Moustache Man
Your moustache tickles me
You tickled me from the start
The enchanting, spirited glow that
dissipated sad old shadows
You were a daddy when
one was really needed…
more than a stepdad, a friend
who liked the Simpsons, too
When I think on the day I first
noticed you, I recall your smile
The kind that made others grin
when you walked in the room
Now, as the moustache is iced
with hints of vanilla grey, you
are more delicious than ever
We sing in harmony, always
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I finally got around to writing a rhapsody for Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. And what other subject but my Lex? Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United. This pic came from the day we renewed our wedding vows, just before our 15th anniversary. He and I were both on our second marriages (thank God we’re United Church of Christ; a lot of denominations frown upon divorce, even those that lead to this type of better outcome), and he’s my “last husband.” Period.
Peace, Amy
Yes, it’s true, I’ve joined the “700 Club”! Oh, wait a sec… actually, this is a poem that Pat Robertson would do well to read, since he’s all about putting down anyone and anything he doesn’t understand, and using God as an excuse. He makes the phrase “bully pulpit” come to life in a new way… So let’s talk about love, shall we?
Love is Not/Love is
Love is not the flip side of hatred
Love is not a sexual act
Love is not what your parents told you
or what your friends brag about
Love is not locked up or meant to be hoarded
Love is friendship to the nth power
It’s giving up what you cling to in the world
for the sake of helping another
Turning your back on Honey Boo-Boo in favor of
cradling abandoned crack babies in the NicU
It’s holding hands that are colder than yours
Love is vast as creation
Warmer than bread fresh out of the oven
More beautiful than your granny’s eyes
Each day we are given the chance
to show love to others
Love is the only thing that can heal our fractured world,
and it starts with each one of us.
Fling wide open your arms
Dance to the sacred rhythm
Unlock that latched love and give it to the world
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United, where Kim Nelson was looking for poems about locks. I wrote this earlier today before encountering her prompt, as though the planets were in alignment! Also “in the margins” at my poetic Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace to all, and let the love begin. Amy
Ginger and the Need
She shambles by in vin-
tage thrift store pin-
stripe threadbare and win-
some smile, rootless, adrift
She spots me, grin-
ning at me with an in-
the-know winkish bin-
there-dived that, too. We kin-
dle fragile friendship, cin-
namon stick in cocoa, fin-
ishing each other’s thought, in-
tuitive, this girl, and worth more.
I have meds, in-
temse therapy; she sin-
cerely deserves same. I win-
ce at her need because din-
ner, doctor, care are in-
trinsic parts of my day. Fin-
ish this sentence: “Homeless Gin-
ger deserves less because ______.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We know that many homeless Americans are in dire need of solid therapy and usually some psychiatric care as well. This girl is detached in an odd way – she smells, but not for lack of a bathtub; she’s comfortable in her own aroma soup. She’s off the wall, but no more than I used to be before I got help. She’s homeless and does the dumpster dive; we have that in common from my Bad Old Days. She is a fascinating human being who deserves better. The missing piece of this puzzle? Health care for all Americans.
Hats off to De Jackson, AKA Whimsy Gizmo, for the hyphenated fractious quality. De’s freedom with punctuation and wordplay astonishes me, and I know she will not mind my “borrowing” a device from her toolbox. Check her out – click on her name.
Written for the puzzle prompt at dverse, and thank goodness Mr. Linky is still open! Also in the margins at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
Please join with me in engaging the homeless when you have a spare hour. You’ll know whether or not there is a threatening vibe, trust me. There is no sin in stopping the relationship at taking them to lunch and simply listening for an hour… sometimes, that hour is their diamond in an otherwise suck week, and you will be doing a mitzvah.
Peace, Amy
True Colors of Madison
Now this was in months past, mind you
Whodathunk that this move would find you
midst masses of rowdy-sprout color
from the bloodred truth to the duller
Not one box yet unpacked, you hightailed
to the Capitol, there you right-railed
‘gainst the governor, Koch Brothers feaster
(though we failed to toss him on his keester)
For the sake of each other’s opinions
They had gathered, the Left and Right minions
And there, near the downtown Radisson,
you found the true colors of Madison.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hannah, promptress extraordinaire at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, offered us rows and patchwork valleys of tulips for a colorful prompt. I do love flowers, but I found the best colors of my life at the 2012 Madison Pro-Union Protests… red, white, blue, and then some! For me, color has a voice, and the more “colorful,” the more effective. I did love the golden glow my camera managed to catch; even the slight blur belies action.
This pic shows an array of color – lots of “Badger Red,” as we are the Badger State and red is the color of our home teams. Then green for peace and any color each person could throw on as we ran out our doors downtown, to wage battle for union rights against a truly clueless, mouth-breathing governor. He prevailed for the time… but we will not be broken. Next election, he’s out on his precious Teapot, if the elections are not once again paid for by billionaires.
