C’mon. Don’t tell me you didn’t see a rant coming this week! Politically yours, Amy
Naked at the Tea Party
Morning mist lifts over Madison
yet a cloud remains
following the foolish victor who
occupies a solid gold throne
furnished by a Faustian family
from a land far, far away
As he breaths through his mouth
he complains his crown
is bulky, unwieldly (gotcha! He doesn’t know that word)
adored as it is with spangles, sparkles
the spoils of ill-gotten gains
and still – ill repute remains
He resigns himself to another day
of allowing teachers to go home (forever)
Freeing children from pesky doctor visits
Yet his doom looms: HE IS JOHN DOE
Jump one hurdle, slam into a wall
The drumbeat grows: Indict “Koch Lite”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Bulky, Mist, Reign.
Also at my poetic soapbox, the ever-trusty Poets United (not a PAC, incidentally!).
Image courtesy of the magazine named for my patron saint: Mother Jones.
Sorry I didn’t post for two days, but here’s a slice of life from a teenage girl’s point of view.
UGLY.
Mirrors are cruel.
They never say she’s
the fairest one, yet she
dares another look.
She doesn’t see
herself, she only sees:
Ugly.
Horrible acne, festering, hideous.
A lump is in her throat as she
steps back for the full-length view.
Flat chest, not the
jiggling fullness boys like.
Hips SO not there.
And her hair, a disaster
of biblical proportions;
not really blonde,
not exactly brown,
more like puddles after
a long, soaking rain…
or the worms that come out to
get squished on the sidewalk.
And the scars on her wrists,
constant reminders that she
tried to rid the world of
this pustule of a person.
Rubbing lavender lotion on her
warm belly (at least I’ll smell good,
not that they’ll get very close),
then, donning the final insult:
the glasses.
(Bifocals at 16. I mean, really?)
She sneaks downstairs for breakfast
before catching the bus to school.
Her mom, who is of course GORgeous
and dressed the same, pours juice.
See her hands, perfectly manicured,
her flawless skin, and long,
auburn hair pulled back carelessly
in a scrunchy. Effortless.
She measures herself against
the impossible, easy beauty of her mother.
(I’ll never be that pretty, never.)
Mom turns and says,
“Paul, remember your biology test today.
Oh, look, you’re wearing the shirt
I got you at the mall!” A kiss on the forehead.
“My handsome boy. Don’t break any hearts today!”
Don’t worry. She won’t, not while
that worrisome bulge is in her jeans.
The thing that doesn’t belong on a real girl.
Gym today… she shudders,
takes a bite of a muffin,
feels the Adam’s Apple
bounce with the swallow.
Ugly.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was “Costume,” (and, indeed, that’s what this teenager wears every day) and ABC Wednesday is on “U.” Also posting to dverse Open Mic Night, where a collection of more than 100 poets usually post their favorite poems of the week. All descriptions, all diverse subject matter, all manner of poets. Look for Aaron Kent, if he has posted a spoken word, too!
NOTE: Life is more than difficult for transgender teens; it’s often impossible. Too many kids commit suicide, caught in the confusion of their gender identity and an undefinable shame about how they are built vs. who they know they are. As with other teens with gender identity confusion, they are constantly on guard, worried their secret will come out. This “young man” yearns to go the the prom in a dress with cleavage. Who can blame her? She is, in her heart, a girl who happened to be delivered into the wrong body. Pray for our kids. High school sucks for straight kids – imagine yourself in this kid’s shoes. Peace, Amy
Heart.
Muscle.
Pump.
Can be defeated by eating “to your heart’s desire,”
yet your heart desires it not,
only your want to fill
that empty spot.
Heart.
Symbol.
Red.
A child hangs his Valentine on the fridge,
only to find the dog
thought it interesting;
she nuzzled it down, chewed it to bits.
He runs crying to Mom.
Heart.
Soul.
Passion.
She now grants access carefully. Her heart
has been broken before,
but it healed, gained resilience.
The scars may show,
but she will live
to love again.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads: We were asked to post the song that helps us through our heartbreaks and write a poem about it. This prompt caught me by the tear ducts.
The YouTube track is, of course, Rickie Lee Jones (not “Ricky,” spelled wrong on the title page). Tom Waits wrote this song for her, and she sang it every night as the encore during her first national tour. I went to this song for solace time and again, in the years before Lex. She is a treasure trove of writing talent on her own, but here is where an angel’s voice meets the song the actual writer could never sing to great effect.
Fortress in Mind
Secrecy was her secret to survival.
She forgot what happened because
no one talked about it.
Not even her sisters.
She cultivated a rabbit-proof fence
of quietude and dreams,
tracing images in the gritty grain of
their plaster bedroom ceiling.
Why did she only find scared faces?
