Clothes Make the…
Picture this
A cocktail party
Only chic elites parading in
Ralph Lauren, Valentino
Stella Mc (no, no Butterick)
Dripping in blood from
Harry Winston diamonds
Sleek, shiny, baubled
Finest wardrobe money can buy
Picture this gathering of
the 85 people who own
HALF the wealth of the
planet. 85 = $½ of ALL OF IT*
Crappy, credible math
They drink, snort, and laugh about
those wretched K-Mart shoppers
About the 99% (that’s you and me)
“How do they manage?”
“They should get real jobs”
“I never shop at WalMart,”
smirks one of Sam Walton’s girls
Their gowns, regardless of
high-fashion label, imported
from Chinese sweatshops
from Indonesian factories
Bangladesh burned but they’re
still pumping out product,
thanks to hard-working
child slave labor (and women)
These rich women, coiffed
and manicured, preening
These sons of smarter men, coiffed
and manicured, peacocks
They say clothes make the man
but these schmucks
sure as hell didn’t
make their clothes
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* Per OxFam, a non-partisan worldwide watchdog for the underprivileged
First, a HUGE “thank you” to all who have sent messages asking where I’ve been and if I am all right. Long story short: Played at two Christmas Eve services, then got the holiday/deep winter depression… followed by a flu I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even GWB. But finally able to sit at my desktop (the messages were monitored on my phone, but it’s no good for posting poetry) and contribute once again.
So off to my “play pond” I ran! Shay at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Fireblossom Friday wanted a poem in which clothing is a major component. See, I can still be politically snarky while writing about high fashion! Peace, Amy
Image used by permission of Wikimedia Commons, thanks to KLNMAX
Christmas Traditions…
The era after World War II
when “I’ll be home for Christmas” came true
People craved security
Best shown beneath the Christmas tree
War-worn dads took comfort in
their jobs, affording clatter and din
of toys beneath the Douglas fir:
endless bounty for him and her
The dolly really wet her diaper!
A toy gun for a future sniper
Pink for girls and blue for boys,
tearing paper off new toys
Thus was born a new tradition:
Lots more gifts! Spend with ambition!
As songs of Santa replaced carols
Jesus was lost, all was sterile
Once, one gift, just one – no more
Now Christmas spent at mall and store
This season is depressing; why?
Because the Christ child gets passed by
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You know most people are burnt out on pseudo-Christmas by now. The constant post-Thanksgiving pop music. The who-can-buy-the-most-presents crap. Endless parades of ugly sweaters destined for the Goodwill shop.
The Longest Night, also called Blue Christmas, is a Christian service on the Solstice, this year Saturday. If you’re not feeling “holly jolly,” if you want to get a little Jesus back in the equation, check out a service. Lots of homeless folks, people who’ve lost loved ones, who’ve lost jobs… people who are simply soured on the commercialism, all get together and share stories. It might be the best Christmas present you give yourself this year… and let me know how it turns out.
No prompt for this one. Just sending it out into the ether(net) and hoping you don’t get “the Christmas Blues” like so many. Peace, Amy
Artwork © Amy Barlow Liberatore
Wisconsin Winter Weather
Weather winces
Wisconsinites, whether
winkled or wrinkled
Why would we winter
where winds’re
wild, wooly?
Woven, wistful warmth within
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, as well as ABC Wednesday – this week, of course, the letter W! “Amy Bawwo Wiberatowe”
Apalachin
No, it’s not Appalachia
It’s Apalachin
Like apple achin’
In the sticks, with
cows munchin’ grass
over back of Lisa’s house
Kitty caught a mouse
and laid it under
the rear tire of our car
The guts went squishin’
I’m wishin’ Beth was there
She’s one for the messy stuff
There was a mob meeting
years ago, the REAL mob,
the Mafia, on the other side
of town and police raided them
for tax stuff, I dunno, but
Mom says we got a reputation
The Klan was real busy
two towns over, and Mom said
they are fools who wear
dunce caps and I think she’s
right because she’s always right
and you better know that…
Otherwise, you get The Squint
or get called “Sadie” or
worst of all, really, is when
she says, “T’ain’t funny, McGee,”
(some old radio show) and then
you know you’re in trouble, kiddo
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse called for poems that are uniquely ours. This is I, the queen of lofty speech, speaking from the front yard of 55 Brookside Avenue, Apalachin, New York, in 1962. (I was already scared of cameras, afraid they’d flash; early sign of PTSD.) The only thing I couldn’t get in was Mom’s Midwestern way of saying “roots” and “roof” with a short “oo.”
Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
He’s Gone (for George)
He’s a bust-my-buttons hello
A faithful friend; we’ve
weathered some shitstormish eras
when nothing made sense
(save ourselves and
our good opinion of each other)
The kind of friend you can hug
and not let go
and know
it never has to get weird
The one who understands
the digressions of an alcoholic parent
who is like a child – and can
also laugh at some of the confusion
The one with whom you can
watch movies in total silence
or howl and poke each others’
arms, like “yeah!”
He hit the road again
just now
and I wrote this to remember
He’s a quick-before-we-cry
goodbye
An endless paradox
An understandable conundrum
He’s George
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Some friends you keep forever. After forty years of our friendship and many years of knowing my husband too, George will always be a part of our lives. We should all be so lucky to have someone like that in our lives!
Posted at ABC Wednesday (V is for VISIT!) and in the margins at Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
The Advent of the Adventure
The story goes that
a baby was born and
placed in bin where
the animals fed
Shepherds were awed
Mystics from the East
gave him expensive gifts
(but nothing practical)
The time leading
up to this event
is for considering
whether we’re ready
Ready to go on
the adventure once more
To seek justice, love kindness,
and walk humbly with our God
Ready to hear stories
from the man with the plan
who ran afoul of authorities
and, like Mandela, was
a prisoner of conscience
Unlike Mandela, he was
executed by the State in
the most humiliating way
Are we ready to follow the star?
Are we ready to see the babe?
Most importantly, ask yourself
the question Christmas poses:
Are you so focused on the baby
that you forget the lessons of
the man? If you max your cards
this Advent, the answer is “yes”
Give to charity in his name
Give to a homeless person in his name
Give thanks to God in his name
Give your heart to pursuing justice
…in his name
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday. Now that “Black Friday” and all that mishigoss has passed us by, I still wonder whether the secular Christmas has more meaning for people than the actual event. I don’t care that Jesus was probably born in July; I don’t “need” an immaculate conception or miracles. And I love Winter Solstice celebrations. But I do take my marching orders from Jesus!
Peace, Amy
UNDER THE HARSH
Sleeping on a park bench
Living in a Chevy beater
Winter covers each with
an unwanted blanket of snow
Downtown, shoppers
pay them no mind; while
searching for deep discounts,
they discount these folks
Tonight, under starlight that
sets the frost a-twinkle with
thousands of crystals, remember
Jesus is sleeping under cardboard
not too far from here…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Michael Crawford sings this song with heart, with understanding. May we all remember the homeless during this HOHOHO season of frenzied gift giving, as we fatten our credit card balances buying crap made by child slave labor in China.
For ABC Wednesday, the letter U. Pick one: Underfed, Underemployed, Under stress, Under cardboard boxes. Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
Handling the Truth
(for Euro-Americans)
Bought and sold at auction
Everyday transactions
Fractionally human, they said, if that
In those “golden olden days,”
African lives were cheap
From deep in jungles, sold
by bribed tribal chiefs or
simply rounded up like
fleet and feisty animals
This nation brutalized
an entire civilization
If Anglos never feel
the slash of the lash…
If whites will not dare
to share the shame of slavery
After all these years
the pain of the past endures
and we won’t even watch the film
How can we dare say we care
about rancid, ruthless racism
still rampant in America?
Buy the ticket, damn it
(You already saw “Hunger Games”)
Or was Jack Nicholson right?
“You can’t HANDLE the truth”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I have seen “12 Years a Slave” TWICE. Second time, to hold a friend’s hand and discuss the movie. Lex and I were breathless, angry, ashamed… especially that this film, the most important film ever made about the enslavement and unimaginable treatment of African peoples at the hands of “white” slavers, is tanking at the box office. People have said, “It’s too heavy,” or even, “I go to movies to be entertained, not educated.” Really?! What the hell do they mean? If people went through this shit, we owe it to them to at least watch a dramatization of the true story.
I know it’s tough. Especially when everyone is engorging themselves like tics on Thanksgiving turkey and bloating their credit card debt on Black Friday. But I implore you, GO SEE THIS FILM. We all need to face the facts.
This is for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads (protest poem) and Poets United’s Poetry Pantry. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 