Black Sheep (a tale of three sisters)
Our mother, civil rights fighter
Big sister
Rebellious, slutty teen
Now Fundamentalist Rightie
Middle sister
Former activist
Now Tea Party
Little sister
Feminist, liberal Christian social activist
Two drank Kool-Aid
I’m an orphan
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, the challenge was to use the “Rule of Three,” in exactly 33 words. Hope my sisters do not read this, but, hey, if they do, it’s true! The number three was always tricky, as Mom (social justice applying everywhere but in our home) often pitted us against each other.
Triangulation, thy name is Charlotte. Love you, Mom, but really…! Peace to all, Amy
SPACE CADET (for my fellow bloggrrrls)
Can’t forget
Space Cadet
who flew through the halls
of our school.
Weird freak cool
radical with balls.
Never was
one to buzz;
never came to dance.
Hall pass? No…
Hell, she’d snow
teachers in a trance
Knew her well?
Who could tell?
She skipped town too soon
to New York
to uncork.
Then, who knows? Rangoon?
Blogging now,
caught hers, wow.
Some shit flies so fast.
Sticks to those
who once chose
to call her “outcast.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads… “Rebel Girl,” and for Trifecta’s “Radical.” This is dedicated with love and respect to all my bloggrrrls… who embrace life with passion, courage, truth, and the kind of joie de vive not afforded those with limited imaginations or poor opportunities. Some choose their Inner Emily, but many are tuned into that take-no-prisoners style.
NOTE: This is a cantilever, a rare moment when I embraced a form for the post. Ironic, since my poems of rebellion are almost always free verse! Peace, Amy
Comes the Revolution…
(For Riley)
Comes the revolution,
I want you in my trench.
Comes the day we say “No more!”
I want you at my side.
I schooled you on our rights;
you’re steeped in the shameful history
of slavery, of suffrage, of civil rights denied,
of how it’s always someone else’s turn
to be not white enough, not male enough,
not straight enough, not American enough;
to be trod upon, to be spat upon
especially via metaphor and the airwaves.
You, a Jew raised in the U.C.C.
(Upfront, Confrontational Christians!)
In your blood, remnants of the Holocaust;
in your training, social justice for all.
That pedigree makes for speaking truth to power,
for passion, for radical, unconditional love.
This revolution will be
one of words, not weapons
Only the undereducated run out of words,
falling back on hate speech and violence.
Though their sound bytes nip at our heels,
we will not run. We will turn and debate.
Comes the revolution, our trench will be
filled with books, journals, and understanding.
So keep sharp your mind, daughter mine
because the revolution is at our door:
The War on Women – our rights,
our bodies, our station, our future.
What we do now is “not for ourselves alone,”
but for all females in generations to come.
We claim our right as citizens of the world
to be who we are, love who we may, and
figure out for our selves what is best
when put to the test of The Pink Stick Follies.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, Revolution – and for dverse Open Mic Night. Also “in the margin” on Poets United. Also for Trifecta: Radical.
The quote “Not For Ourselves Alone” is usually attributed to Elizabeth Cady Stanton, but its first usage came from a man, Marcus Tullius Cicero: “Non nobis solum nati sumus. (Not for ourselves alone are we born.)”
NOTE: When Riley was a senior in high school, I wrote a piece for her yearbook, as did many parents. Mine included the phrase, “Comes the revolution, I want you in my trench.” Since then, she has come out, moved West, entered an art institute, and continues to blossom. Happy birthday, beba.
It seems quite ironic that we are indeed on the verge of an actual revolution, and the stakes could not be higher. We are lucky to have so many enlightened men alongside us in the fight. Let’s hope that the “White is Right and Women Should Shut the Hell Up” militias disband… due to pressure from their mothers!
HOOPLA!
In silly, obtrusive hats
they banter on the floor of
the convention, knowing
the intention and the rules.
Their duty, to nominate
their candidate… yet, they’re
only in their element
acting like damned fools.
No matter which party,
they’re mostly foolhardy.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday (Banter, Duty, Element) and ABC Wednesday (H). Also at the convention of brilliant poets (who let me write there, too!): Poets United.
PROCESS NOTES: Yes, I watched BOTH the Republican and Democratic conventions, as much as I could, some online. The stupid behavior and outlandish dress displayed by members of both parties was truly a turnoff, considering the solemn duty they are to perform.
I hope all voters will take time to watch the speeches (now that they are so easily accessed online) and visit the various fact-checking sites to evaluate, to discern… not simply go for the usual line. However you vote, GET TO THE POLLS! Otherwise, I really don’t want to hear your complaints. Get active, get American, get real. Peace, Amy
I’m finally back from vacation. We are well but tired… I watched most of the Republican Convention and am in the midst of reviewing the Democratic Convention. I wish more people would watch BOTH sides of the damned “aisle”!
Couldn’t stop thinking about the troops as I watched those foolish delegates in their funny hats, all having fun during what should be a defining moment in politics. So here is my tribute to one selfless servant. Peace, Amy
Nurse in the Field (Afghanistan)
Nine hours into her shift
she steals a moment to smooth
errant hairs, captured and secured by
mock tortoise side combs.
The last wave was
a mind-numbing parade of
the barely living
and the too-soon dead.
