Refractions
Recounting the reflexes
that led to down and out.
Remembering that December,
the thin coat, the glances
of passersby wondering why
the girl who was talking
to herself had not found
a warm shelf on which to perch,
the chilled canary fairy without wings.
Ruffles her feathers that they might
have thought of her so.
Regretting the rejection by men
after they’d had their fill, having
sucked her soul from within its
sand castle, the frailty of her ego.
She winding-wanders on but
pauses at odd moments to reflect.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
National Poetry Month, Day Three! One more take on Sunday Scribblings’ prompt, Reflect. Also hangin’ with my kin at Poets United: Scroll down their right column and meet some amazing poets! Peace, Amy
Taffy
The point at which I knew Taffy was
the perfect bet was not because of a trick,
nor a whisper (a la Cesar Milan).
For a spaniel, her shape was odd.
She could pack on pounds begging for cookies,
going from one family member at a time.
Once, she ate string, and she sat still
as I eased it back out of her mouth,
her breath not what one would wish for in a dog.
Her coat didn’t shine, and she had
a lifelong taste for running in the back forty
to roll in dead things, then eat them.
But one night, Taffy laid down
on my lap when I was feeling quite sad.
She gently put one paw on my hand.
And I melted into a puddle of mush.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
PAD #2!
For The Sunday Whirl: Trick, Pack, Point, Whisper, Smell, Shape, Shine, Taste, Wish, String, Pet, Paw.
Also with my Poetic Peeps, Poets United.
Whoa, babe, first day of PAD (Poem a Day, all April), and it’s a trifecta! Process notes below, but first, the poem.
REFLECTOR BABE
If I could have one power
it probably would be
a magic mirror carried
all over town with me.
If someone shouted, “N*****!”
I’d take it from my purse
to hold it up before them
and then they’d want to curse;
for they would see a black face,
they’d stare quite quizzically.
And then I’d asked them plainly,
“Do you see what I see?”
Or bullies shoving gay kids
into the garbage bin.
My mirror’d show them how they’d look
once they had been tossed in.
The rich would see the homeless,
the cheaters, a square dealer.
Oh, with my mirror, I might have
the powers of a healer.
For even if they didn’t change,
perhaps they’d take some time
reflecting on their ways, o Lord!
Would that not be sublime?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings (reflect), Poetic Bloomings (super hero), and Poets United’s Poetry Pantry. I thought about the prompt “reflect” and, rather than render another reflection about politics, child abuse, depression, or whatever the heck was on my mind, I’d use the mirror image. Then Blooms wanted poems about super heros, and since I had already posted “Volume Control Grrrl” (with a flick of my wrist, I could render booming car stereos mute, as well as people loudly discussing their gall bladder operations while I’m trying to eat at the next table), I thought this would be more in keeping with my values. And Poetry Pantry? Hell, I post EVERYTHING at Poets United, because they are my Gang of Many Wonderful People! Peace, Amy
1955
She was good looking.
He whistled in appreciation.
Rednecks approached: “Black boy,
gonna teach you a lesson.”
Pistol whipped, drowned, 14. Emmett Till.
Open casket: Mama’s wishes.
That cruel reality slapped us awake.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta Friday: Write a horror poem or story in exactly 33 words, without employing the following words: blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun, or kill. I chose this true story because for me, there is nothing more frightening than to put oneself in the shoes of a victim of hate crime, and Emmett Till’s death and public funeral were key to the outrage that sparked the Civil Rights Movement, a cause my mother believed in deeply and outspokenly.
This poem will also appear at Poets United, my poetic peeps.
Bring Back My Heart, copyright details below
The prompt at Poets United’s Thursday Think Tank is “Music.” Hey, what an opportunity, right?
Here is a song from my CD, Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride.
You can hear me sing it if you click on the link above.
