Wonder, Wander
Young girl lies in tall grass
loves seeing flowers from underneath
Queen Anne’s lace, a parasol in sunshine
Timothy grass swinging above her
She wonders why buttercups shine thing
under her skinny chin
Mother looks out the back window
at her daughter and wonders where
life will take her in ten years
Will she also marry and submerge
in the suburbs, eager for her next drink
Billy finds Ginny in the field
Offers her a bite of his apple
“Ha,” says Ginny, “you’re Eve”
He grins, lies down beside her
innocently, wondering
when he will be attracted to girls
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United Think Tank Thursday, the prompt was “Wonder.”
For Trifecta: Three 33-word stanzas, each describing the thoughts of one person connected to the next. I chose the situation each was in, mirrored against the naivete of youth versus the bitter truth of the suburban housewife. This is me, my Mom, and my best friend, John (who finally figured it out: Never!)
Omaha, Nebraska
Seated in the squalor that was
Council Bluffs in those days,
the big city seemed far away.
Even if she got there, someday
how would she find a job
that could pay? Really pay?
She dug up some money,
got a gown downtown and
she could pass for 21 (at 16).
She knew she could sing, then…
She dipped into Mama’s purse
and cursed herself for doing it, but
Mama wouldn’t miss the compact
as she was currently in the mental ward.
“I’m gonna look older, live bolder.”
And Dad was using his daughter
in ways that would not win him
Father of the Year awards.
So she packed up her pack,
left before Dad got back,
and boarded the ferry one day.
Hotel Blackstone hired her
at first sight and first song,
and yes, they would pay, hooray!
In years to come, she would
travel around, by bus, by car,
by train (not by plane).
She owed her start in large part to
Omaha. And Council Bluffs?
Only if there was a funeral.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “O.” Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United.
Image courtesy of “Heaven’s Gates,” but DAMN! This singer in the photo is an absolute ringer for my mom, Charlotte, in those days, when she sang as Patty Long and later as Jan Long (Binghamton already had one Patty Long!).
Pelo Malo/Pelo Magnifico*
Keesha fiddles with the beads in her hair.
This bugs her mom, who carefully combed
and applied conditioner and spent
quite some time braiding her daughter’s do.
“Mommy, why don’t I have hair like yours,
blonde and straight? Why is mine all kinky
and hard to do stuff with, like the beads?
I want hair like yours, why can’t I have it?”
“Keesha, honey, part of being adopted, the
really cool part, is that we don’t have to look alike
to be family. Just like Maya is from Japan and
has coarse, straight black hair and I’m blonde.”
“But MomMaya says her hair is… well, I heard
her say it’s ‘bloody awful’ to take care of, too.
You’re lucky.” Mom wraps her in a tender hug and
says, “I am, but it’s got nothing to do with my hair.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday, “Bloody, Kinky, Tender”
*PROCESS NOTES: When I lived in Puerto Rico, stylists referred to African hair as “pelo malo,” literally “bad hair.” I asked them why; they replied it is difficult to work with, especially with extensions. I was embarrassed to consider the notion of “bad hair.” I cannot look at a picture of Angela Davis or Billy Preston, with their tremendous Afros, and see anything but beauty. Beaded, natural, extended, even straightened (hey, it’s all about personal choice)… it’s all “pelo magnifico” to me, because it’s the hair our worldwide population started with, deep in the valleys of the Tigris-Euphrates.
Longing Becomes Art (also for Riley)
Longing becomes art.
Art becomes enjoyment.
Enjoyment becomes shows.
Shows become employment.
Employment because aaaargh!
Aaaargh becomes strain.
Strain becomes I Need A Vacation
For My Addled Brain.
Brain senses loss.
Loss becomes lack.
Lack of inspiration.
Inspiration slack.
Slacking, she wonders,
where did it start?
Time gives her longing.
Longing becomes art.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Bloomings asked us to take the last line from one of our old poems and use it as a springboard for a new work. The first line is from “Artistic,” about my daughter, Riley. The final line was, “Longing becomes art.” To see the original poem, head to this link, https://sharplittlepencil.com/2011/11/10/artistic-for-riley/
Was a Time When…
Was a time when
nothing was shelved for another day
When, lacking A.C., our windows allowed
the cacophony of Manhattan traffic
to ferment with our Streisand on the stereo
into an ethereal, essentially New York brew
When heartaches were daily doings and
lovers’ promises abstract
When Chinatown was
a neon-spangled dragon,
delicious, exhilarating, smelling of
sesame oil and sweet rice wine
When we’d shimmy on the sidewalk
to every lowrider blasting reggae
Now those days in the City
are an exquisite origami swan
swinging from the ceiling on a ribbon,
suspended over my head
over my half-closed eyes
from the drop ceiling
over my hospital bed
as my life reaches the coda of
its jazzy, dizzying blur
Slowly, veil upon veil of blissful,
mystic, magic memories featherfall
upon my last moments…
but not a single regret
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Exquisite, abstract, spangling, ethereal, ferment, dragon, shimmy, origami, cacophony, coda, aches, shelved. FYI, it’s The Sunday Whirl’s first anniversary this week, so click on the link and check out what others have done with Brenda’s weekly “dirty dozen” words. The variety of thoughts, of what springs to mind and splashes on the page of each poet or writer, is quite amazing. Brenda Warren, BRAVA and thanks!
Also at my poetic nest, Poets United! Peace, Amy
Pity Party Marathon
Feels like forever, this situation.
So sure that she is unappreciated.
