Face Down in it When I Die
It’s my last wish
that I shall leave this world
drowning in chocolate cake
The dense layers slashed by
thick, sweet frosting and
dusted with Mexican cocoa
But for now, seeing as
I’m pretty much alive
and kicking, I’ll settle
for a plate, a fork, and
a cup of espresso,
swirling mocha on my tongue
The nearest thing to good sex
is rich, sensual, forbidden…
and sitting in front of me
Excuse me while I
indulge in the bliss of
this final piece of pleasure
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Dessert Devil
For the delightfully named Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, courtesy of Ella, whose blog appears HERE. She challenged us to write about food porn. Also hanging about in the kitchens of Poets United. Peace, and whatever food porn floats YOUR boat, Amy
First, a plug for my friend Dani’s site, My Heart’s Love Songs. I am honored to be the featured poet at her blog this week, and she speaks about the global community we are creating by interlinking our blogs. Thanks, Dani!
Always and Forever, Ironweed (dammit)
Our first spring here, a bit of garden space.
Colors came to every garden, save ours.
Only one flower – no crocuses, nor lilies,
nor tulips – but a massive bush of columbine.
Its flowers, sweet pink and yellow
Surveying the remainder: Weeds.
Carefully planted, cultivated weeds,
but who the hell cultivates weeds anyway?
Milkweed and the invasive monster
known as Ironweed, plus some grasses.
Friends took snippets, but what remained
was grief, plus my secret desire to torch it all.
I’m not hip to gardening, nor drawn to
communing with worms… so, with pretty new
red spade in hand (hey, at least I’m
fashionable), I delved into the muck.
Dug around, dug into, but never got under
the pernicious Ironweed. The stillness of
the evening shattered by my clatter, the
prying, the watering of clay dirt to loosen soil,
fingers fumbling, a botched surgery in an
intestinal mess that was the bowel of the weed,
until, YES! One last backbreaking tug – the
plant uprooted and I was on my ass, triumphant.
Attached to the weed’s butt, yam-like, marrowed
spurs of root, tangled as Kardashians in a mosh pit,
evil as Triffids – or those pods in the horror
movie that hatch your zombie replacement.
(Perhaps this is how the Tea Party started?)
Next day, peering out our kitchen window. Monica’s
birthday snapdragons, potted and hanging from
a shepherd’s hook; the lovely, swaying columbine;
fresh-planted herbs; two new begonias and…
an offshoot sprig of Ironweed, fully two feet
from the devil’s own plant I’d just dug up.
I s’pose my pod replicant can deal with this,
once it’s done growing the New Me in our basement.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, “Always,”and for The Sunday Whirl: Secret, Colors, Window, Grief, Massive, Hips, Clatter, Marrow, Perhaps, Hand, Flower, Stillness, Crocuses.
Also at my poetic garden (which has no Ironweed), Poets United and at dverse Open Mic Night!
Shot Glasses and Shop Classes
Hammerin down bourbon like it’s
five minutes before Prohibition.
He only looks up when a
been-there blonde rasps,
“Don’t mean to chisel, but
can you screwdriver me?”
He knows she’s talkin OJ and a shot
but his gaze is stapled on her form.
Still staring, he scrapes up a sawbuck
and plunks it down on the bar.
They carve conversation
out of thin air til closing time.
They file out, arm in arm… maybe he
nailed her, but she ain’t tellin.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, asking us to pick a profession and use the “tools of the trade” (in this case, woodworking) and make the nouns into verbs. Wordworking?
Also at my poetic workshop (sawdust and all), Poets United! Peace, Amy
RICH AND RICHER
Here is the heart of the matter:
One percent get fatter
while children starve.
Their parents are
stark-stricken with guilt.
We 99ers built this country,
White indentured servants;
Black slaves who gave all and
all they got was, “Y’all are lazy,
yer not even worth
one whole person.”
They nursed hope anyway.
The Rich are the sons
and grandsons of men with
ideas but the DNA diluted.
Ever see a xerox of a xerox of
a xerox? Sometimes that’s called
Mister President.
The Rich of today
have never worked
or earned their money.
They play Monopoly
using real people as
little game pieces.
They play the game of Life
using worthless mortgages
as cash for their bank.
They don’t play chess.
That game takes work.
Effort is not their style.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “R.” Also posted at Poets United, my poetic sanctuary.
Babes in Toyland
We weren’t spoiled kids
my sisters and I
Modest presents
under the tree
One year I got
my first and only Barbie
That summer, we got
all our Barbies together
and made them into
Nazi hunters, bringing
bad Germans to justice
(no wonder I married a Jewish guy)
Best of all, my sis
made me a dollhouse
Really, a trollhouse
back in the days when
you could score a troll doll
for a buck, back when
inside the house was
my favorite playground
She worked with balsa
and with crates
designed bedrooms
with ornate curtains
and cool furniture
She also made them clothes
She toiled in secret and
when she unveiled it,
I gotta tell ya,
it was the biggest present
I had ever received…
and the best.
After all these years,
I have this to say:
Thanks, Jo, for
giving me the gifts
of your time and
your loving heart
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Thursday Think Tank at Poets United: Playground
An Unquiet Mind
Virginia Woolf
catching life by the throat
time and again
An unquiet mind:
Dark star, wings of madness
Tender at the bone
The words, the testament.