Grew up in denim armor,
ensuring no boy wanted to date
the girl in the high-top Keds with
“Don’t touch” scrawled in acne.
Landed in Manhattan and
took on a new façade: Approachable.
This, too, was a wall; after all, she’d
“lost it” so long ago, it mattered little
who used her
or when
or where
or how.
All this took place inside
an elaborate labyrinth of hedgerows,
within the castle she had
built in her mind.
The only person who swam in the moat
was her father, he having the privilege
of power, which he exercised unwisely,
unkindly. Unrepentant and unchallenged.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was “fortress.” Also at my poetic fortress, Poets United.
After tonight’s depressing turn of events here in Wisconsin, where a dunce has retained his cap because the King lent him $30 million – no strings attached, of course… ugh. Anyway, I had to think of something positive. And nothing is more heartening than a tale of a Madison small business that makes artists out of people who simply assume they have no talent. Kim, this one’s for you and your intrepid crew!
FIRED uP!
Workplayhijinks at
the local pottery shop.
Monica molds clay into
small discs; she’ll chisel
Celtic figures to fashion runes,
piercing each disc with a lace.
A mistake with clay?
Hey, crumple, start over.
At another table, colors
burst forth as Stephanie
dips her sponge to draw forth
bright discs of color on
a black cup; the design
beats any we’ve seen, as
intricate dots are dropped
into the circles in third dimension.
Karen splits her spoon rest
into shades that will please
her kitchen. She’s done this
before, you can tell, she does it well.
CRASH! Something goes
over the table edge.
Owner Kim sweeps up. She’s
earned every bruise on her knees.
She crouches to retrieve
shards of hardened “baked goods.”
I wonder what closing time is like.
The kiln, glazing over bits of art,
and Kim’s face, beaming as she surveys
her corner of the creative world.
The kiln, or Kim…
which glows more?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Bruise, Chisel, Crumple, Crouch, Crash, Edge, Split, Draw, Pierce, Burst, Beat, and Glow.
Image courtesy of www.stockxchange.com, a royalty-free photo resource.
At FIRED uP!, owner Kim Stanfill-McMillan makes sure the members of her staff are all sassy, fun people. Girl Scout troops come in groups; home school kids have projects; and there’s a Ladies’ Night, where we all brown-bag our own bottles of Zin or beer… I combined two separate occasions because I wanted to mention all my friends and our projects!
Hey, y’all, sorry I have not posted for a couple of days. Lex presided at a wedding – lovely couple, loving family, lively friends. I was involved as a “second pair of hands” with things like, “WHERE ARE THE BOBBY PINS!!??” and offering to run to the drug store for that, some Advil… you know the drill. Rewarded with a beer on the Bridal Bus while the couple were taking pictures. Adventure for those two just beginning. (CUE THE CARPENTERS)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a hymn to back yards everywhere.
BACK YARD EVENING
Step out our sliding back door
and step into a condo-life miracle.
A huge yard, formed by buildings
on every side, protected play space.
Little Graham next door draws
on the back stoop: smell the chalk.
(Oops! He also needs a change,
says my keen mommy’s nose.)
His Dad drills heavenly brats and
neighbor Diane drools, “I’ll take three.”
We sit in lawn chairs, share local
beers; a whiff of malt wafts on the breeze.
Freshly mown grass, green aroma
mingling with fading lilacs.
And now Jean’s baked muffins add
a gentle vanilla to the other scents.
One perfect June evening… with
our neighborhood potpourri.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Triple Oaks Nursery and Herb Garden of South Jersey. Check out their page – beautiful blooms abound!
For Poetic Bloomings, to the prompt, “In the air.” Also at my poetic playground, Poets United. This new neighborhood has brought back some wonderful memories, especially the yard… it’s patrolled by every stay-at-home parent and home-office resident. We have all planted gardens to our own taste, and it’s burgeoning blooms here in Madison! Peace, Amy
THE TROUBADOUR
He’s parked and playing
outside the Willy St. Coop.
Walnut guitar strummed by
chestnut fingers. A smile
as he soulslides his way
through “Stand By Me.”
I stand swaying, appreciating;
we share a grin and I join in
on the chorus. We sing
in pitchpricklingperfect harmony.
“Take a verse, little sister.”
I slip in that side door of possibility
and respond in a gritty voice
from my soulful side, bringin it.
As the troubadour takes
lead on the chorus, I’m
floating above with a subdued
harmony. We blend like
strong coffee and Bailey’s,
mingling, merging, melding
into one voice. We finish and
exchange info to do this again.
Serendipity lives in Madison,
streets abloom with organic music.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “T.” Also for Poets United’s Think Tank Thursday, “possibility.” This actually happened to me during a shopping trip on my way to my therapist’s office. I composed the poem in its entirety while in her waiting room. Rarely have I been so fortunate, especially during a depressed period, to come upon such a soulful singer/guitarist sitting right in my path, open to a short jam. Carl is his name and we’re hoping to record a bit in the near future.
