To-Do List
Scour bathtub, walls, etc.
Set aside bubble bath
Find candles, matches
Freeze sundae glasses
Find Sinatra mix CD (Reprise cuts, Jobim bossas)
Run hot bath, extra bubbles
Kick off sneaks, rinse stinky feet, etc.
Brush teeth
Boot up sound system, insert mix CD
Call Lex, tell him come home ASAP
Pour Capital Amber into sundae glasses
Set beers, candles on table by tub
Put cat in closed room with treats
Hit “Play”
Greet Lex at door (red nightgown?)
Let nature take course
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
“Candle” by Christoph Michels – Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
Shay’s “Fireblossom Friday” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads challenged us to make a list, any list that spoke to us. I’ll be away for two days and when I come home, I will have just missed Lex, who’s attending his family reunion this weekend, so…
…this was the only list worth making. ;^) Hope Y’ALL have a fun night! Peace, Amy
Blinded by the Pattern
Front room blinds
Lines and ever more lines
Perfect symmetry, vertical, straight
Setting sun squeezes through, says it’s getting too late
Too late for punishing gym workout
Too late for art workshop
Pajamas
I don’t care
I’ll sit here in my chair
Imagining pushups and treadmill
Feign guilt at missing tonight’s yoga (I’m so ill)
Wish giddyap would trump inertia
Blinds help me stay blind to
this pattern
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of WikiCommons, thanks to photographer Petrolli, who graciously uploaded the file for all to use! License can be viewed HERE.
Victoria C. Slotto is the bartender at the dverse Poets Pub, and her prompt was ‘patterns.’ This poem is called, I believe, a triquain, relative of the cinquain. My syllable scheme for each stanza was 3 – 6 – 9 – 12 – 9 – 6 – 3. Thanks to the Toads for turning me on to the form, even though I didn’t participate in their take on it!!
I spend many days watching various arrays of sunlight as they stream through the venetian blinds. By the time I’m done pondering their endless lack of diversity (!), I find it’s simply too late to go out. My new therapist suggested replacing “should” in my mind (as in, “I should go to the gym”) with WANT TO (“I want to go to the gym”). It helps me, honestly! She also said (and I love this), “Stop ‘shoulding’ yourself.” Get it? Got it? Good.
Peace, Amy
Frrp, Frrp, Frrp…
Frrp, frrp, frrp, frrp…
His slippers drag in the hall
Pulls the blanket over her head
It’s Daddy’s nighttime call
She has a lot of sore throats
and trouble swallowing pills
Doctor never questions
rashes that sting like quills
And Daddy took her to the hill
to watch the stars at night
And Daddy brought her home so late
She can’t remember things right
Frrp, frrp, frrp, frrp…
The sound will haunt her dreams
Even though he’s dead and gone
He still looms large, it seems
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
If you’re new here, I hope you will take this recollection of being sexually molested for what it is: Dark truth, frank as blood from a tapped vein. I was a victim; eventually, with work, I became a survivor. This is for anyone who gets a flutter reading this poem. Think about starting therapy. There could be something worth harvesting… and throwing away.
For ABC Wednesday, the letter “F.” Check out the link and find some amazing poets! Amy
Carpe See ‘em
Homeless souls – some call them “bums on the street”
Folded small into their desperate beat
Solo bench or so-low depressed bunch
Waiting for a handout or maybe a lunch
One lady says, “Why bring him into this place?
I don’t mind bums but, right here in my face?”
She’s talking about Ed, who’s depressed, just like me
We’re cousins in ways other people can’t see
Tells me over bagels, he’s long out of work
Routed from working by some kinda jerk
who left a buzzsaw blade-out where he shouldn’t
Blindsided my new friend Ed, who couldn’t
avoid it, no matter how cautious… so now
Ed lives on a deadwood bench – but somehow
he knows “sometimes better’s bound to come”
His faith is real strong… so now who’s the “bum”?
