Guilt Trips (a limerick)
Don’t try to put guilt trips on me
I know when you try them, you see
I find them soul-sapping
There’re merely lip-flapping
And therefore ignored easily
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: Once in a while, I like to have a fun day of poetry. No sturm und drang, no tragic heroes, no political rants, no child abuse… just a little tickle to the funny bone. (Plus I’m a bit manic today!) Have a beautiful day, wherever you are. Peace, Amy
You’ll find this in the right column at Poets United, where they love me whether I’m manic, depressed, or somewhere in between! Check it out.
MY MAN (the texture of his soul)
Jagged thorny corners where
nuns did a number on him
Nearby, a fountain that weeps salt
for this father, gone too soon
On one side, blown glass
Cool to the touch, warming now…
Burlap covers newly planted notions
He will wait for blooms
Devotions in denim, closed eyes
weary after work of worship
A patch of stubble – not 5:00 Draper
but his biting, familiar sarcasm
A kazoo juts out of one side
waiting to play “Bridge On The River Kwai”
Settling in to meditate will be hard
what with all the racket, but he’ll get there
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “M.” Also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
This seemed to be the week to write about Lex, who pastored during a Seder on Thursday, spent quiet time on Good Friday, went to the vigil with me on Saturday, and rocked the church with an amazing sermon on Easter Sunday. Love of my life; man of God; sweetheart of a guy. Trust me, you’d love him.
I love the blog, “Imaginary Garden with Real Toads,” several writers who toss out different prompts. I saw Kerry’s challenge to write from the oral tradition, a story one would tell a small audience seated on the rug all around. Instantly I heard my grandma Blanche and imagined how she might tell of her long-ago relatives in the old country. I don’t do prose very often, but I do hope you enjoy this, offered with all my Shanty Irish heart. Peace, Amy
Long Ago and Far Away (the soil from which I spring)
Long ago, our ancestors dwelt far away, in a harsh land. Soil so rocky, for every shovel that dug in, two stones came out, and the walls and cottages were built with these. What was a hindrance became a treasure.
Men and tall enough boys tilled the landlords’ fields or worked the mines. Hardship was their way of life; the flintiest labor therefore must be rewarded in a friendly, communal atmosphere. Those who had pushed a plow or descended into the pitch black nether to dig for coal gathered nightly at the public meeting house, which was meant for all meetings pertaining to village life, but mostly beloved for its bar. Every village had a “pub,” as well as a church or two (the second being Anglican, depending on how England’s will held sway in town).
Soon, a tankard was banged on the bar and silence would come over them like a fog. A singer – Lord, you cannot toss a pebble in all of Eire without hitting a fine tenor! Someone offered a song. The verse was his to sing, and all voices joined in on the chorus. Some were mournful, in minor key, recalling a death or the loss of a plot of land, such as “Four Fields.” Others were rollicking, bawdy reels sung so loud they’d bring on the need for “just one more drink, and then I’ll see the missus.”
Meanwhile, the lady of the house, having milked the cow, drawn water from the well for washing faces of little ones, cleaning clothes, and scrubbing floors on her knees; having beaten blankets, spanked a naughty one or cupped another’s face in her palm, chopped wood for the fireplace to keep the house warm and roast the meat, stoked the stove for baking and invited the widow over to gossip over a cup of tea; having worked miracles with the potatoes yet again, fed the children, told them a story before prayers and kisses… After all this, she’d sit in her rocking chair, waiting for her man to stumble in, doff his hat, and eat his portion.
Then it was up the stairs together and, should the drink not have deprived him of his manhood, they would have a go at making another baby. As for how that happens, my dears, well, that would be a story for another day…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic pub, Poets United, for their Poetry Pantry!
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, ancestry, oral tradition
Billie Holiday
Her story, stuff of legend
Hard to believe a girl
who scrubbed the whorehouse steps
was a child of destiny
Louis and Bessie’s songs, a balm
wafting through the brothel windows
(masking commercial commotion upstairs)
That jazz summoned magic buried in her very marrow
At seventeen, at dusk, she entered a club
The audience, the first witnesses
to a staggering talent, unbroken by
the sorrows of her childhood
Finding her soulmate in sax man Lester Young
Coursing through their veins and blended history,
their addictions: Jazz and heroin
First gave life; second led to early death
Too young, a deathbed. Money taped to her thigh?
A filthy lie, as befits urban legend
The collective force of Lady Day and Pres?
The real deal – raw truth pressed on vinyl
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Destiny, Dusk, Mate, Marrow, Staggering, Buried, Songs, Blood, Addiction, Story, Sorrows, Broken. These words began singing choruses of “Lover Man” to me before I knew what I was going to do with them. Also posted at the Poets United Poetry Pantry.
Image courtesy of www.jacklawrencesongwriter.com, in his photo files. Thanks, Jack!
Although the rumor of money taped to her thigh was false, police did arrest her on her deathbed for possession. Lester “Pres” Young, who nicknamed Billie “Lady Day,” was in fact nicknamed by Billie as the President of Sax Players. Wish I could have included the video on YouTube of her TV session in her later years on “Fine and Mellow,” but the cut was too long. Look it up; you’ll spot Gerry Mulligan, Coleman Hawkins, Pres on the second sax solo, Mal Waldron on piano, and more. When Pres Young died of self-abuse (alcohol and heroin), Billie was not allowed by Young’s wife to sing at the funeral. Billie said bitterly, “I’ll be next,” and she was, four months later.