Leave it to me to take a peaceful, flower-y prompt and go all political on you. But hey, what did you expect? Black-Eyed Susans? This is me. Peace, Amy
An Activist’s Fourth of July Vacation Agenda
Celebrate my reproductive freedom (oops)
Go to an LGBTQ marriage in Wisconsin (oops, no license)
Celebrate “one person, one vote” (oooooops… Citizens United)
Celebrate American Union rights (oops)
Call Edward Snowden, invite him over to relax (is he still at that airport?)
Eat “brats” and drink beer (except I don’t eat pork, oops)
Guess it’s down to beer.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
As always, Mama Zen at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wants ‘em short and sweet, and she asked for vacation themes. Since activists are NEVER on vacation, this is as close as I’ll come! Peace to all, and prayers for the troops… and I stand by my comment on Edward Snowden. I strongly disagree that he leaked security dox that would “compromise national security.” The American, Iraqi, and Afghan people are suffering national INSECURITY, and any info we can get from the “transparent” Obama administration about this (insert expletive here) war is like gold. We are being taken for the same ride that Bush started, and I don’t appreciate it, not one little bit. If I had my own country, I’d offer Mr. Snowden sanctuary, a free condo, and drinks on the house. Amy
BITTER HOPES (The Tsunami, Sendai)
When ground beneath her desk rolled like
a carpet shaken of its dust, a terrifying
rollercoaster, Yuki screamed at
something unnamed and horrible
She thought, “This is IT…
The final moment, or the beginning of many
final moments”
Crawling out of her cubicle,
scenes burned their way into her memory
Ten minutes before, she and Hayashi had shared a cigarette
and a kiss in the stairwell
Now, he was pinned under a desk, eyes glazed;
a picture of their trip to Kanagawa
where they regarded the roses
had settling on his chest
Was this the last thing he saw? His last good memory?
She prayed it was so
Then came a blur of
walking nightmare people
bottled water
pictures posted with notes
questions without answers
Earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster
And of course, government downplayed the severity of radiation
She and Kenji commuted inland daily from their home in Sendai;
Father enjoyed the view of surf.
Why had Kenji taken the day off?
She knew now her brother was gone, as well as their parents,
swept from earth as waves wiped the chalkboard clean
Alone Safe Not safe Scared
A butterfly chose her at random to grace her
with a dizzying dance of color and life
“If only I had the mind of an insect,” she thought,
as bile rose in her throat
“At least butterflies hold the key to hope:
Live free for a season, surrender peacefully to death”
Her only hope was that the world see, and learn, what her grandmother
had told her, as she revealed flowered tattoos of her Nagasaki childhood:
Men’s greed and technology will never defeat the ferocity of nature
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Fireblossom at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted stories of loss. I took the loss of others and, in so doing, resurrected an old poem, because the last line haunts me. This was originally written (and much wordier) in 2011, before Fukushima. Turns out technology doles out terror in equal quantities… that also includes the effects of global warming. And humankind’s terror is reversible, but that is not in sight right now…
Peace, Amy
Sofia (anaphoric poem for a young soul)
Sofia’s sisters will write their symphonies
for the world in their world
Sofia’s song lies within, beautiful, sonorous,
hard to explain, yet unfailingly lovely…
filled with illusions and wonder
Sofia’s favorite pastime is looking in the mirror
God gazes back at her, through her eyes and
in her infectious smile; a face that is
a reflection of the face of God
Sofia’s sisters will have a different kind of freedom
Roaming the world, seeking their separate destinies
But she is the lucky one
Destiny has found her and
God holds her in strong arms
Sofia, your every breath is counted
and you will never be alone
Your name means wisdom and, though hidden,
it is real, a labyrinth that dwells deep and swells wide.
Sofia. Your witness is simply being; your song is of the soul.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I had written this poem for Sofia, the daughter of my friends Daniel and Joy, during a visit to San Antonio years ago, but it never saw the light of day until this blessed move to our new home next to our church. My posting will be sporadic, but I’ll read more than I post for a few days on breaks from unpacking. This is at dverse, Poets United, and the garden I have sorely missed, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
dverse asked for Anaphoric poems, which have repeated words or sounds. I decided to use the name which became a song for playtime: Sofia.
