PRO-LIFE FOR DUMMIES
This bundle of cells
inside my body
must be protected
from me
This knot of matter
matters more
than the human host
My uterus must be guarded
lest my brain decide otherwise
since my brain is flawed
because I am only a woman
and you know better
and babies must be born
and intra-uterine ultrasounds are cool
(not a form of rape)
Even though the condom broke
The Pill failed
The boyfriend abused
The husband wanted and took
The father fathered
The stranger raped
Even though I know I
cannot raise this child in love
in security and hope
and the schools you provide
will never educate
and the help you will offer
is skewered by bitter judgments
After all that, you have
no words of condemnation or obligation
for the sperm donor
for the “father”
(who will never be a father)
My uterus must be protected
from my logical brain
Lord, save me from Christians
who believe pro-birth is pro-life
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sometimes it has to be political. Sometimes it’s so obvious. You are welcome to comment, but please don’t SCREAM AT ME IN ALL CAPS. And no foul language, because everyone knows what a prude I am!
For ABC Wednesday, once they post today, E for Extremist. Also for Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you will find an abundance of diverse voices. Give these sites a try. Take the leap! Amy
Response to Great White Whines
So sorry you’re perturbed
That your lunch was disturbed
by our chanting
in the hallowed halls of
the food court
Loud voices demanding change, laying down
bodies; a die-in to protest
killing of unarmed black men
We were faces of all shades
chanting in one voice:
“Black lives matter”
Indigestion? You had it coming
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday, Q for Quandary… I am called white; Anglo; WASP, even, which stands for the ubiquitous White, Anglo-Saxon Protestant – and I stand with Black Lives Matter protesters. This is a natural extension of following Jesus, an enduring symbol of love at its best, embracing everyone as family. I admit I have a hard time embracing bigots; it’s my Christian learning curve.
White folks often cloak their racism in whitespeak, without realizing they are being offensive and ignorant. A good example was this true story above, where a white woman complained to other white women at JCPenney in my presence. She said, “They have the right to complain, but… do they have to use the food court? I had to try and explain what was happening to my granddaughter.” I replied, as evenly as I could, “I was one of the protesters. If you need help explaining it to her, let me know.” She was shocked.
She didn’t want my help. She merely wanted to bitch about being inconvenienced in the smallest of ways… some noise during her fast-food lunch. And she didn’t listen anyway, so I wonder what exactly she told her granddaughter. If she had listened, she would have understood that this was an organized, peaceful exercise of free-speech rights, planned in conjunction with mall security, who were informed by the group beforehand. We were protesting the recent killing of Dontre Hamilton, an unarmed young black man with schizophrenia who had gone off his meds and was killed by a white police officer who discharged 14 bullets. Wisconsin – America – has a race problem, and it’s up to all of us to solve it.
Other Great White Whines:
Why do “they” have to tie up traffic during rush hour? (They? Really? Let’s start there…)
Why aren’t “they” nice like Martin Luther, King? The same people would complain about Dr. King if he was still alive. In fact, they would whine about any public assembly that calls for accountability, when it’s the white race being called out for unthinking privilege.)
My quandary is that I’m a white civil rights advocate. Racists, beige like me, assume I will tolerate their whining, when in fact I don’t, bluntly. And, at first glance, people of color see me as “one of the crackers,” which I’m not.
Many thanks to Mrs. Nesbitt for starting ABC Wednesday, and special thanks to Roger and the ABC gang for keeping those letters rollin’! A great collective. Amy
Where I’m Comin’ From
Look back at the burbs
White enclave; promise of the GI Bill
Manicured lawns, manacled wives who
drank a dram during the drudgery of
The Soap Trinity (Laundry, Dishes, The Edge of Night)
We were their kids, who tried not to notice
We ran scattersplat wild and messy as anything
Hair flying, legs booblaboobla gearing up to race
Kickball, swimming, badminton in a harsh breeze
Barbies hunted Nazis in the woods (we had badass dollies)
Anything was possible; everyone was some shade of pale
…except when my family hosted a jazz party
Singin’ & Sippin’ – white was not a prerequisite
for fitting in; all that mattered was the lushlife music
Screw being eight, ditch that perfect smooth hopscotch stone
Pocket a church key, cuz beer bottles will need opening
and the grownups’ll be too drunk to open their own
Time for goldenbronze fortunes to be shouted and whispered
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The prompt at dverse Poets was “Where Are Your From?” We all wrote a poem about the soil from which each of us sprang. Mine dawdled at home base for our kickball game; but eventually, I found my way to the party. And in all honesty, once I’d found it, my heart never left! Amy
Sing to Spring
(Fade in on open field, where members of the local Women’s Chorus are engaged in their annual ritual of welcoming the new season. Dressed like milkmaids; everyone thinks they are a little nutty.)