Aforementioned lady attends church every week
I say, “You know, you just called Jesus a freak”
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image obtained through Creative Commons thanks to psyberartist – see licensing HERE.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Grapeling challenged us to “carpe diem” and remember Robin Williams and his struggles with depression by choosing some words from a list and writing on the subject in whatever way we chose. Since I live on Bipolar Boulevard, all I had to do was walk outside, take this guy to lunch, and we ended up having a great conversation. He turned me on to a bagel place I’d never heard of; we had strong, fair-trade coffee; and over the speakers, I was gifted with a song I will use in ministry tomorrow… but that’s a story for another day.
Robin Williams used to make my hands shake a bit, remembering the cocaine days as he’d imp and jester his way through routines at spitfire pace. But I also recognized what lurked under the surface, as with Jonathan Winters (who was given a gig on “Mork and Mindy” at Williams’ insistence), Lou Costello of Abbot and Costello (whose depression was compounded when his two-year-old son drowned in his family’s new swimming pool, there’s Hollywood irony for you), and so many more. Lots of comedians learn their craft as children, trying to cheer up a family member or escape bullying or simply stand out. Jim Carrey comes to mind.
The woman in this poem actually ‘called me out’ while Ed took a bathroom break. It’s like people don’t want to see the homeless, but they don’t mind bitching about them when they are not in the room. She’s the kind of “Christian” who gives the rest of us a bad name.
May Robin’s family find peace. Thanks for the laughs, Robin. I’m sorry you couldn’t see a tomorrow in sight. Peace, Amy
I wrote this straight to art paper before I went to sleep the other night. Iraq, US-backed Israel vs. “we already bombed the hell out of the Arab world already” Palestine. Children deserve better. All of us deserve better.
(800) 456-1111, toll-free number for the White House.
Linked to Poets United, Poetry Pantry, free write and who knows what hijinks any one of us will be up to at any given moment? Give it a try! Also, although I missed the dverse deadline by TWO DAYS (!), I still want to give you the link for this dverse “small world” PROMPT. There are great things happening at many prompt sites around the WWW (Wonderful World of Words); this is one of my favorite places. That it is called a “poets’ pub” can only enhance! Peace, Amy
BOYCOTT Monsanto (especially RoundUp)
Honeybees have my heart
They toil and twirl
Gather and gossip
Buzz and build
Hive and jive
Dandelions earn my smile
They play and paint
Persevere and pop
Sway and spread
Grow and blow
(..seeds on neighbors’
lawns and then man,
are you in trouble
because EVERYone
wants a super double
pristine green lawn)
Dandelions and
honeybees are
best friends! The
flower provides a bit
of power to the
insect in early Spring
when (if one were to
inspect one’s garden)
there are no other
blooms to help
the bees boom.
Don’t RoundUp!
Spare the dandelion.
Don’t buy Monsanto!
They spray craven
substances that can
blow like snow over
fences into defenseless
organic farms.
You like life on this planet?
You can’t do it without bees.
You CAN do it without Monsanto.
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, freely shared by photographer. View original and license HERE.
For a song by my late friend Marques Bovre about Dandelions, click the player. Hope it works!
I didn’t know until recently that the lovely yellows popping up so early in spring are also practically the only source of bits of pollen for the honeybee, helping it to survive until the pollen-rich flowers bloom. That goes for bees cultivated by keepers as well as wild honeybees.
Without honeybees, OUR species would all be gone within weeks. THAT is how crucial bees are to our environment. So even if you like green, green grass, hold off cutting the lawn until the first dandelions wilt. And never EVER use anything from Monsanto. The chemical glyphosol, main component in RoundUp, has been found in breast milk!
