So obviously I’m lousy at taking breaks; although, truth be told, I’m making much progress on the damned taxes, so I’m back for Sunday Night Funnerific-a-go-go, AKA “Four Prompts in One Poem.” Whew!
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
In the past, a vast empire of
mighty newspapers broadened minds.
The scale of subscribers was enormous;
most papers did not more than inform us.
Eventually “news” skirted the real story
under orders from rich men who tend to
eat the truth raw and spit it out, tattered and
slimy, pro-corporate, inaccurate drool.
The print version has since been scattered
all over cyberspace – in case you haven’t
notices, HuffPost will soon make The Daily News
a ghost (it’s on the edge, like most).
As for TV, I mist over remembering
Cronkite and Murrow, mirrors of our national
conscience (back when there was such a thing).
Now it’s “Happy News,” reported by interns and
delivered by softly curved Barbies with white smiles and
a light-skinned Black meteorologist. They report on
straw polls; they pitch their network’s upcoming
programs. Even the crawl crawls, clueless.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Inhale.) Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem on the word “Subscribe”; Brain Miller at dverse Poets wanted writings on media; Brenda Warren, at The Sunday Whirl, gave us a dozen words, and Poets United (all the poetry that’s fit to print!) has Poetry Pantry. So that’s FOUR prompts in one poem, and it’s still properly snarky, as befits my sharp little pencil.
I do miss real journalism… Moyers is all I have left, except for BBC.com! Peace (and a plea for something more than birdcage liner), Amy
Poem never made it to my blog until now – yet it was my first proper freestyle rant (on gentrification of L.A.), written while I was hanging with Riley, Marcia and Jesse on a trip to SoCal. Reason I’m putting this up? A friend of mine needs a KICK IN THE BUTT to jump-start writing her own stories of those years. God, I miss it so, the Boardwalk, the cheap breakfast, the neverendingness of it all… Amy
Venice Then and Now (1979, 2012)
We were free spirits, flowing with our Karma
Floating in a pot-scented breeze
But now it’s all money disease
Dis-ease about security sucks marrow from bone
Creativity from full-blown, fine, eclectic minds
The intersection: Hollywood & Vine… correction: What I Owe vs. What Is Mine
In your soul, the blues; on your mind, the dues
Paying for the right to live here, by the whispers of waves
Near palatial pavilions of the potently paid
Praying we could once again live back then, back when all was sensual, all serene
And the Venice Boardwalk a little less Green
Rave all we want, the money’s moved in
It’ll never move out ‘til tsunamis tumble Venice back to the trashy look
of hash-clouded, bearded marginals
Undulating madrigals with open guitar cases
Accepting quarters from faces unlined by gotta do gotta go gotta take this call
It’ll take the fall of L.A. to get it back to stay
No matter how much money they spend, there’s always more expense
for parking meters, Margaritas, Mercedes-Benz
What became of the real-deal drifters, grifting their way through a shroom-filled haze
Jingles and Frank and ragged reggae days
Muscle-bound bods of men well-oiled, well-pumped, unshod
Stores with honey-drenched Haagen Dazs in paper cups with wooden spoons
A pennyweight on a Mylar balloon –
we sent it skipping ghostlike toward the Venice Canals
Now they’re scum green
But the ducks don’t mind, they’re doing fine
Today I said hi and they called back
Money can’t make ‘em go anything but QUACK
If ducks = local charm, then why not beach bums, doing no harm?
Charm, like beauty, in beholders’ eyes
No room for human clutter, sweep ‘em in the gutter
like Rudy’s 42nd St., makes me shudder
The rich have L.A. well in hand
No handouts, no hand-me-downs, just put ‘em out, put ‘em down
Set down roots upon roots much deeper, roots of hippies without beepers, laptops,
Blackberry speakers attached to the ears of societal sleepers
Cops in Oakwood busted humble places – put those grandmas on their faces
Fat cats watch the breaking story – 5:00 talking head in her glory
Unless it’s your grandma’s face on the floor, it’s a sound byte, nothing more
And folks who really give a shit don’t have time to protest it
Scrimping, scraping takes its toll – staying, praying Rent Control isn’t eaten whole
by well-heeled leeches who want their condos near the beaches
Rich vs. Poor, at the boiling point
God, this city needs a joint
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Once again I find I’m lapsing
My brain is not synapsing
quite properly, and still
(as life requires we will),
I must do family taxes.
No time for “poem-relaxes,”
nor room for fun with Wordles
My cocoa sits and curdles
as I, ‘sharp little’ in hand
do battle with The Man.
