DECLARATION OF AN ALLY OF THE QUEER COMMUNITY
Queer. That word stops
folks from my generation
dead in their tracks.
We don’t say that word.
Queer.
Always an insult, the word shouted
by football players before stuffing a
loafer-light boy into a wastebasket.
Queer.
Not right. Wrong.
In Matthew Shepard’s case, dead wrong.
Tied-to-a-bumper wrong.
Queer.
The word my daughter uses
in identifying her orientation.
She dresses boyish but loves women.
Queer.
They’re here. Your accountant, your dentist,
your kid’s teacher (not the one with the
porn on their computer, either).
Queer.
Homophobes use it to describe
boys other than their own sons, who
ship out in the Navy to prove they are “real men.”
Queer.
Mom explained it when I was five.
No graphic descriptions of sex,
just, “Uncle John loves Uncle Tony.”
It’s simple.
People are people.
Half the sexual acts straight couples do
could get them arrested in Mississippi.
Queer.
They’re here. Get over it.
They are committed couples.
They adopt kids straight couples don’t want.
They rehabilitate crack babies.
They are wonderful neighbors.
They shop; they pay taxes.
Some are slobs, some are fashionable.
Some drink wine, some drink beer.
Some go to church, some don’t.
They are human beings who are
capable of love, of compassion,
of snottiness, of loyalty.
They deserve life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness.
Just like you.
Just like me.
Just like everybody else.
Amen.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter Q.
And no, that is not a picture of me. It’s me in 20 years or so!
MOON BEAMS
She called ‘round ’bout 10
Didn’t know that just then
the biggest moon ever
was blooming like never
before… so she stopped
her beater car and bopped
to the shoreline and it
shone as if butterkleig-lit
“Mom, it’s so beautiful!”
And I, the dutiful
mother, in her jammies
ran outside – Midwest clammies
sending shivers… but
how often are you put
in a position
to share this apparition
of synchronicity
nature’s creativity
with one you’ve loved so
from first glance, the glow
of her sweet newborn face
Now she’s in another place
Connected by a phone,
neither is alone
We seize this blessed time
this view, superb, sublime
We cry for happy, ‘cuz
we’re sharing The Night That Was
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night, and for Riley – the artistic, fabulous young woman I am proud to call my daughter.
Photo courtesy of The Times Union of Albany, NY.
Wild in the Streets
Those crazy Wisconsinites
From Madison to Green Bay
They’re getting ready
The signs are up; protests continue
Bikers now pump their tires full
Those who walk are re-Scholling their shoes
Unions are getting out the vote
Churches are getting out the vote
Raging Grannies are getting out the vote
College students are getting out the vote
The handicapped are all accessible:
Teachers, farmers, union rank and file
Families on public assistance
People whose jobs were cut to give fat cats tax breaks
Women in general
(Hell, he doesn’t discriminate, he hates ALL of us)
Governor Doofus. Dumber than a sack of rocks.
We’re jumping in the pool
We’re jamming the polling places
We’re ready to make our stand
We’re gonna tell the Koch Brothers that
WISCONSIN IS NOT FOR SALE.
And when we’re done, we’ll meet
on State Street for some local brew
Scott Walker, start packing now
Save us the embarrassment of evicting you
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings (‘wild’) and for Poetic Bloomings, asking for poems based on a movie title.
“Wild in the Streets” is a cult classic about a pop star who eventually gets into politics. Once he’s president, he mandates things like putting people in nursing homes on LSD. It’s a true stinker, but the title was perfect for how some Tea Party members from other state view us, as we strive to get the incompetent man pictured above out of our everyday lives. Teabaggers still don’t get that they have been co-opted by the Brothers Koch, who pull all the strings and want to privatize schools and end reproductive freedoms. Silver-spoon trust fund babies; never really had to work because Daddy left them everything!
I was going to post a poem, but more pressing matters… WordPressing matters, in fact. Thanks to Viv in France for bringing this to our attention.
When you leave a comment on any of our wonderful, creative, poetic, artistic, glorious blogs, REMEMBER to “uncheck” the sneaky little box underneath the window that says “Send me follow-ups to this comment.”
It used to be that you HAD to CHECK that box; you would then receive other comments related to that post in your email.
For some reason, I think Mitt Romney must be in charge, because it has flip-flopped to being checked FOR you, and then all our wonderful, awesome, amazing READERS (this means you!) get flooded with useless comments from our blogs. So unclick that stupid “default check” and you’ll be fine.
THIS IS NOT THE BLOGGERS’ FAULT, and we are trying to figure out how to get WordPress to change this. In the meantime, please, please don’t give up on sending comments… and we won’t give up on answering your critiques, your ideas, and your other comments. I’m sorry our host is giving y’all trouble.
Someone, please smack whoever it is… wait a sec, George W. Bush’s book tanked. Maybe he’s in charge now… in which case, we’re all screwed!
WMD = WordPress Mass Distraction! YIIIIIKES!
Love you all madly. Peace, Amy
Wish Upon a Star
Remember being a kid and
wishing on a star?
I wish I can get a kitten.
I wish my sister wasn’t so mean.
I wish Mike in 7th period English liked me.
I wish my parents would stop fighting.
When I was a child
I wished as a child…
Now I wish for Fukushima
to be cooled, calmed, and collected
I wish for the Middle East to be at peace.
