soulful side, bringin it.
As the troubadour takes
lead on the chorus, I’m
floating above with a subdued
harmony. We blend like
strong coffee and Bailey’s,
mingling, merging, melding
into one voice. We finish and
exchange info to do this again.
Serendipity lives in Madison,
streets abloom with organic music.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “T.” Also for Poets United’s Think Tank Thursday, “possibility.” This actually happened to me during a shopping trip on my way to my therapist’s office. I composed the poem in its entirety while in her waiting room. Rarely have I been so fortunate, especially during a depressed period, to come upon such a soulful singer/guitarist sitting right in my path, open to a short jam. Carl is his name and we’re hoping to record a bit in the near future.
Possibility. This poem reminds me that ANYTHING is possible if only I can get myself out the door and into the world! Soul singing. Uplifting, unexpected, and so good for everything positive that dwells beneath my inner darkness. Carl helped light a spark in me that reminded me of all the beauty that awaits once this cloud lifts… Peace, Amy
I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good) (click on link to hear the song)
Amy Barlow (vocals) and Stuart Watarz (piano)
Music by Duke Ellington; lyrics by Ned Washington (used by permission of their estates)
SINGING STANDARDS
Those well-known, well-worn songs
of Ellington, Gershwin, Mercer
My primer, my guide from childhood
I wanted to make them my own so
I read the lyrics poetically first
before I sang them; I grew them inside
myself, within the deep chambers
of mystery, of smoky romance
and infectious delight
I never sang a song
the same way twice, but
I tried to get it right
Not trite, this advice to
younger singers: Read the song
first, listen to the lyricist
Don’t imitate, it grates
and you will sound over-rehearsed
and you will be dismissed as a poser
Don’t listen to Ella. Ever.
She embeds in your head and
will be artist-in-residence
Sing it. From the sole of your shoes,
from the fire in your heart,
from the orgasmic desire
Though the song was written
before you were born,
know in your heart that
there’s your version waiting
to be sung from your POV
Blow your horn, baby
and give out like there’s
no turning back,
no way out
cuz there isn’t. Once you’re
lost yourself in a classic…
you’re where you need to be
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night. “Standards” are the jazz tunes every good musician and singer knows before accepting a gig. As Time Goes By, Fly Me To The Moon, Embraceable You, … then there is the second, special tier of songs not on “the list” but that earn a singer points with the band members for knowing them… Lush Life, I Cover the Waterfront, Cottage for Sale.
The song on the media player is a standard; however, this is the complete version with both full verses, so it straddles the two tiers above. This version makes more sense, because it deals with the weekend, THEN “when the weekend’s over.” I cut my teeth on these songs, and I hope you like this version, from my CD, “Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride,” available for download HERE.
Lance at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog (yes, there’s a picture of Fight Club on the home page, but it’s all good fun) wanted folks to write poems, 100 wds, to particular songs he’d picked out. On this Mother’s Day, I HAD to write a paean to my own fave dance song by one of the great bands of the 80s. Listen and imagine me and Riley barefoot on the dance floor, with Lex watching us, rolling his eyes…! Can’t think of a better Mother’s Day post for my girl, who made this particular holiday one worth celebrating when she was born in ’88. Love you, Riles.
BOP ‘TIL WE DROP
Punch out the time clock and
pile in the back of the Chrysler, baby
Don’t need GPS, and I don’t mean maybe
Half a mile away you hear the
THUMP THUMP
Pull up SCREECH my God this is a
DUMP DUMP
But the B52s are locked and loaded
and the room sounds like something just exploded it goes
BUMP BUMP
We shimmy the shit off our shoes
We all shimmy sharp at the Shack
If we’re gonna waste our time
we’re gonna waste it well
waste it wildly, hell bent for leather
Gonna bop ’til we drop at the Shack
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse wanted poems about music. How about lyrics to an original song, WITH the music track? (smile)
A lot of you know I’m a singer/songwriter. This is a demo (no great studio quality here, just the straight voice and piano) for a long-planned but yet-to-be-financed jazz album to follow up “Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride.” Click on the track name; lyrics are below. And John, my BFF, this one’s for you!
CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THE SONG:
My Cat Sure Misses You A Lot
My Cat Sure Misses You A Lot
Words and Music by Amy Barlow Liberatore © 1998
She sits on the window seat and waits for your return
She stretches lazily, ’cause she’s got time to burn
She thinks you’re running late, or maybe you forgot
But oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot
Remember how she’d snuggle up and commandeer your lap
And how you’d hold her tenderly when she’d settle in to nap
I’m sleeping well these days, or so I thought
But oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot
She’s mine and always was, but she gave her heart away
To a man who up and left one day
I’m fine, I’m over you… I only called to say
There’s someone in the house who wants you back to stay
Why don’t you come around and visit her sometime
An hour on the front porch swing would do just fine
Or maybe you miss her the way she’s missing you
Why don’t you take her home a day, or maybe two
‘Cause oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot
She’s mine and always was, but she gave her heart away
To a man who up and left one day
I’m fine, I’m over you – I only called to say
There’s someone in the house who wants you back to stay
Why don’t you come around and visit her sometime
An hour on the front porch swing would do just fine
Or maybe you miss her the way she’s missing you
Why don’t you take her home – and take me, too
‘Cause oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you…
Recording published by Beehat Baby Music, copyright 2012
Omaha, Nebraska
Seated in the squalor that was
Council Bluffs in those days,
the big city seemed far away.
Even if she got there, someday
how would she find a job
that could pay? Really pay?
She dug up some money,
got a gown downtown and
she could pass for 21 (at 16).
She knew she could sing, then…
She dipped into Mama’s purse
and cursed herself for doing it, but
Mama wouldn’t miss the compact
as she was currently in the mental ward.
“I’m gonna look older, live bolder.”
And Dad was using his daughter
in ways that would not win him
Father of the Year awards.
So she packed up her pack,
left before Dad got back,
and boarded the ferry one day.
Hotel Blackstone hired her
at first sight and first song,
and yes, they would pay, hooray!
In years to come, she would
travel around, by bus, by car,
by train (not by plane).
She owed her start in large part to
Omaha. And Council Bluffs?
Only if there was a funeral.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “O.” Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United.
Image courtesy of “Heaven’s Gates,” but DAMN! This singer in the photo is an absolute ringer for my mom, Charlotte, in those days, when she sang as Patty Long and later as Jan Long (Binghamton already had one Patty Long!).
Billie Holiday
Her story, stuff of legend
Hard to believe a girl
who scrubbed the whorehouse steps
was a child of destiny
Louis and Bessie’s songs, a balm
wafting through the brothel windows
(masking commercial commotion upstairs)
That jazz summoned magic buried in her very marrow
At seventeen, at dusk, she entered a club
The audience, the first witnesses
to a staggering talent, unbroken by
the sorrows of her childhood
Finding her soulmate in sax man Lester Young
Coursing through their veins and blended history,
their addictions: Jazz and heroin
First gave life; second led to early death
Too young, a deathbed. Money taped to her thigh?
A filthy lie, as befits urban legend
The collective force of Lady Day and Pres?
The real deal – raw truth pressed on vinyl
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Destiny, Dusk, Mate, Marrow, Staggering, Buried, Songs, Blood, Addiction, Story, Sorrows, Broken. These words began singing choruses of “Lover Man” to me before I knew what I was going to do with them. Also posted at the Poets United Poetry Pantry.
Image courtesy of www.jacklawrencesongwriter.com, in his photo files. Thanks, Jack!
Although the rumor of money taped to her thigh was false, police did arrest her on her deathbed for possession. Lester “Pres” Young, who nicknamed Billie “Lady Day,” was in fact nicknamed by Billie as the President of Sax Players. Wish I could have included the video on YouTube of her TV session in her later years on “Fine and Mellow,” but the cut was too long. Look it up; you’ll spot Gerry Mulligan, Coleman Hawkins, Pres on the second sax solo, Mal Waldron on piano, and more. When Pres Young died of self-abuse (alcohol and heroin), Billie was not allowed by Young’s wife to sing at the funeral. Billie said bitterly, “I’ll be next,” and she was, four months later.
Sharp Little Pencil 