But… one real poem for the road, what say? I’ll be back soon! This will be at Poets United, where the math is easy… but the social studies can be a bit challenging!
TOOLS OF HIGHER MATH
The utile compass pinpoints
and twirls
Traces my brain
seeking sense in vain
Its sharp center
pierces a fold and
the golf pencil
circumnavigates
in search of principles
and edicts, only to find
bloody rivers of
flowing memory
Streams of unconscious longing
Thwacking rhythms of
a gutbucket blues
Tintype verses
Blowfly curses
Meandering forgetfulness and
a singular kaleidoscope
filled with broken shards
of a life
and a city and
things that happened
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Psychiatry, according to my former practitioner, is in fact experimentation. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit,” he said, explaining that the details lie in the psychiatrist’s ability to listen, to ask questions about how the counseling is going, and to be sensitive to the patient’s vibe. I imagined what it would be like to look at my brain from a clinical, almost forensic, standpoint… except the practitioner is Tim Burton. Peace, Amy
Burnout
How could one who was
once so delightful, dancing,
brimming with cheer,
turn out such a burnout?
Was a time I was wickedly
comely; some said it was
a certain spark
that lit me from within
A blaze of glory,
my euphoric past…
Now I’m worn down,
perhaps a bit dimmer
Please give me a chance
to shed some light on
my matchless existence
until, used up, I
f
i
z
z
l
e
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Haven’t planted in quite a while, but Poetic Bloomings asked for poems that personalize an inanimate object. I looked toward the first thing I saw for my inspiration… one of those old hippie candles with the psychedelic patterns! Also at my favorite point of light, Poets United. Peace, Amy
At dverse, Hobgoblin asked us to attempt a poem in a foreign language. While I did spend years in Puerto Rico, my Spanish is a mite rusty; that’s why I buy bilingual volumes of Neruda, to strengthen that connection. Let’s see what you think (the English translation follows).
San Juan por la noche
Noches en la playa
de mi Borrinquen querido
Con mi amor, sin abarcas en la arena
y la aroma del mar
Besos dulces, cervezas frias
Manos entrelazarse
Estrellas bialando
por la cadencia de nos corazones
Muchos anos pasados,
yo recuerdo este amor… suave y eterno
TRANSLATION
San Juan at Night
Nights on the beach
of my beloved Puerto Rico
With my love, barefoot in the sand
and the scent of the sea
Sweet kisses, cold beer
Hands intertwined
The stars dancing
to the rhythm of our hearts
After so many years,
I remember that love… tender and eternal
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at “la casa de poecia,” Poets United!
ARMED
Put yourself in his position.
The kid was always odd.
Mom got knocked up but
some guy married her to
keep her off welfare or worse.
He grew up. Spoke loudly
at worship when he should’ve
kept quiet, now they thought
he was more disturbed that ever.
Roamed around with a bunch of
homeless dudes, got kicked out
of his hometown, they booed him.
“Crazy,” they whispered. Harsh.
He gets in big trouble and
hides out in the woods, but
one of his gang gives him up to
the authorities. He is cornered.
If Jesus had had a gun in Gethsamane,
would he have taken aim at the guards?
Nowadays, it would barely make the crawl:
“Middle Eastern man, 33, guns down cops.”
Jesus would never own a gun; he shunned
violence. He preached unconditional love,
and that’s not shown with assault rifles.
Even when betrayed with a kiss.
Even when tortured by Roman soldiers.
Even when people screamed at him
on the long, laden perp walk to Golgotha.
Even bloodied, he forgave those who
drove nails into his body.
Even as he was raised up on the cross
and set up for display like a sick statue.
Suspend belief in the resurrection
for a moment. He had no idea what
was coming next, and still, he chose death
willingly, for the sake of others.
What if Jesus had an assault rifle or
a high-powered Palin moose killer?
If you’re Christian, ask yourself:
Whose message do you put more faith in?
The words of Christ… or the lobbyists of the NRA?
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, we are back to Square One: A! I imagine this will ruffle some feathers, but remember, the crux of this not “either/or,” but rather, priorities. One can be a Christian and hunt, go to the shooting range. It’s a personal choice whether you feel safer with a pistol in the house, but if it’s stored and the ammo locked up, as it should be, that’s not a lot of help when, as Rush Limbaugh so eloquently put it today, “Obama’s thugs come to your door to seize your guns.” Ted Nugent would call me nuts, but I don’t think hunting requires Kalishnikovs. People are so fearful (some of that biracial man in the White House), they are stocking up on ammo!
