Abusive Remains
Siblings.
Each has their own version of What happened and How,
but most importantly, Why.
Emptied of shame, I still wonder.
Am I sure in my memories?
Have I scratched theme enough to bleed,
to tear a hole deep through to
the beating heart that still skips a beat
when HIS name is mentioned?
Did HE really hang the moon?
Was HE blameless,
spotless?
HE was, after all,
remorseless.
Should I feel guilty? Was I mistaken?
Perhaps I was demon-possessed after all.
One good exorcism and I’d be like new.
One dip in the blood of the Lamb and I’d be reborn… or so she says.
Except, as I drift off to sleep on some nights,
my head still tilts back slooooowly and
my mouth opens and
I am choked in that brutal rhythm.
It was real.
It happened.
It remains.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides asked for poems on the word “Empty,” and ABC Wednesday, rather than reverting to another alphabet, started over with “A.” Also posted at the STELLAR blog, Poets United. Come to all these sites. Meet my genius friends!! Amy
Poetic Asides had an interesting prompt: Sound.
I don’t often indulge in haiku, but Sensational Haiku Weds. on You Know… that Blog? posed a single word: Wish.
So it’s one cynical and one hopeful. Both are also at the poetic collective, Poets United, where I think my interview is still posted as well! Peace, Amy
FOR POETIC ASIDES (also posted on their blog)
Snap, Crackle, Plop
The sizzle of a full-pound burger hitting the grill
The crackle of a Snickers bar just dropped in a deep prayer
The burble of Mountain Dew as it glugs from a 2-liter bottle
The pop of an opened Pringles can
The crunch of hot, salted french fries.
The hiss of whole milk foaming for a macchiato,
another hiss for the extra whipped cream
The snap of a third or fourth Twix bar.
The plop of millions of butts onto sofas
for “Dancing With The Stars,”
plus whatever else will fill a full four hours
of family television viewing.
The click of the computer mouse
as Facebook meets Farmville.
The thumbpunch on a keypad, texting
from a comfy chair at the Internet café.
The huff-puff of labored breathing
and murmured swears as the businessman
struggles to climb a single flight of stairs
(elevator out of order).
These are the sounds of obesity.
The sounds of Americans feeding not only their addiction,
but the corporate coffers of people so rich, they
laugh all the way to their next liposuction appointment.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY
Wishing and Doing
Wishing on a star
mimics prayer, save but one thing:
Invoking God’s name
Praying for world peace
Will not ever be enough
We must work for it
We must all cry, Stop!
Take it to the streets, until
real peace is world-waged
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides put out a call for welcoming poems. Apropos, since Robert and his wife Tammy welcomed their daughter Hannah Marie into the world this week! I used a form for the first time, one which builds from one syllable to ten (and in this case, down again); however, I cannot remember what the form is called, sorry. This poem is also at my poetic home, Poets United. Peace, Amy
The Mallards
I
welcome
distraction,
unexpected
moments in life:
A sudden coffee jones,
his surprise kiss on my neck
leading to unscheduled bliss.
Moonlit nights, quiet patio talks…
And every day, two ducks who waddle by.
Mallards come and go as they please,
making their way to the pond,
diving for daily meals.
Ducks are good neighbors,
unflappable.
Perfect mates,
souls at
peace.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
First, SORRY if I have not responded to your comments these past few days. Our daughter is visiting and that’s a lot of giggling, soul-searching, cafe and/or bar time out of my day!! I promise to catch up soon, so please know, if you’re offended, hey – so is everyone else!
Therefore, I offer/proffer a TWOFER! First for Poetic Asides (“don’t start that again”); the other, for ABC Wednesday (brought to you by the letter “U”). And, of course, at Poets United, my heart. Love and peace, Amy
First, Poetic Asides:
Don’t Start Doing That Again
Think first.
Remember.
Exhalations to renovate reality.
Perforations to perceive perfection.
Condemnations from family, friends.
Intimidations from drug dealers
Remember.
Think first.
It ain’t worth it.
Run.
Fast, baby,
run as fast as you can
to your NA meeting.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
PS to all: Thank God I never succumbed to the needle. It would have been the end of me, for sure.
