Bring Back My Heart, copyright details below
The prompt at Poets United’s Thursday Think Tank is “Music.” Hey, what an opportunity, right?
Here is a song from my CD, Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride.
You can hear me sing it if you click on the link above.
Hope you enjoy this little love song, recorded at the studio of my dear friend Jon Randel. Peace, Amy
Bring Back My Heart
Thank you for the visit, it really was sublime
To catch up on the news after all this time
I packed in such a hurry, some things got left behind
So if you wouldn’t mind…
My toothbrush and my dental floss, I left them on the sink
And a lone Peruvian earring, in the living room, I think
Some pictures of my daughter on a table by the door
And my lingerie we left scattered on the floor
It’s really quite the laundry list
But there’s one more thing I missed
Bring back my heart, return it to me
At the first convenient opportunity
It had just come off the shelf
And I had planned to keep it for myself
I didn’t leave it in the bedroom – I’m not blasé
That’s not the place where hearts are given away
Perhaps it was the restaurant where you took my hand
And told me life had not turned out exactly as you’d planned
You asked me whether I had hopes to share my life again
And I told you God had plans for me, but wouldn’t tell me when
My heart was mine alone
And until we kissed, I thought it had turned to stone
Bring back my heart, we’ll see what’s in store
Make my office gossip when you show up at the door
Bring back my heart, but until you do
I know it’s safe with you
So put it in your pocket, keep it close
Hold it with the treasures you love most
And when you return it, here is what I’ll do:
I will scent it with roses, wrap it in lace
Lay it in the lining of a golden case
And I will give it right back to you
© 2004 Words and Music by Amy Barlow Liberatore
Published by Beehat Baby Music, all rights reserved
California Dreamer
I’m here
Made it clear out to the
West Coast
Hair sticky with salt,
sand in my sandals
Beach air so fine
This town is mine for the takin
I’ll break in
Shakin what my mama gave me
No car yet, but I got two wheels
I pedal with my red metal
or skate the eight blocks to work
That’ll pay rent for now
til I find my niche
in the LA club scene
And then, Bub, watch out
No doubt
As sure as this
rock wall will stand
My talent will meet their demand
Singers as common as sand… but I’m here
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Patterns, Pictures, and Poems, writing to a photo from their tasty selection. Photo courtesy of James Rainsford; used with permission via the dverse site.
Also at my poetic cairn, Poets United!
Banjo Man (1980 and now)
He shines like a dime when he picks up his ax
He needs this job; these, the flinty hard facts
He smiles and he banters; he’s playing the game
Of what to do once you’ve been dumped by Big Fame…
…If he knew today what we’d thought about him
He’d think “singing waiter” much more than a whim
So many bright moments when we thought, “Oh, man,
he’s a mensch, a survivor – he’s part of The Plan.”
If time were more flexible; had I a jinn,
would that we could do it over again
Humanity, best learned recouping your loss
Humility, best served with extra rib sauce
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo courtesy of Musician’s Friend
Two diverse poems; one brief, one a story that happened long ago. The first is for a prompt for Six Word Saturday, a challenge to my tendency to writeeverycompletemomentexactlyasithappenedinfullmissingnodetails. The second, for Poets United’s Poetry Pantry, a sweet memory of a sweet friend and me, a moment in time I will never forget. Peace, Amy
——————————-
The End
Only get one death: Die trying.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Adapted from earlier poem in “Dance Groove Funhouse” for Six Word Saturday
———————————-
Carnegie Hall, 1979
Star and her Satellite
emerge from a cab and
slip through the back door
of the hallowed hall
Tiptoeing past the massive set
being rolled into place by
Popeye-armed stagehands
who sweat for their wages
A page to be turned, this.
Billie bluesed here…
Her voice lingers,
embedded in the polished railings
Judy summoned songs
from the soles of ruby slippers
Her brilliance is burnished
into every column and niche
Now, no longer Star and Satellite,
for this brief moment, we are
simply giddy young singers
eager to trod the boards
Holding hands, the thrill
a vibrating current
running between us,
we pull back the curtain and
step onto the stage of
Carnegie’s great legacy,
the robber baron who bequeathed
this jewel to the masses
Looking up, a million stars
as lights twinkle dimly,
rimming balcony
after tiered balcony
“It’s like…” I struggle for words
to describe this moment.
“It’s like standing inside
a giant wedding cake.”
She grins. She’s headlining,
and I’m only singing backup
Yet, at this sublime moment,
we’re simply two starstruck girls
basking in a pinspot of destiny fulfilled
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse (yes, I really do talk this way) and Poets United.
Never before have I witness such an outpouring of love as for Marques Bovre, a local Madison musician who has played every venue from coffeehouses to large clubs to churches. He is the Artist-in-Residence at our church, Lake Edge UCC here in Madison. Marques has been battling an illness and the event tonight, chock-full of bands, was a fundraiser to cover his medical bills. (Universal health care, anyone?) Marques himself garnered strength to play with his two previous bands, So Dang Yang and Marques and the Evil Twins (yeah, there are four folks in that one!). We’re praying for his recovery, and man, he really BRANG it tonight, if you can dig that!