FYI: Despite Rush’s ranting about the Commander In Chief (calling the president Socialist, Muslim, Nazi, racist, a traitor, and TAR BABY… let’s all throw up now), RUSH is the only radio talk show on the Armed Forces Network. This treason goes directly to the troops. Your tax dollars at work, and mine.)
It’s all about choices. And politics. And remembering who, and whose, you are. As for me and mine, I’m with Jesus; Gandhi; Martin Luther King, Jr.; the Buddah… you get the idea. Peace, Amy
THE ROYAL PAIN
He’s had all the royal breaks.
His every wish was fulfilled.
He could go on a bender,
drunk as a skunk, end up
naked in a ditch, and the press
would chalk it up to
youthful royal wildness:
Poetry for the masses.
In a world hungry for virtue,
there is diminishing patience
for the antics of the royals,
living in palaces that have
many suites – but no room
for commoners, nor
succor for the poor.
Perhaps William will rise to lead
a new England. A good start,
taking steps to dismantle
the British Behemoth,
the burden borne by the masses:
Royalty.
Privilege.
Birthright.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
TWOFER
Two in one
Joined at the skin
within
Yin/Yang twins with
opposing forces:
One, golden innocence
the endless blossoming
of girl to young lady to
woman to mom to
crone
The other, haunted by
events time will not erase,
rusted razors
The miracle is
they both survive
the chaos
One diary; two lives
The perfectionist clips
fraying edges of her life;
her trademark, a lack
of deceit.
The dangerous silverfish
dives endlessly into
threadbare carpet on
the walls, only to emerge
unspooling, unruly,
unnervingly unorthodox
One seeks applause
The other, a pause,
if only to seek a blank sheet,
a mulligan, a cosmic do-over
(and over, and over)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, “Get listed.” Huge list of words, and I managed to use quite a few. Thanks, Fireblossom! Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United. I was too late for dverse Open Mic Night. Drat! Finally, for Trifecta, “survive.”
RE: Life… Finally back among the functional, for the most part. The two in one of this piece are, of course, Amy Before She Knew and Amy After Diagnosis and Realization that her youth was stolen. Both are good people with frenetic days, bad tempers, and other challenges. Many thanks to all who have been sending good wishes during my hiatus. Happy New Year and Peace, Amy
VIOLENCE (a barlette)
Kids on playgrounds
play cops and robbers
(“Bang! You’re dead!”)
“Children’s programming”
mandated by FCC, any cartoon
(Lots of ‘heroes’ in bloody battles.)
Coaches in high school
Sometimes violence = cash
(A Benjamin if you take out the QB)
Gay teens shoved in lockers
for daring to be themselves
(“My pastor says they’re evil.”)
At home, children try to ignore
drunk mom and dad going at it again
(“Time to play Grand Theft Auto.”)
A Connecticut mom has five guns, all
registered, all legal, all for use
(Why give a troubled kid access?)
Unbalanced, alienated son
walks into school for reasons unknown
(First he killed his mom and took her guns.)
NRA: “Guns don’t kill people.
People kill people.”
(Morons. People with guns kill people.)
How many presents have been bought
for kids who are not coming home?
(And what will we do about the weapons?)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTES: A barlette is my own form. Two or three lines, followed by a commentary in parentheses. ABC Wednesday is on the letter “V,” and I was stuck… until today. Also on the rolling sidebar at Poets United.
I am a firm supporter of the Second Amendment, because many Americans (especially Wisconsinites) hunt and use the animals they kill fully, wisely. My brother-in-law, now deceased, used to shoot one deer and turn all the venison into marinated meats for the freezer.
All the same, “assault rifles” MUST GO. By “assault rifle,” I mean any gun or rifle that shoots more than one bullet with one pull of the trigger. It’s that simple. Banning certain models simply means manufacturers will modify that model a bit and skirt the law.
Ted Nugent is embraced by the Right (who seem to forget he dodged the draft in Nam by smearing himself with his feces and not bathing and acting like he was mentally ill). Now he’s a “good patriot” by opening his ranch to vets in wheelchairs and giving them assault rifles to shoot imported game. Probably the last thing a traumatized vet needs is a gun in his hands.
If I hear, “Obama’s gonna take my guns and then he’s gonna make this a police state” one more time, I’ll vomit. My old friend Leslie moved to Newtown when we were in the fifth grade. I visited her often when we were growing up; her heart is broken. She was the one who gave me the last line; as she said, “How many parents already have presents wrapped and hidden in the closet for children who aren’t coming home?”
I pray for the families who lost loved ones, especially parents whose small child was killed today. I pray that the president will take this incident and push for gun control that really works. And I pray that the fear that has gripped our nation since 9/11 (collective PTSD) will give way to dialog, to common goals, and to peace. Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 