Checking the morphine drip on
an amputee, she wonders why
nurses dress in pastel scrubs.
Cruel joke, the blood spatter,
carrying iodine-splattered lost limbs
across to the bins.
She used to count the number
of fingers and toes per shift; something
to divert her mind from the horror.
Now she breathes in madness, exhales exhaustion.
In WWI, they were gassed and blinded.
In the Second, shot or blown to pieces by grenades.
In Nam (where her mom served), they bathed our boys
in the finest toxins Dow and co. could manufacture.
Agent Orange could kick 007’s ass easily, if slowly.
Now men and women are hit by drones, as
stateside geeks “do battle” like a game of Pac-Man.
They cannot be sure of their target other than from
“actionable (questionable) intelligence.” Tonight
it might be a grandmother and her family, or the
piece de resistance of warspeak: “Friendly fire.”
The nurse strips fatigues from a screaming airman.
His legs lie still but arms are flailing like a meth-head.
Restraints: cruel but necessary as she injects morphine.
Evidence of spinal damage, extensive brain trauma…
She croons, “Slooooow down, we’ve gotcha.” Her
honeyed voice seems to sooth him, “You’re gonna
be all ri-” Then the flat line no greased paddles will stir.
She’ll hear five final, strangled exhalations before
her break comes up. A few hours of sleep, and
she’ll emerge looking refreshed, gearing up for
the second-roughest game in Kabul:
Patching up the pawns, gurneyed pieces
from the chess board of battle.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle is shown below), dverse Open Mic Night, and Sunday Scribblings (the prompt was Soothe). Also at the site where I am always soothed: Poets United.
Bad Boyfriends
She has a chain
Each link is a loser
A long line of operators
Each with a rose
a bottle of perfume
or a bottle of tequila in hand
Whatever recipe would pique her interest
Showing up at dusk and
never leaving the apartment til dawn
Leaving her behind
in an bed littered with condom wrappers
and empty bottles
and a stinky bong
She decided to build a hedge fence
to protect herself against
this parade of clowns
But in the end, she clawed her way out
Forgiving, yet forgetting the essential lesson:
Trace first the path to your own happiness
and if you find another who walks the same path
there you will find love
She has a chain
Each link is a loser
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Link, Recipe, Operator, Fence, Essentials, Chain, Rose, Forgiven, Dusk, Pencil, Empty, Trace.
Also at two favorite sites: Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
DEEP SEATED EXPLORATION
My gut is pierced
Not the physical, but the psychic
Not a knife, but a fork
Not alfredo, but tomato sauce
The fork attacks me,
a plate of linguine marinara:
Pierce the pile
Twist round
Feel the reel, the dancing circles
Pull in all I am
All the essentials
Muscle
Mind
Soul
Trailing stringy strands
What was
Is
A ball big as disco
The silver flatware long since slathered
in bloody twine, scarlet vine
I feel about for the loose nub
The end of my rope
Pull gently
Unwind ever so slowly
Don’t break the ties of time
Delicately, I will prise the fork and
dispose of that which has strangled my being:
The damnable tapeworm
he planted inside me
all those years ago
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings tossed us one word: Explore. I went inward. Also at the site that never twirls me ‘round unless it’s fun: Poets United.
“Extreme” by Jaime Clark, used by permission. *
SCREWED OVER AGAIN (a shadorma)
She seems fine
Beneath the surface
heartbroken
and punctured
He dug deep in his toolbox
Used piercing hardware
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden with Read Toads asked for a shadorma based on one of many photos by talented photographer Jaime Clark, who graciously allowed all toads (!) to use on our blogs. Hooray for sharing! I’ll return the favor with a link to Jaime’s site below. This is, as always, also posted at my poetic woodshop, Poets United. Peace, Amy
* View more of Jaime’s magnificent photography HERE AT HER SITE.
Music in Mind… Thanks to My Fan
Flip on a fan
and in its breeze
vague Beach Boys harmonies
No lyrics, simply voices
floating through my mind
Open a window
and birdsong reigns
with backup vocals
from faraway sirens
in my stream of consciousness
Is it the meds?
Hallucinations?
No worries here; they are
benevolent offspring of
my inner sanctum of melody
Don’t switch off that fan, honey
It’s singing my song…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “F” – and as always, at my harmonic hangout, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Diva Heart in Denial
Her heart was not one that accepts age as
progress toward wisdom a crown of silver
Hot flashes were mere preludes
In tinny wraps, her stylish tinted glints of
highlights, long tresses still brisking bare shoulders
in waves of tragic peroxide passion
The insidious flaps under arms, on her belly,
her lazy limbs and gut splitskinned and resewn
A Bonwit Teller Raggedy Ann
French tip the perfect nails; affix false lashes:
Color her vivid. Boy Toy Nick not allowed to drift far
He stands flexed, assurance of her youth, her comeliness
She will not go gentle into that good night
but brittle, breakable, frightened, but
always with a mirror at hand
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl (Wordle belw; thanks, Brenda!) and Trifecta, which wanted a poem about heart as personality or disposition. Also at my poetic salon, where we’re all GORgeous, Poets United. I’ve known women of means who have had their faces lifted so many times, their noses begin to turn inside out, a slight ring around each nostril.
Sharp Little Pencil 