How to Raise a Valedictorian
Study together.
She, homework.
You, Woolf.
Release her from school for
antiwar protests and call it
civics lessons
Ban video games
Tell her God gave her beautiful,
but smart takes work
Love unconditionally
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trifecta’s Weekend Challenge was 33 words of advice. This worked for my daughter Riley, who is currently a top student at Laguna Beach Institute of Art and Design. Did I mention she doodled in the margins of her homework? That she came out to the entire student body’s parents during her speech? (She was already out, “gender queer,” to all her friends, and didn’t lose one of them.) Can you tell you much Lex and I love this young woman?
The picture was taken by Lex as we were being goofy after the ceremony. Silver becomes her, but her heart? Pure gold. Peace, Amy
Higher Math
Nickels and dimes
And twelve shiny quarters
Clinked, one at a time,
into their secret stash,
a souvenir metal box from
their trip to Hershey Park
Back when Dad was still home
And before Mom’s blues set in
Saving up to buy her
a present, to cheer her up
It’s our job, says sister to little brother
Little boy nods and digs deep into his
back pocket for another precious dime
Soon they’ll have enough for
that perfume she loves… loved
Loose change changes into loss
as Mom finds the cache of coins
Swipes smalldream savings
Asks Next Door Sally to watch
her sleeping ones while she makes a
midnight milk run. Sneaks off to
the casino, where nickels and dimes
become more shiny quarters and then
slot machine fodder. Then on to the ATM…
Three months later, waking the kids
in the back seat, she drives to Mickey D’s
for breakfast (won’t hurt them for a while,
she reckons). Combs their hair, checks
for lice as she softly inflicts blame on
their father for walking out. “Let’s get
moving or you’ll be late for class.”
The present for Mom, long forgotten,
but her betrayal festers within them
School teaches her kids
addition.
Mom teaches them
subtraction.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Wikimedia Commons, by photographer William Holtkamp.
This mom may live just down the block. Right now, things are OK, but eventually, boredom and that damned little addictive gene could give way to drinking before lunch. Or a divorce leaves her broke, while the Trophy Wife is pregnant with “Dad’s New Family.” Perhaps she is simply depressed and, on a lark, tries meth at a friend’s house (the first hit’s always free).
There are a thousand ways women are blamed for these situations, and in some cases, it’s true. But no matter who leaves whom, or who takes what, the kids pay the price. And the kids in this poem were ready to give their all for their mom.
“Irony.” The prompt at dverse poets today. Also at my gambling-free hangout, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Babes in Boyland
Modeling’s a groove
Tyra taught us to mooooove
and stretch and maybe
we’d get in a video on TV
Clothes fitted to each curve
The more verve you show
the more photogs you blow
The more rich guys you know
the more places you go
You fight the urge
to binge and purge
Pout you lips in a kiss
It all comes down to this:
I’m the seventh blonde-
wigged nurse in pure Bond-
girl form or maybe
a Robert Palmer baby
Justin’s lip-synching
when he’s not drinking
Oh, wait, he’s winking
AT MEEEEEEEEEEEEE
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NaPoWriMo #4, for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, which asked us to write to a clip of Justin Timberlake mouthing the words to a Killers song. Watch the clip, see what I wrote, and then follow this LINK back to the Garden to read others’ work!
Riley turned me on to Top Model, and the more this little proto-Feminist watched, the more I was fascinated and repelled by the lengths to which women will debase themselves to become models, Barbies in search of their Dream House. It’s a fleeting career at best, and these girls undergo breast augmentation, booty augmentation, lip augmentation… everything except self-esteem augmentation. Riley could have been a child model, but I wouldn’t have it. Glad to say, Tyra has proved me right! Peace, Amy
An Existentialist Speaks
We’re all in it
apart
Alphabet pasta bits
swirling in chicken broth
A sand dune of human grains
awhirl, subject to
the wind’s whimsy
A night sky filled with wandering stars
Stasis in motion
We do what we must in our
earthly bodies without regard for
The Big Judgement fairy tale
Some argue that life without God
is meaningless
a void
They seem so sure and
squint hostilely at
my assertion that
all of that “redemption” crap
is pointless as a salt lick
on the I-90
Mom thinks I’m worse than
an atheist; she’s worried
I didn’t pay attention in
catechism class.
She’s right.