Hope you enjoy this little love song, recorded at the studio of my dear friend Jon Randel. Peace, Amy
Bring Back My Heart
Thank you for the visit, it really was sublime
To catch up on the news after all this time
I packed in such a hurry, some things got left behind
So if you wouldn’t mind…
My toothbrush and my dental floss, I left them on the sink
And a lone Peruvian earring, in the living room, I think
Some pictures of my daughter on a table by the door
And my lingerie we left scattered on the floor
It’s really quite the laundry list
But there’s one more thing I missed
Bring back my heart, return it to me
At the first convenient opportunity
It had just come off the shelf
And I had planned to keep it for myself
I didn’t leave it in the bedroom – I’m not blasé
That’s not the place where hearts are given away
Perhaps it was the restaurant where you took my hand
And told me life had not turned out exactly as you’d planned
You asked me whether I had hopes to share my life again
And I told you God had plans for me, but wouldn’t tell me when
My heart was mine alone
And until we kissed, I thought it had turned to stone
Bring back my heart, we’ll see what’s in store
Make my office gossip when you show up at the door
Bring back my heart, but until you do
I know it’s safe with you
So put it in your pocket, keep it close
Hold it with the treasures you love most
And when you return it, here is what I’ll do:
I will scent it with roses, wrap it in lace
Lay it in the lining of a golden case
And I will give it right back to you
© 2004 Words and Music by Amy Barlow Liberatore
Published by Beehat Baby Music, all rights reserved
Yes, indeedy, for all who remember the “420” reference (which is still used, but no one remembers why because they were too stoned when they heard the story). Anyone who knows the story and DOESN’T Google it, please mention when you comment! A true story, from my time in California dubbed by my BFF John as “Amy: The Lost Years.” (ED. NOTE: If we can carry Smart Phones and get run over in traffic because we’re texting, why can’t we legalize pot? At least it would keep us in one place!)
BEST. WEED. EVER.
Al’s homegrown pot came with
a guaranteed sweet spot.
“Play ball!” A homer every
at-bat; no rain delays.
Sun never shone as brightly
nor cohorts giggled so spritely
as when Al pulled out his bag of
Mendocino County One-Hit Wonder.
Sage green and ruinously resinous,
it rendered rolling practically impossible.
So smooth on the intake – and
zero-to-sixty in seconds flat.
One joint could turn a mob
of tired, cranky, post-shift waiters into
drooling zombies in search of Cheetos.
Al went off the radar years ago,
but the memory,
the melody lingers on.
A cloud of laughter, profuse swearing,
groan-worthy punning, sexual innuendo,
and whispered promises forgotten by morning…
All sent up years ago as a scented offering
to Bacchus (who probably got a contact high).
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Wherever you are, Al, you are missed. Not just for your weed, either.
TO ALL READERS: Not for the squeamish. I have used another John Rainsford photo (credits below) because one was not enough. Thanks, dverse, for turning us on to an amazingly talented photographer, web designer, and all-around artist.
THE LOOK
He enters my bedroom; 
I raise my eyes slowly
The unspoken message
unsettling, unholy.
Dad went and filled
his Viagra again.
What am I in for?
And how bad? And when?
No use attempting
to pull up the cover.
I wonder if Sue’d mind
another sleepover?
Cause I’m in the crosshairs
and he’s got the gun.
The battle is lost –
I am Dad’s “little one.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo © John Rainsford, courtesy of dverse poetry.
For dverse Open Mic Night.
Whew! After a bout of allergies that almost went bronchial on me, I’m back. Sorry I’ve been absent. I’ll send you all a note from my mom. (Welcome Back Carter: “Signed, Barlow’s Mother.”) And I’m catching the tail end of posting for Three Word Wednesday; this week’s words were: Amateur, Diligent, Nurture. Also for Poets United, Poetry Pantry.
What We Need
What America needs to nurture
is a new-style politician,
who won’t afford rich white guys
such undue recognition.
“Clean Money, Clean Elections,”
lots of diligent candidates.
Amateur by Beltway standards.
but that slate would be first-rate.
We’ve been so disillusioned;
lost our voices to Big Money.
But some unspoiled men and women
will take back Main Street, honey.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
California Dreamer
I’m here
Made it clear out to the
West Coast
Hair sticky with salt,
sand in my sandals
Beach air so fine
This town is mine for the takin
I’ll break in
Shakin what my mama gave me
No car yet, but I got two wheels
I pedal with my red metal
or skate the eight blocks to work
That’ll pay rent for now
til I find my niche
in the LA club scene
And then, Bub, watch out
No doubt
As sure as this
rock wall will stand
My talent will meet their demand
Singers as common as sand… but I’m here
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Patterns, Pictures, and Poems, writing to a photo from their tasty selection. Photo courtesy of James Rainsford; used with permission via the dverse site.
Also at my poetic cairn, Poets United!
Sharp Little Pencil 