Far from the madding crowd
the shallows,
weeping waters
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
All titles of books from my shelves – everything from “the” book on manic depression (An Unquiet Mind) to volumes on religion, collections of poetry, and my favorite book: Time and Again by Jack Finney. For the Books On Your Shelf prompt at Rhymes With Tao. Also at my poetic place for peace of mind, for creativy, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Memories of Neisse (for Hanna)
Traditional Seder plate
Looking back, it began slowly.
Happy memories of sacred Friday rituals
Mama lighting the Shabbat candle
Everyone singing songs in Hebrew
Relatives visiting on significant holidays
Passover in Neisse, their little town
Up and down streets, the strings of
small shops owned by proud families
Wandering Jews who’d settled so long
they felt like indigenous Germans
Then, change in the air, a foul stench
as demons plotted in biergartens
with one who had a Master Plan
First is was spittle on Father’s shoes
as they walked to temple
Elaboration: Book burning
Brecht, Freud, Dos Passos, Proust
Einstein, Kafka, Joyce, Helen Keller
Genius flashes turned to ashes
Artwork was destroyed, replaced by
white marble gods and goddesses:
The. Ideal. German. Is. Not. A. Jew.
Young Hanna was told to leave school
and never come back. She glanced
over her shoulder fighting back
bitter, Jewish, no-longer-real-German tears
as a swastika flag was affixed above
the entrance to her (no-longer-her) school
Their summit was yet to be reached
The nadir of Hanna’s life as they
boarded the train for…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Goddess, String, Elaborated, Flags, Sacred, Visit, Demons, Summit, Rituals, Significant, Intentions, Indigenous. Also for dverse Open Link Night.
Dedicated to Riley’s Oma (“grandma” in German), Hanna Weinberger, who escaped Auschwitz two weeks before the Liberation, emigrated to America, married, and had two sons. Also dedicated to the man she married, Leonard Weinberger, and their sons, Rob and Roy.
BABY’S BEGINNING
And though she knew
the marriage was doomed
in her womb there was a seed
that grew steadily
until that glorious night
at the Chinese place
The Quickening
The moment a soul
enters the body and
like Elizabeth’s child,
baby leapt for joy
(so did her mom!)
Blessed with a gig in
Bermuda, piano bar
No star, but paid the bills
(and his too, as he
withdrew into his shell
back in Queens)
Every time mommy
played Duke Ellington
baby’s feet kept time
Fast songs or slow
Kicking perfect rhythm
My covert metronome
And when at last
she emerged from inside
her eyes so wide, so black,
I knew they would stay brown and
I knew we would be together
weathering any storm
Mothers who nurse know
the most beautiful sight
is the top of the baby’s eyelids
as they shut tight
working on their task
nuzzling at the breast
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image by Mahalie, used by permission of Creative Commons
For Sunday Scribblings, “In The Beginning…” Also at my poetic playpen, Poets United!
Lance at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog (yes, there’s a picture of Fight Club on the home page, but it’s all good fun) wanted folks to write poems, 100 wds, to particular songs he’d picked out. On this Mother’s Day, I HAD to write a paean to my own fave dance song by one of the great bands of the 80s. Listen and imagine me and Riley barefoot on the dance floor, with Lex watching us, rolling his eyes…! Can’t think of a better Mother’s Day post for my girl, who made this particular holiday one worth celebrating when she was born in ’88. Love you, Riles.
BOP ‘TIL WE DROP
Punch out the time clock and
pile in the back of the Chrysler, baby
Don’t need GPS, and I don’t mean maybe
Half a mile away you hear the
THUMP THUMP
Pull up SCREECH my God this is a
DUMP DUMP
But the B52s are locked and loaded
and the room sounds like something just exploded it goes
BUMP BUMP
We shimmy the shit off our shoes
We all shimmy sharp at the Shack
If we’re gonna waste our time
we’re gonna waste it well
waste it wildly, hell bent for leather
Gonna bop ’til we drop at the Shack
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
If you are not prepared to read about sexual abuse of a child, please skip this poem. If you have nightmares of being “invaded,” this poem may help you to seek therapy. Your call. Scroll down for the poem. Peace, Amy
My Turn Tonight
Door opens, cringe-creaking
Covers pulled over my head
Keep still, stay quiet
Someone else’s turn instead?
No, I’ve drawn the unlucky card
Trembling as he turns my face
to face the unfaceable and
endure this sick disgrace
Morning, choking back chalk
Sheets dampened by sweat and the sinner
I’m pretty quiet at breakfast
But he grins like a Derby winner
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dampen, Keep, Tremble
Also at my poetic haven, Poets United.
NOTES: Through therapy, I made the journey from remembering to understanding it wasn’t my fault to shrieking truth at the long-dead man in the empty chair to acceptance, and ultimately, forgiveness. Once I forgave, the whole thing became a bubble over in a corner of my mind, where I could examine it on my own terms. The journey took 15 years, and I write about these events to help others connect. May incest, child abuse, child pornography… all die away, and love prevail.
If you suspect a child you know and love is being sexually abused, whether by their father, uncle, brother, teacher… be it a boy or a girl, let that child know they can talk to you about anything at all. Tell them that no matter what, grown-ups should never make a kid keep secrets, especially secrets that scare them. You could save a young person from suicide. Trust me. I was almost there. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 