Amorous buxom choristers, dancing everywhere
Fearless, guileless, heaving inspirations, juggling knowledge and
lascivious, mature natures…
Pendulum quickens; rhythmic sashay turns vibrant windmill…
(Two hours later, at a coffee shop, the event concludes with these time-honored words…)
Yum! Zabaglione!
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yes, my mother told me that, one fine spring day, a group of her friends from a local women’s barbershop group got together and did indeed “Sing to the Spring.” Of course, it didn’t involve a coffee shop; methinks they were slightly hammered!
For Imaginary Garden With Read Toads, where “Play It Again, Toads” found me attracted to Marian’s ABC romp through the alphabet, along with Margaret’s post of “Spring – detail” (1890) by Thomas Wilmer Dewing. Peace, Amy (and what a fun singer was my Mom, right?)
Pink Champagne
Was that the name of
the chalky rose that graced
my 20-year-old lips
Was it a drag queen or
my girlfriend Rickie who gave me
that stick/mystical tube
Cylinder of cotton candy
and chemical confection
that no doubt helped my pout
Yes, it was Rickie after all who
slipped Georgette Klinger into my purse
and said, “Work it, girl”
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
When Imaginary Garden With Real Toads mentioned the color pink, this little memory emerged from the silver tube of my synapses! I will always be grateful that Rickie Lee Jones is my friend… we are almost the same age, but she was always the big sister, more worldly, a bit wiser. And yes, she still has the BEST makeup, hee hee.
She has her first album of all originals coming out in June, so stay tuned. I will write to one of those pieces.
Amy
Artwork © 2015 Amy Barlow
Rich White Guy Pyramid Scheme
Now you gaze fondly upon
your bread of life pyramid
filled with evidence of
those “special rights” you cherish
The right for your hubris to rule my life
The Right be right, the Left be damned
to burn in hell (at the intersection
of Wall Street and Walmart)
The real family values:
caring for children and elders,
keeping the whole family healthy,
ensuring a future for the children’s children
These values don’t make it
onto your pyramid
Unless they are your blood relations
and you can escape the inheritance tax
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ah, it’s Open Link night at dverse, and Grace is tending the bar. Haven’t posted there in a long while, so come on over and sample the hors d’oeuvres! Also at Mrs. Nesbitt’s brainchild, ABC Wednesday, where Roger and friends are on the letter O (for One Percent!). Peace, Amy
NOW! (with Sid the Kid)
Now is the time
to sing our songs
while we’ve breath in our bodies and
souls that speak out loud
those thoughts that were heretofore
only whispered
Now is the time
to sing our songs
Our collective outpouring
of grand illusions
grander delusions
of elusive goals that never
leave our sights
“If not now, when?”
We don’t do ‘then’
We won’t surrender
the immediacy of this impulse
We want it now
We sing it now
We create it now
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
About time I introduced you to Sid the Kid, previously known as A Guy (and usually accompanied by His Ancestor, who shall remain hidden for the moment!). Sid has morphed over the years into an androgynous kid, always full of fun and optimism. I’ve been drawing him for years, much to the delight of my dear friend Sidnie, for whom I have named my little buddy… even though Sidnie is about as cis-gender a woman as I have ever met, lol.
For ABC Wednesday, the letter N… where our fearless leader, Mrs. Nesbitt, quotes John Donne and we all bring our best alphabetically minded selves to the table! An homage to the eternal liveliness of spring. May the season stir us all from our winter lairs of mind and spirit… if indeed that is where we are stuck at the moment. I know I was, but this prompt helped me break out. Woot!
Peace, Amy
#art #poetry #spring #now #sketches #coloredpencil #abcwednesday
Oh, the Horror!