When we were visiting, Sofia, who had a difficult delivery and will never function in “our ways” past a young age, delighted when I played with her. The song was “So-FIIIIII-aaaaa…” followed by long, silly phrases:
So-FIIII-aaaaa sits on the floor and plays with her box of stuff
(giggles)
So-FIIII-aaaaa picks up the box and dumps all the stuff on the floor
(dump and giggle)
On and on through picking up plastic horses and puzzle pieces to dumping it out again. Hers is a pure existence, and the reason she has a happy life lies with her family. Danny and Joy are parents who, when faced with the birth of a child who would never learn to read or write, refused to lock her away. Her sisters, Veronica, Eva, and Carmen, love her for who she is, and Sofia is safe from caring when they pass her milestones; they are all equally loved by their parents and their larger family as individuals. This is a family of deep faith and a strong sense that they have been blessed by God with Sofia. My heart this day is with Daniel and Joy, with their able girls, and with that specially abled young woman, Sofia. Paz, y con mucho amor, Amy
As I usually post about once a year… we’re moving. Only this time, we are moving to the ideal place: making the rental house next to our church back into a Parsonage, as Lex is Senior Pastor of our church.
Unfortunately, this means I’ll be offline for the next couple of weeks. PLEASE DON’T QUIT SUBSCRIBING! I will be back soon. Peace to all, and now, a little travelin’ music… Love and peace, Amy
MUSIC: “Movin’ Day,” by Charlie Poole, banjo player and composer.
This version features Loudon Wainwright, although the first time I heard it
was on a Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks album (yes, a vinyl album!).
Click on the ‘PLAY’ button to hear it!
When you’re done, you MUST check out the wacky prompt that Walt gave us at Poetic Bloomings. It made for one heckuva fun Sunday!
Moody Charlotte
Mom, stuck on a cul de sac
with no car. Had she the fare,
she would have fared well
in Paris – a random thought,
reflecting her need for
dramatic change.
“I’ll take up painting!” she
blurted; Leslie and I nodded.
She burst forth with wacky plans
when moody. Lacking supplies
(Les and I were thinking easel,
paints, canvas, a jaunty beret)
she called two friends before
securing a ride to… an art store?
Chances of her following through
were about even with the chance
of an armadillo successfully crossing
a West Texas highway.
Next day after school…
the danger signs: In the open garage,
large paint cans, brushes dripped
blood onto newspaper, and three
Gordon’s gin empties.
Whatever it was, she was done with it.
High as a kite and just as flighty,
she flittered around her creation.
Charlotte had painted the kitchen walls
tomato red
and the ceiling Vincent Price Black.
Her Waterloo with an indignant
bridge club; members refused to
enter our home on Brookside Avenue…
a cry for help that passed
unanswered.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Walt at Poetic Bloomings had some fun at our expense:
Today, you are given random nudges, the replies to which will become the pieces to your poetic puzzle.
1. Your mother’s first name (Charlotte)
2. A wild animal (armadillo)
3. A city you’ve never visited, but would like to (Paris)
4. A hobby (painting)
5. A mode of transportation (car)
6. Your least favorite vegetable (tomato – don’t even get me started)
7. A “lucky” number (2)
8. Your favorite color (red)
9. Three random words (dramatic, moody, random)
10. Historical event (Waterloo – doubles as an ABBA song)
11. A childhood friend (Leslie Frederick, still a friend even though she moved away in FIFTH GRADE!)
12. The street on which you grew up (Brookside Avenue)
You can write in any form, meter and rhyme scheme. Your title will be the answer to #1 + the second random word in #9.
This also appears at Poets United’s Poetry Pantry and on the sidelines at my “pad,” Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
NOTE: The story is essentially true, but I altered the timeline to accommodate the poem. This didn’t happen on my watch, but many years before – when Mom’s moods started pingponging like those of her mom, my Grandma Blanche. Charlotte was never diagnosed, but she did pull off stunts like this while on a self-medicated high. The red kitchen with black ceiling? YES, IT WAS TRUE! She later told me, “I don’t know what I was thinking, because that kitchen made me feel claustrophobic. Bud finally repainted it after three days because he couldn’t stand the colors, and he was really scared by then of my moods.”
Charlotte. Mama. Never a dull moment! Peace, Amy
American Prairie
Wisconsin’s prairie blooms in green
with occasional glimmers of silver grass
shivering in soft breezes and
pierced by deep violet clover
Dead trees, grey and
stalkstill as gravestones,
still force a new branch or two
The root of Jesse sprung anew
They refuse to give in to death
Stubborn as Midwesterners,
tough; hard to break, tenacious
Never say die
As daylight wanes and red sets,
we cruise Route 69
Around every bend,
a simple feast of foraging
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Marian introduced us to the music of Tim Eriksen, a uniquely American folk artist, and asked us to conjure poems that reflect Americana. This morning, I would have been stumped, but as luck would have it, we took a day trip to New Glarus (yeah, our favorite brand of beer is made there, and oh, did we have a bit of fun!) and marveled at the breadth of the prairie grasses. Verdant, vibrant, strumming those heartstrings like Tim’s guitar, here in the breadbasket of America. I am so proud to live in Wisconsin (except for the politics, which we took a day off from monitoring for peace of mind).
Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 