(Hey, I dream big)
I wish Rush Limbaugh would fade
into the obscurity he so richly deserves
I wish young girls would focus on their brains
and that Jon-Benetathons would vanish
I wish racists would grow
hearts… and minds
I wish on the wind for power
and for fracking to cease
I wish for women to be accorded
the rights and respect we deserve
I wish for justice for all, especially kids
For the world to be fed, clothed
This year, Jupiter is larger and
more visible than we’ll ever see it again.
So I focus on Jupiter,
shining bright in the night sky
If you want to heal a planet,
might as well wish on another planet
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Thursday Think Tank at my poetic space station, Poets United, where the prompt was “Wish.”
The Pinkie
The pinkie has a purpose.
Pointing outward at high tea.
Stand proud alongside taller siblings.
Rich people adorn it with rings.
When chopping veggies, it
rarely falls victim to the blade.
No longer than a thumb, yet
pushed to the end of the line, for
Thumb basks in glory of its opposition.
Oh, lowly pinkie, you are my little hero
holding fast at the end of the digits,
keeping the others in line.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “P.” Once in a while, whimsy catches me by the heel, and this is the result! Also at my poetic pinkie ring, Poets United.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, we were asked to choose one of many quotes and write a poem to it. The moment I saw Marley in the mix, I was SO THERE. First the Bob Marley quote; then, the poem. (Also at my poetic hitching post, Poets United!) Peace, Amy
“Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don’t complicate your mind. Don’t bury your thoughts, put your vision to reality. Wake Up And Live!” – Bob Marley
DRIVING LESSON
You learned it all to get your license.
Stop.
Yield.
The colors are:
Red, Gold, and Green.
You’re behind the wheel
all by yourself now, babe.
Take good care.
Mind the signs.
But signs don’t tell it all.
There are potholes:
Anything from a bad grade
to a ruined romance
can throw you for a moment,
head you into a ditch.
Get back on the road,
open all the windows,
crank the radio,
and sing a song.
Cuz around the bend,
something sweet is waiting.
It never fails, never.
Careful on the back roads,
off the beaten path.
You’ll find temptation
is tantalizing.
You may succumb,
but not for long.
You’re not dumb.
And when you’re lost,
no signs to guide you,
that’s the moment of truth.
That’s when you’ll divine
which exit to take.
That’s when you’ll define
who you are, what you’re made of.
Let’s review the lesson:
Stop when you need to.
Yield to NO ONE when you
know your cause is right.
Red. Gold. Green.
Marley’s colors can be
your colors, too.
Your turn at the wheel, darlin.
Make it a sweet ride.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thank you, Bob Marley, for your legacy of love in music and in spirit, promoting peace.
Garden of Weeds
It can start with anything
A feather caught in a curling freefall
That cardinal pecking at my window
The random assemblage of spices
jumbled on the shelf – one tumbles me
awake, ablaze with cardamom coincidence
Mom’s spirit sharing coffee with me
telling stories from where she now resides
in heaven, and thisclose
Even bad memories stir me
dredge, sift, filtering through
my bones, seeping to the nerves
A prophet once told me that
love is everywhere
So is truth
So is pain
So is amazement
So is amusement
So is romance
So is anger…
despair …
relief
So it’s time
to reach for my journal
and sprout another plant
for my garden of weeds
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, better late than never! Marie and Walt called for poems about SEEDS… seeds to plant, to nurture; seeds of poetry and other art… the beginning little “oomph” that pushes one to action.
Photo from Vishwasaha on WordPress. The PROPHET is named Marques Bovre, who also composed a lovely song called “Dandelion.” He’s been through cancer threatment and half the known world is praying for him. He’s on the upswing, but add him to YOUR list if you’re the praying type. Peace, Amy
monday’s forecast
thick, ornery clouds gather
on my mental horizon
chasing my fanciful birds into trees
sending all manner of wild wildlife
into hiding, seeking sanctuary
even the chipmunk on the edge plays
“duck and cover” under the back stoop
it’s coming, the lack of light
of life as I like it
a tunnel, an abyss where
bliss is forbidden
and bright eyes dim to
an absent stare
a slackened jaw, a slacker me
i turn to my bible hoping for answers
“even though i walk in the
valley of the shadow of death
i will fear no… no…”
no words for this condition
no balm in this gilead
no spirit to comfort me
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was “Storm.” This poem started out as a real, physical storm and ended up, as with many of my offerings, with the onset of a bout of depression. Not so much a storm as a sea change, I suppose, but the warning clouds feel the same – and once the faucets open, it might as well be raining. Buckets.
Red Roses
She answered her front door
The bouquet, ceiling to floor
Roses, red and silky, fragrant
Behind them stood the Count
Whom she soon hoped to mount
(without seeming too flagrant)
But first, dinner at Le Grande
Champagne warming their bond
Holding her hand, caressing her wrist
Then back to her secluded place
Where, in their first embrace
The bond was sealed, her neck kissed
She transformed by the light of the moon
He called it the taste of maroon
He was a man of great resources
Their gory nights, filled with laughter
And they both lived forever, ever after
Until global war killed all their sources
Wooed
Chewed
Screwed
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, the prompt was, of course, vampires.
Sharp Little Pencil 