Let the dandelions’ freak flags fly! Thanks to Poets United for the prompt, BOYCOTT. Man, they have my number, huh? Amy
Clueless Crux of the Klan
Bound by
blood-spilled ties
Lies lingering
on forked tongues
Generations of
isolation
indignation
under-education
Toddlers in Klan hoods
pointy as their parents’ heads
Gleaming white dunce caps
Halloween meets HollowHead
Legacy of spittle-drop
shouts and
conspiratorial whispers
“…president is a n*****”
Dude once told me blacks are
‘taking our women’
‘YOUR’ WHAT?
responded/resounded I
Got to
Got to
Got to
keep that bloodline pure
(Just like Hitler, soooo original)
Nazi Yahtzee
Roll the dice
We lose twice
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons; view the original image HERE. “Klan-sheet-music” by Original uploader was Bcrowell at en.wikipedia – Originally from en.wikipedia; description page is/was here.. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons – http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Klan-sheet-music.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Klan-sheet-music.jpg.
You can’t spell FASCIST without the letters F-A-C-T-S.
The more we learn through calm engagement of racists, the more we understand the root causes. Self-hatred, parental abuse, moms who were subjugated servants, the crass collage; the bleachbright hoods of ultimate cowardice: “I will declare myself the ultimate arbiter of God’s justice, but I’ll do it in disguise.”
Yeah, you so macho.
Thanks to Roger and Mrs. Nesbitt at ABC Wednesday for getting my righteous indignation flowing over the letter “C.” Just remember, I could have picked a worse word!! Peace, Amy
NOTE about “ROLLIE” trilogy: It will be completed tomorrow. Couldn’t resist this prompt.
Hysterical Women Running Amok
Hysteria was once thought
uniquely confined
to the female side
of all mankind
Said to be caused
by a “wandering uterus”
That’s why TPs think
our birth control’s ludicrous
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image: Free license, free use via FunnyPictureFunnyPhoto.com
This was for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, courtesy of Isadora. She sent us to the Random Fact Generator, where the perfect prompt was given to me (I confess) on my third click… “TPs” are, of course, Tea Partiers!
I researched “amok” vs. “amuck,” (my original choice) and found that, in modern parlance, “amok” wins. Harrrumph. Peace, Amy
Wisconsin Tragedy (Slenderman)
Where does real begin?
At a mother’s breast
First dip in a pool
First lick from a puppy
Where did unreal begin?
Remember Bambi
The shotgun off-screen but
your parents were there
to hold your hand and
dry your tears and
talk about how movies aren’t real
Where does the new unreal begin?
Parents turn on the TV
and tune out their kids
The video games seductive
Playing pimp or dealer with
a steady aim and BLAM
And all the women are whores
Where does real begin now?
The Internet, shady Slenderman
A sick fantasy with lots of fans,
lots of kids, is calling the shots
The stabs
Real is unreal
Fantasy is reality
Parents are clueless
Kids rule their own worlds
Worlds of pain and loneliness
Worlds their parents don’t
care to think about
Boomers, we were lonely too
But we had trees to climb
and time and time
…and time
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, the letter “W.” I wish this was not a true story. I wish it did not involve 12-year-old girls trying to kill their friend because some sick person told them to do it and they believed in Slenderman more than God. For those who aren’t in the States, two girls were convinced by a fictitious character (whose stories are all over the Internet, written by hundreds of people) that to enter his “club,” they had to kill someone. Whoever created Slenderman in the first place is sick enough, but whoever dangled this bloody carrot should rot in jail. The girl survived. Her friends (being tried as adults) left her for dead but she crawled to a roadside. She is home now, but psychologically, who knows what is in store for this poor kid?
This was in the suburbs. Waukesha is in the heart of the Christian Right, Paul Ryan’s land. I pray for the soul of my state, even as I reside in the “hippie district.”
Peace, Amy
The Thirteen Floor
Oh, my mind resides
on the Thirteenth Floor
at the Riverside
back behind a door
made of oak and spruce
in Victorian style
and I keep it loose
here behind my smile
All my friends are here
cyber-found and true;
others will appear
when the moon is new
We’re expecting you
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United wanted poems about the number 13, in poems of exactly 13 lines.
I counted them twice.
Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 
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