___________________________________________________________
Second: The letter “U”, ABC Wednesday
Ugly Duckling
Under mirror scrutiny,
every flaw uncovered.
Ubiquitous plague of teens
(zits), seem unique to her.
Up and down university steps,
unaware how her ass undulates
as underclassmen (and women)
ache to uncover what lies beneath.
Unable to see her utmost beauty:
Her undercover laugh, her catlike grin,
her undeniable, ironic humor.
Now, an ugly duckling…
Ultimately, she will become a swan.
© 2010 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!
Cat of Nine
In a cafe on a blissful Madison spring morning.
I sip coffee and poem peacefully.
A harpist sets up his hand-crafted instrument,
intricately carved, and he plays with his heart on his sleeve.
Spying his technique from the side,
I see calluses, thick pads on his fingers
as he deftly navigates the strings
to bring forth delicate melody.
His other hand surely must bear the same scars
of practice, of pursuit of that elusive
perfection – real musicians know
it’s ever out of reach, but the muse still coaxes us on.
I look again at that other hand;
he has only four fingers. He’s a vet
who lost his ring finger in combat but
chose beauty over bitterness on his long road home.
See nine strumming fingers thrumming Celtic chords.
Watch the strings continue to vibrate as sound reverberates.
Feel his joy, throw a few bucks in the tip jar,
and take that love with you as you leave.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Poetic Asides prompt: On the Other Hand; also posted at Poets United.)
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.
Absolutely true story, and managed to write it in Poetic Asides’ 10×10 form as well. My cousin Gregg and I are a lot alike: Complete unimpressed by celebrity, and able to get off a one-liner without cracking up (until later). You go, cuzzy!
Carradine vs. Laughlin (0-1)
You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead
But this one’s too funny to go untold
David Carradine, in his “Kung Fu” days
Came to a rest’rant my cousin Gregg ran
Carradine went barefoot a lot back then
and Gregg said, “Sorry, no shoes, no service”
All puffed up, the star went on to protest
“Don’t you know who I am? Any bistro
would be glad to serve me, barefoot or not!”
Gregg deadpanned, “I suggest you go find one.”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at Writer’s Island, my NaPoWriMo home, and at Poetic Asides, plus, as always, Poets United.
Written this morning. I was so bummed about being confined to bed and missing Easter services, and this was my spiritual exercise for the day… Big day for Christians, but every day should be a day to celebrate each other, hand in hand, faith joining faith to seek peace in this troubled world. This will also be at Poetic Asides, where Robert asked for prayer poems. Amy
New To This Church
He hangs out near the front door,
unsure about entering, what with
seeing men in suits and ties and
women dressed up, hats and all.
And here he is in raggedy jeans
and a tie-dye shirt his buddy gave him.
The VOA fixed him up with an army jacket
and boots broken in so much, they’re almost broke as he is.
He considers his options: Lingering on another park bench
like the one he slept on last night…
Or maybe he’ll leave to find Gus and Sandy
near that cheap coffee shop again.
An old lady sniffs as she passes.
He must smell a little ripe.
“Well, it’s Sunday, I’ll give it a try.”
And as he slips inside, Jesus takes a seat in the back pew.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also published at Writer’s Island (My April Poem a Day home) and Poets United. Please click these links to discover a lot of talented poets!
Brenda’s Wordle at Beyond The Bozone including silver, phrase, forever, scars, crescendo, crude, recount, perfume, message, and bottle; also, this works with Poetic Asides’ “Message in a Bottle.”
Cobalt Blue Bottle
Auntie Ruth’s perfume in a cobalt blue bottle
embossed with the phrase, “April in Paris.”
Twirling open the fluted silver cap,
I’d sneak a sniff.
Stronger than a crescendo of crude
on a Texas Tuesday,
the scent still held a message
of forbidden romance (one that might leave scars).
Recounting those afternoons
I used to while away
in Ruthie’s room…
Memories I’ll treasure forever.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You can also see this poem at my NaPoWriMo site, Writer’s Island, and, as always, at Poets United. Check out these poets!
Sharp Little Pencil 