Confronting the conundrum:
Is it they who take advantage,
or she who is the doormat?
Their insensitivity,
or her need for deeds to be noticed?
Are they stoking the fire,
or has she tied herself to the stake,
begging for matches?
Martyrdom is a foolish pursuit,
one that drag on a lifetime.
Yet she, as fools do, faces it; embraces it,
forgetting Dolly Parton’s immortal words:
“Get off the cross, honey, we need the wood.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Self-esteem is a struggle for so many women, myself included. Hard to know when it’s a valid complaint or too much navel-gazing. For Sunday Scribblings, where the prompt is “Marathon,” as well as at my poetic hangout (where all the outcasts who created the real stuff stuck together in high school), Poets United. Proud to be a member!
Dreadlocks and the Three Rednecks
Shaniqua was only 13, but she took the A train uptown every Saturday to visit her grandmother, an invalid who depended on help from neighbors for everything from groceries to doctor visits. Her grandma loved these visits for the sheer joy of her granddaughter’s sense of humor and her growing knowledge of old jazz records. This was the day Shaniqua would be introduced to “Ma” Rainey on 78s.
Today, the A was hopping with Yankee fans, headed up to watch Steinbrenner’s investment pay off once again as they chugged warm beer and scattered the bleachers with peanut shells. Shaniqua noticed the predominantly white ridership, so she pulled up her hoodie and gazed obliquely out the greasy subway window. Three rednecks were harassing a gay guy when they turned their attention to someone they assumed would be more intimidated by them.
“Hey, little girl, you ain’t related to Rosa Parks, are ya?” drawled an out-of-towner, sitting pretty even though several older women were forced to stand, strap-hanging. His buddy caught on, got up from his seat (a senior widow slipped in fast as a New York minute, smiling smugly about getting off her tired feet). The second guy: “Why’re you wearin’ that hoodie? You a gangsta type? Member of a gang? We hear tell there’s all sorts of you people on these trains, stealing wallets and such.”
Finally, Number Three, cracking his knuckles, bellowed, “ARE YOU DEAF, LITTLE GIRL?” They surrounded her now. Sweat on her brow, dripping into her basket of homemade muffins. (C’mon, Mr. Ellington, make the A Train go faster.)
They ripped down the top of her hoodie to reveal her spectacular dreadlocks, woven by her mother since age five. “Looky here, boys, we got us a real Jamaican girl. Say, why don’t you teach us to dance? Do you know any Bob Marley?”
Her stop was coming. “Well, I can’t dance with you,” she said to the first cracker, “because I don’t like guys in flannel shirts. And you,” she pointed to Number Two, “are racist and just plain mean. I don’t think you like yourself much.” By this time, the grannies had all surrounded the group, ready to take action with purses and canes if the men got too close to Shaniqua. She was somebody’s granddaughter, after all.
“And you,” she said to Knuckle Cracker as the train pulled into her stop at 171 and Fort Washington. “You are so pathetic you’re wearing a Mets cap to Yankee Stadium, you have a mullet, and your pants are hanging so low my pastor would kick you out of the church. You’re a wannabe with bad underwear and a butt-crack.”
As they stood slack-mouthed, she hopped off the train. “And you don’t pay attention, because you missed your stop. Go back to 161st Street and catch the B over east.” Then the grandmas smiled knowingly at each other. It was going to be a long trip to the stadium for the non-residents of Harlem.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta: Unlimited words, rewrite “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
Photo courtesy of www.littleafrica.com.
FREE SPIRIT SPEAKS 
You knew this about me before we first met
True, I’m your companion, but nobody’s pet
No leash will I wear, nor “She Is Mine” collar
So what, when I wander, gives you right to holler?
Can’t Alpha Male Tantrum me into submission
Rant all you want to, but it’s my tradition
A part of my birthright – we’re radical women
His water is warmer… and I’m goin’ swimmin’
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Form For All: Framed Couplets (first and last words must rhyme in each couplet!)
Also at my poetic hearth and home, Poets United.
Photo courtesy of Superstock.com, providing free images (for the time being!).
Bud is Bummin’
Bud’s buttressing his building,
same as yesterday and forever.
Paper cup kept jingling:
The classic ask.
I’m boy I’m embarrassingly I’m
so damned late,
I buzz by him without blinking;
must rumble through
the crowded sidewalk,
Almost to the conference door.
My heart screams;
conscience bubbles through my bloodstream,
hits my medulla “obligata.”
Turning tail to the nearest café.
Two large coffees, a cup of milk,
a banana (potassium) and bran muffin.
Sugar, yellow, pink, blue packets.
I don’t take sweet, but he might.
Back at the bastion,
Bud’s taking a break, huddled under a blanket
I offer him the tray;
he looks up and mumbles, “What’s this?”
“All for you, sir, except the second cup.”
I blush, grab my portion, bend to share a hug.
I run off.
Blessings abound.
Angels around.
Dependence is a two-way street.
If we want to connect with them,
let’s show respect for them
Let’s interrupt our previously scheduled lives
for a moment of grace.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dependence, Kept, Rumble; for dverse Open Mic Night; and as always, for Poets United, my poetic hotspot!
L’artiste
Who knew
a silent flick
would capture our hearts so completely?
Mon Dieu!
The French sure click
The characters captivate sweetly
Dog star
Jack Russell bred
who leapt off the screen with this talent
By far
Critics all said
Our Uggie is smart, cute, and gallant
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night and my beloved Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Day 17 of Poem a Day.
This is for Beth, because I know how much she loves Jack Russell terriers.
Sharp Little Pencil 