Many followers of the Christ assume only they are going to Heaven. Even worse, within Christianity, there are pickers and choosers; they claim to speak for God and freely condemn all sorts of people, just like the Pharisees did in their day. So this is dedicated to the harder hearts among Jesus’ legacy, sure the Rapture is just around the bend and rubbing their hands in delight and/or angst about all us miserable folks who are surely going to Hell.
Honey, Hell is right here on earth… just look in a crack den. I don’t believe in the Rapture. Jesus said love God and each other. God is LOVE! Can I get an “amen”? Amy
A THOUSAND YEARS
A Fundie sighed
that if I died
today, I’d go to Hell
“How do you know
just where I’ll go;
and when we’ll hear that bell?”
Until the “Rapture,”
let us capture
what God bids us to do:
Doing justice
living kindness
and walking humbly, too
End it today?
Guess I’d say
I truly have no fears
I live as though
the earth will go
another thousand years
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image by Monty Propps at b3ta
Loathsome Lothario
Lordy! Ladies loooooove Lenny,
lackadaisical, lame-ass loser.
Looks: Lethal.
Leaver? Likely.
Lovelorn, leftover lasses
lament losing Lenny:
lemmings
leaping
l
e
d
g
e
s.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “L.” Also at my poetic café where the chairs are really comfy, Poets United! Check out both sites for contributors and you’ll find some groovin’ work, including photographers and storytellers.
PAD April #7, and all while getting ready for Easter Sunday worship tomorrow. Peace, Amy
A peaceful Good Friday to Christians, and Happy Pesach to Jews. To Muslims, a moment’s breath… and to all, those who follow a path of faith and atheists alike, I wish you peace and love. Amy
Order in His Court
His growl is worse than his bark
His bark is worse than his bite
He’s hyped to the max on drugs
He’s free to spread bile and spite
To justify his self-hatred
He takes it all out on “girls”
Who’d marry such a foul swine?
(She hates sex – but does love pearls)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Growl, Hype, Justify. Also on the “sidelines” (right column) of Poets United. I’m so proud to be a member! Amy
Folks, I’m amazed I’m even posting, but PAD means exactly that – a poem a day for the month of April. I KNOW I HAVE NEGLECTED RESPONDING TO YOUR COMMENTS FOR THE PAST FEW DAYS. I humbly ask for your patience: It’s Holy Week. Tonight, I am coordinating the ritual portion of a Seder at Lake Edge UCC. Soon I’ll respond, I promise.
Today is a special day for a very special friend. This is her story…
SOJOURNER
She’s moving again
Unsettling – like the trap door
fell out from under
her well-worn sandals
How many times has she
Called Two Men & A Truck?
They know her by name
But this time is different
New, her own sweet space
New keys, placed in her palm
by friends who love her
Feels like coming home
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads… too late to post there, but the prompt was: Find four words and create a poem out of them. My words were Home, Keys, Feels, and New. Also posted with my buds at Poets United, as always. Peace, and happy moving, Monica! Amy
Day Four of National Poetry Month’s “Poem a Day.” Feeling my oats, thanks to Poetic Blooms (see below for process notes and sites). Peace, Amy
MRS. CLEAN WIPES THE SLATE
Woe to you, lobbyist and profiteer
Avenue K will be set on its ear
Begone, day traders sipping hot
MochaccinoSkinnyNoWhipLattes,
as your fingers scurry over the laptop keyboard,
some letters and most numbers worn off,
scars of fiscal battle
Gird your loins, o members of Congress,
for your days of feasting shall draw to a close
as I focus my wrath on your graft
Whosoever can be bought will be for naught
Sweeping streets and slaving in call centers
(for a living wage, of course)
The payola shall be purged
Elections no longer auctioned to the highest bidder
(or Brother), nor Diebold election machines
glean false numbers from pro-Machine hackers
Even the Supremes will feel my ire for
conspiring to convince us corporations possess
ears, eyes, tongues… and souls
For I, Mrs. Clean, now hold the power:
Contained in the Golden Rule,
affirmed by the Great Commandment of Love
I am trusted by even the crustiest atheist
(because I’ll drink coffee and shoot the shit
with people of every belief or non-belief)
Mrs. Clean will change the scene and proclaim
the mighty truth: Democrats and Republicans
stink of graft equally, and in good measure
President Obama should bring our troops home NOW
And when that is set right, the real work begins:
Mitt Romney will wash windows at women’s clinics
Newt Gingrich will scrub toilets in public restrooms
Hillary Clinton will bake free cookies on 12-hour shifts without
breaks, just like Chinese children work on her watch
Ron Paul will oversee Area 51 but make no more money
than the baristas at the low-cost local cafes
Rush Limbaugh will be bombasting “Would you
like fries with that?” in a little paper hat
Michelle Bachmann will be sent back to middle school
to learn history and how to recognize gay boyfriends
And Sarah Palin? Field-dress THIS
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings – a second take on their prompt, Superheros, which I had answered earlier with “Reflector Babe.” Also at my site of sites, Poets United and that dynamite poets’ cafe, dverse.
Sharp Little Pencil 