Impromptu (for Marques)
Tribute to a great and good Madison musician;
a rare, beautiful brother, fighting a rare, ugly disease.
Songwriter of extraordinary range and style,
Marques can bring the Holy Spirit into a rock club.
This night, it’s all his songs played by many bands.
The stage is spacious and filled with love –
rowdy crowd vibes spill up over the edge, flooding the stage.
Band throbbing, pulsations vibrating in our collective gut.
My glass of local brew is refilled by Craig
and I know the time is coming when the lure of
raw elements grip me and I will ascend the steps.
Musicians are an enigma: We have to do it.
The final tune is a jam; the beat renders me weightless,
abandon rapidly released. Spasms of hesitancy are overcome
and come tumbling out as overwhelming enthusiasm
for the task at hand… it’s about affirming Marques.
We are all vessels, vital elements of the shout-out.
the crowd pleaser, the old classic everyone knows,
and we release full-tilt at the top of our lungs:
“You ain’t seen nothin’ like the Mighty Quinn.”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Elements, tumbling, spasm, released, weightless, enigmas, grip, rapid, glass, pulsations, rare, spacious. Thanks, Brenda, for mining the work of Billy Collins to give us this Wordle! The words literally called out to me and I wrote this shortly after arriving home from Marques’ gig. Peace, and please add Marques and this family to your prayers. Peace in the key of D, Amy
With The Sunday Whirl, wordler-in-chief Brenda posed the words in bold – a baker’s dozen. Also, Sunday Scribblings wanted us to write on the word “Captivate.” These are both Sunday-based poems, the second being a haiku. Also posted at my poetic home away from home, Poets United.
FOR THE SUNDAY WHIRL
Sunday Praise Service
Hot coffee to stir the ominous ache in her weary bones.
She chooses an emerald empire-waist dress;
the illusion of a full front covers
the void of her shrinking frame.
Time to observe the celestial, to worship the Divine.
As her sandals flip, flop, flap into the sanctuary,
a kid jostles past her up the balcony stairs to sit with his mom.
She smiles, remembering her own scrambles up there;
the rhythm of life is upbeat and present
here in this church.
Church services are usually holy pantomime, but
not here. The sermon moves her – and the music?
It rocks like the ages!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
““““““““““““““““““““
FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS
Televangelists Are Full Of Crap
Captivate
with delusions of riches,
Joel Osteen.
Captivate
with tales of earthly wealth,
Graham Junior.
Hold captive
those prisoners of Rapture,
who crave flight.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about “opportunity.” This is actually destined to be a country=tinged song when I finish it, but the beginning seems made for the prompt. Also, Three Word Wednesday used the words Grip, Thread, and Prefer; this is my second poem for that prompt! Click on the poetry site links to read many more poets.
Also found at my poetic home, Poets United. Peace to you all, Amy
FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS
That’s How it Goes
Here’s how it goes, once in a while
The boy takes a shine to the girl with the smile
They waltz ’round the dance floor, and he takes a dare:
Says the sun was created to shine on her hair…
And her eyes seem to say what her heart already knows,
and that’s how it goes.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
FOR THREE WORD WEDNESDAY:
Open Mic (haiku)
Caught in the grip of
uncertainty’s clenched fist
Sweat pearls on her brow
At the podium,
words threaded into poems…
Fight or flight? She thinks:
“I’d prefer to flee
but I’m already up here.”
Breathe. Exhale. Give out.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
And now for something completely different, song lyrics. You can hear the song at my music link below (sorry, can’t upload it here.)
Hope you like it! Amy
Tioga Moon (free listen at amybarlowliberatore.com – my music site)
Tioga moon starts her song around eight
High above the maple, the color of marmalade
Spills on the rooftops and dances on the dewdrops
And drenches all the sumac in the glade…
Tioga moon, shining clear and bright
Tioga moon, shining on you tonight
When Cape Cod gets colder
and chills your shoulder,
that old Tioga moon will keep you in her sight
Oh, say…
when the gardenin’s done today
let’s escape the sun, and
run off to a place I know
where there’s shade
a little glade where the jack-in-the-pulpit grows
And then…
we’ll linger on ‘til after ten(derly you’ll call my name)
And then we’ll start to whisperin’ low
While the owls’ eyes and the fireflies
put on their show
Tioga moon, like a big brass bowl
Tioga moon shines like a prophet’s soul
When Buffalo winds blow
snow through your window
that old Tioga moon will make your insides glow
(repeat last chorus)
So stay well, sleep warm;
when the cold starts to bite,
that old Tioga moon will be your blanket tonight.
(Words and Music © 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore)
Sharp Little Pencil 