Bane of childhood Easter basket
Gumptious lather
clodded by machine into
alien-colored, noxious turds
Unnatural, they were, and
poisonously sugar-laced
Pillowstuff spongy
Look if you dare into
the Wayback Machine
That’s me
The kid who ate three or four
The girl whose stomach rebelled
Whose barf was projectile and yet
so colorful
Whose cat was not quick enough
to dodge the onslaught of
harsh-dealt
secondhand
marshmallow peeps
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Never too late for an Easter memory, even on Wednesday! No, I didn’t really barf on the cat, but it seemed like Diva (sitting on my lap, natch) wanted a cat mention in this one, and that was the only way to appease her…
For ABC Wednesday, M for Marshmallow: Merciless Mouth, Madcap Misadventures… add your own ideas in the comments. So glad to be back writing! Amy
Cronifiscence (For Rose)
Used to be, we rough and ready, time-tested but never bested
full-breasted, not-begging-your-behested ladies
were frowned upon, looked down upon as
past our prime
‘More to be pitied than sensualed’
But now we gather in pools of lactic estrogen
to reminisce about dime phone booths
penny candy and two-bit boyfriends
our first quarter centuries marked by
debauchery, doubtless laughter
the ember of roach-clip glowworm
impromptu meetings on the streets
so far below downtown, we were crowned by
halos of cannabis smoke rings
Might be on city subways with melted portraits in windows
crashhurtling then lurching to stinky stop stations
Or southern streetcars harvesting magnolia scent
sliding over tracks greased by funk and fancy
We hail from many lands, form a tribe that
transcends countries of origin, societal strata
We are crones in the best sense of
that beleaguered term – we defy restrictions
Protest “wrinkles as afflictions”
Deny quaint references to “women of a certain age”
We ARE Women of a Certain Age
Certain that we have been there
Certain that we burned our bras and will do so again
if our daughters and all fertile women are denied
choices and voices – we will make noises, so watch out, boyses
We are certain that the world is better with us in it
Our experience has honed us into
magnificent, beneficent, sensible, sexy creatures
We have earned our crowns
We don’t do boundaries or borders
We are found art
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Just in: Added to Poets United’s Poetry Pantry for Sunday!
Rose Preston is a jewel. She lives in New Orleans, born in South Africa. She’s the kind of woman who will save a lovely object d’art for years until she finds the person who needs it… in this case, a lovely card with shining giraffe for her girlfriend’s birthday. I, too, collect bits of this and that (often sending to my old buddy Sidnie), just waiting for the right time, the right hands into which I place that little treasure.
Rose lives. I mean, this woman is traveling home in two weeks, then she’s going on SAFARI! Holy schmoley, that’s living. She was once charged by a baby elephant and, defying odds, snapped “my National Geographic photo,” only to later accidentally delete it… when she was high. I mean, really, kids, this is my kind of girlfriend. God willing, neither of us (nor any of the other fantastic women I spent time with in New Orleans!) will ever grow up, never stop ranting and raving and reveling in our lives.
Now if only I could download the damned pix off my “smart” phone, I’d include her picture. Later, I shall have to edit her image in. Peace, Amy
Sun Goes Down Bitter
Sunset is the saddest light there is
when it signals another night
for a blighted, blindfold family
Threats shouted, curses thrown
‘cross the supper table
flung like mashed off a ladle
Someone always slams palms down
Leaves in a huff, mumbling stuff
This time it’s Dad – which is really bad
Cause he’s mad at Mom, anxious
When he’s anxious he wants some
and he’ll take it from someone
who’s smaller than he is
Can’t talk back, can’t fight back
Can’t swallow her vitamin in the morning
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Susie at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, “Play it Again, Toads.” I chose a line (“Sunset is the saddest light there is…”) from Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of Bees, a book I read years ago and now must read again.
The thought of summer sunsets, very sad. Alcohol for Mom all afternoon… two martinis for Dad – after he had stopped for a drink with the guys. He was quick to anger, yet completely arbitrary… kept his buttons hidden from us, but if Mom knew he was “in the mood,” she’s spark a fight and later go to her room and lock the door.
So much for the safely of the suburbs and the oft-Tea-Partied “stability of two-parent families.” I’d have given anything to get them a divorce! Peace, Amy
PS I am not posting much, but I am in a cycle of artwork: acrylics, India Ink, pastels, courtesy of Cornucopia Arts Center of Madison, WI, a free center for neurodivergent people. I’ll try to sneak in some art next time. A
Sharp Little Pencil 