Possibility. This poem reminds me that ANYTHING is possible if only I can get myself out the door and into the world! Soul singing. Uplifting, unexpected, and so good for everything positive that dwells beneath my inner darkness. Carl helped light a spark in me that reminded me of all the beauty that awaits once this cloud lifts… Peace, Amy
I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good) (click on link to hear the song)
Amy Barlow (vocals) and Stuart Watarz (piano)
Music by Duke Ellington; lyrics by Ned Washington (used by permission of their estates)
SINGING STANDARDS
Those well-known, well-worn songs
of Ellington, Gershwin, Mercer
My primer, my guide from childhood
I wanted to make them my own so
I read the lyrics poetically first
before I sang them; I grew them inside
myself, within the deep chambers
of mystery, of smoky romance
and infectious delight
I never sang a song
the same way twice, but
I tried to get it right
Not trite, this advice to
younger singers: Read the song
first, listen to the lyricist
Don’t imitate, it grates
and you will sound over-rehearsed
and you will be dismissed as a poser
Don’t listen to Ella. Ever.
She embeds in your head and
will be artist-in-residence
Sing it. From the sole of your shoes,
from the fire in your heart,
from the orgasmic desire
Though the song was written
before you were born,
know in your heart that
there’s your version waiting
to be sung from your POV
Blow your horn, baby
and give out like there’s
no turning back,
no way out
cuz there isn’t. Once you’re
lost yourself in a classic…
you’re where you need to be
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night. “Standards” are the jazz tunes every good musician and singer knows before accepting a gig. As Time Goes By, Fly Me To The Moon, Embraceable You, … then there is the second, special tier of songs not on “the list” but that earn a singer points with the band members for knowing them… Lush Life, I Cover the Waterfront, Cottage for Sale.
The song on the media player is a standard; however, this is the complete version with both full verses, so it straddles the two tiers above. This version makes more sense, because it deals with the weekend, THEN “when the weekend’s over.” I cut my teeth on these songs, and I hope you like this version, from my CD, “Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride,” available for download HERE.
Military Schooling
Son of aristocracy, 1922
Flinty Mayflower stock
Brittle china lay at table
Burnished tea set
He was cocooned and at age 12
sent away to military school
The train’s scenery, a blur
from his first-class berth
The boys, also Sons of Sons,
were bigger, rougher than he,
raised as he was with two austere sisters
and a chalky-pale nanny
His first evening, knees scraping
the bathroom floor, drenched in sweat,
tongue rancid with the barnacles
that clung to the older boys’ yachts
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Blur, Cocoon, Tongue, Scrape, Burnished, Brittle, Austere, Flinty, Drenched, Rough, Barnacles, Chalk. These words formed themselves into the best account I can figure of the “schooling” of delicate boys in the old days of private, all-male schools. Always a “new fish,” just like prison.
Also at Poets United’s Poetry Pantry, which welcomes poems of all types.
The Last Time I Danced
Grocery store run
Jeans with a big raggy hole
where my knee protrudes
Tan sneaks with pink shoelaces
(no big panama with a purple hat band…
but then, that’s a long time ago)
Chugging along with a cart full of
healthy foods for our responsible diet
and in consideration that we are both
in our 50s now and then
over the intercom
“Dancin’ in the Street”
Martha and the Vandellas,
none of that Mick and whosis crap
Another woman looks at me from
the cereal section and then we both
lay excited eyes on a dude in
Harley jacket and old boots
trolling the Gatorade
Who’s on first?
As if you have to ask
I take the lead line, inciting the riot
The three of us break into song
and dance like the freaks we were
like the freaks we still are
with every ounce of hippie left in us
She’s showin her tat of Marley on her
left arm, he’s swappin a picture of Jesus
on the back of his neck and me, I got no marks
but smile lines chiseled on my cheeks
We’re reeling in total abandon and
oblivious to the folks at either end of the aisle
Even the vegetable guy left his post
And at the fadeout, we’re fading out too
back to our carts as though nothing happened
The other shoppers burst into applause
and we all run back together in the
middle of the aisle to take a bow and
hug each other like there’s no tomorrow
Haven’t seen them again
Perhaps we were all each other’s angels
if only for that moment
Reminders that you can always let that
freak flag fly high enough to glide
as long as you keep enough freak inside
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, who called for Carefree Hours, or the last time you did something out of pure delight. This is delight, rebellion, and a three-person unplanned flash mob all in one package! Also for “Strange Bedfellows” at Sunday Scribblings and “Walk of Life” at Poetic Bloomings. I don’t walk; I dance, and as for strange bedfellows, I thought it would be nice to have them be total strangers with something in common but NO business dancing in the middle of the grocery store!! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 