Here
Now
Lost in the stars
We’re all in it
apart
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NaPoWriMo #3, for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, where Kerry asked for poems about Existentialism. Also, Three Word Wednesday gave us Argue, Lick, and Squint. Kim at Verse First for Poets United wanted poems with a “body” theme, whether a group or a single body. I hope I gave her both!
Existentialism is far from my own path, but I can see how people become isolated, believing there is no God, no consequence in the end, no hereafter, and no particular reason to have faith in anything. I can’t get my mind around it completely, but I gave it a try!
Come, Spring (a cinquain)
Sunlight
Pour through my pane
Melt ice around my heart
Transform my frozen mind gently
Frost free
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Wikimedia Commons, by Mohylek: “I, the copyright holder of this work,
release this work into the public domain. This applies worldwide.”
NaPoWriMo #2, for Sunday Scribblings (seasoned, although mine is more seasonal). Also at “It’s Always Sunny at Poets United,” my wintering snowbird delight and haven!
Can you believe it? An unprompted cinquain. Spring must be coming… Peace, Amy
Participating in National Poetry Writing Month “A poem a day keeps the blues at bay.”
Nothing to Prove
Don’t need miracles
Loaves and fishes;
Lazarus wishes
Don’t need purity,
a Virgin birth
for his time on earth
Don’t need witnesses
Kings from far away
God’s voice on baptism day
Don’t need him calm
He threw over tables
Taught radical fables
Didn’t need a temple
Homeless by choice
Folks understood his voice
All I need is his words of love
His hand stretched out to the poor
To street kids, to ‘untouchables’
He was real and human
Dragged his cross to Calvary
Questioned God as he hung from a tree
I don’t need resurrection
No “Mary, don’t you know me?”
No Doubting Thomas: “See?”
All these things could have happened.
If they didn’t, I would
still follow him best I could
The Way is peace, love
The Way is easy it you let it be
If you turn off the world, you’ll start to see
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: I believe there are “many ways up the mountain.” As much as I follow Jesus, I don’t exclude people of different beliefs from my life. I often have amazing conversations with Jews, Muslims, atheists… anyone willing to engage in love. I am not a biblical literalist and do have a problem engaging some (SOME) fundamentalists because theirs is an absolute path, which is far from my own, and they tend to get mad when asked about “cherry-picking” Scripture. My path is very, very wide, and I truly believe Jesus’ best gift to the world was his message, “Love one another.”
This was written for Poetic Bloomings; their prompt was Easter. This is also posted at Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where I have been a proud member since 2009.
Had a wonderful, mutually respectful conversation with a fellow Christian – he’s a bit more from the right; I’m one of the (not really named) Christian Left. It was a hot topic, and we agreed that there are “many roads up the mountain,” that our aim is not to proselytize, but to put it out there for people to make up their own minds.
Thanks to Marie Elena and Walt for their work on the blog, as well as my Poets United buddies.
Whatever your path, deist, theist, atheist… I wish you peace and acceptance. Amy
“Strong Dream” by Paul Klee (1879 – 1940)
Healing the Wounded Womb (an ekphrastic poem*)
Years ago,
the midnight cramps
the passing of the piece
One whole fetus
in the palm of my hand, and
calling the doctor,
was told that, if in fact
the baby was intact,
I should take it to his
office tomorrow.
Sorrow wrapped it in plastic,
stored in the egg cutouts
of the fridge door
(irony thick as blood clots)
‘til morning came
Years later, at an
est Training** (the one
where you couldn’t pee),
I offered up a vision
of a blood red moon
The moon was
that perfect,
imperfect egg;
the red, my womb;
and beneath all
a sheltering golden arm
holding my heart
holding my soul
holding me as I wept
for my long-gone loss
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Ekphrastic poems come from studying a painting and creating a poem based on your own impressions. Paul Klee, along with Kandinsky, certain Pollocks, and the Blue Period of Picasso, all favorites. I used to be strictly Impressionist, but then my mind exploded upon seeing some Picassos at the Met Museum of Art in the City. (That would be NYC!) In a single moment, I got it. I also developed a knack for reading Gertrude Stein’s Toklas book and Russell Hoban’s classic, Riddley Walker! Major synapse release, I suppose, and all for the good.
**This is based on (shudder) an attending est (Erhard Seminar Training) a mind- and money-control project cobbled together by a former used-car salesman who changed his name to Werner Erhard. (Who remembers him now? Ah, yes, a much-deserved obscurity for that money-grubbing pseudo-something, although he continues to lecture and has posted all positive reviews from former esties – obviously, he neglected to ask me, but who can blame him? He ripped concepts off from the best… Gibran, the Buddha, the Dalai Lama; as well as the worst, like Wayne Dyer and other then-motivational speakers, creating a synthesis of New Age bullshit and timeless quotes used to his own advantage.
I managed to have one good revelation there, and this Klee reminded me of that… Thanks to Margo Roby’s prompt, which I discovered via Joseph Harker’s Naming Constellations – brilliant blogs, both! Peace, Amy
Lucky Girl Child
Our second sister,
birthed still as stone
Never to serve as
our father’s very own
little plaything – then relive,
after years of self-doubt,
what evils her Daddy
had carried about
I think it lucky
she heard God’s sweet call
Was she not graced
by good fate after all?
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
As always, I speak on behalf of myself, not for anyone in my family. This is my truth, and I tell it willingly to help others.
As frequent readers here at Sharp Li’l know, I was sexually molested by my father. Long before I was born, my mother suffered a stillbirth during her second pregnancy. Fortunately for Charlotte, subsequent pregnancies went well; however, there were consequences regarding my father – which she finally acknowledged knowing about, during the last year of her life.
Sexual molestation is more frequent in families that most would acknowledge. Fathers, uncles, teachers, and friends of the family, of whom over 90% identify as straight men, are the most frequent perpetrators of pedophilia. If you know a little girl or boy who is easily startled, wets the bed past the usual age, seems unusually shy (or gravitates toward adult figures with inappropriate affection), or even tries to tell you about “bad touches,” please take notice. It may be nothing… or it may be everything for that child to be noticed and taken seriously.
For more information on the signs of child sexual abuse, click HERE.
This was written in response to the weekly Trifecta prompt, Lucky, with 33-333 words, including the third definition below.
LUCKY (adjective)
1: having good luck
2: happening by chance : fortuitous
3: producing or resulting in good by chance: favorable>
May the children near you, and all children worldwide, be freed of this tragic circumstance. Until then, I bid you peace. Amy
WILD CHILD
From Day One, I was
a wild child.
Well-schooled but wayward.
Never pleaded for parental pardon.
Worldly wise wisp
wrapped in ribbons,
wants to be unspooled,
twirled, awhirl with
winsome, wastrel wiles.
Wishes for what she wants;
wants more than she gets;
gets what’s coming to her,
all the while knowing
there’s way more in store.
Her wickedly wanton waylays
wend their way into herstory.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Wrote this for the “Wild Woman” prompt at Ella’s Edge in the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Also posted at Poets United, in the Poetry Pantry, and for Sunday Scribblings… their prompt was “energy,” and if this doesn’t fill the bill, I’m in big trouble. ALSO, Poetic Bloomings is celebrating 100 posts, and they wanted a “celebration of self.” Oh, yeah, honey!!
NOTE: I was feeling pretty down until I read Ella’s prompt. I summoned my inner Sherry Blue Sky, Shay/Fireblossom, Lady Nimue, Jae Rose, and a few more … and before you know it, I was as Edgy as Ella! Thanks, you wonderful wild women, o ye of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Rants. (Don’t look now, but Gretchen Leary is catching up to us!)
Finally, about that photo. It was taken in Bermuda at the Princess Hotel, where I was artist-in-residence for two seasons. Didn’t know it yet, but I was newly pregnant with Riley when this was shot. My girlfriend Bev, from the cast of their Dreamgirls-type show, is with me. (I still have the skirt, for Halloween costumes. I’ll wear it as a head wrapping!) Peace, Amy
Photo © Kim Nelson
The One That Got Away
Within
Gentle droplet
Humanity begins
Viewed at doctor’s, yet that same night
Taken
Woman
Mother-to-be
Seemingly, “Nevermore”
Her womb emptied by dark forces
Grief reigns
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This poem, a cinquain (yes, I wrote a form that was not specifically requested!), for Poets United, is based on my first impression of the fabulous artwork of Kim Nelson (Poet, Artist, Blogger, and FRIEND – check out her work by clicking on her name).
Even though it’s in shades of red, my take was an ultrasound screen, with the fetal head at the top. I did have a miscarriage years ago, which probably explains the red connection, and it haunted me for so long, until I got pregnant with Riley and knew she was ‘in with Velcro.’ Peace, Amy (Proud Member, Poets United)
Sharp Little Pencil 