This one was inspired, in a way, by the Kafka Metamorphosis, but… well… GAFBers, this one’s for you!
READY, SET, BLOW
I started off so fat
carefully dressed in white
that clung to my body
like Travolta’s ice cream suit.
OW! That burns,
but I am comforted by kisses
lips caressing me,
I am passed from friend to friend.
I’m the life of the party.
Glowing like the star of the show,
as the lava lamp flows,
bloop… bloop… bloop…
Minutes later, spent.
They’ve used me until I’m
a scrap of my former self
Now, indignity. Out comes the roach clip.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At We Write Poems, we were asked to write about healing. Before the healing, there is the injury.
THE WALKING WOUNDED
Some wounds are so deep
so personal, so wrenching,
they cannot heal without help,
without sharing.
Memories spread past membranes
and synapses in the brain,
tentacles reaching, spreading painfully,
tightening the jaw,
constricting breath,
ever growing in power,
wasting the strongest soul.
A boy down the block
came home on leave and
looking in his eyes, I recognized
his agony, his disguise.
He sat with his mom in church quietly,
trying not to scream.
Later, we went for coffee and
unmasked our monsters.
Mine took hold in childhood;
his are war-born, wailing in the night.
New, but no less maiming.
Then came the shared silence
of those who know that tears
are about to flow, and we
both let go, heaving sobs,
wracking but quiet, this cry.
Tears… our only balm.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Poetic Asides, we’re still writing a Poem A Day. Today’s theme? Metamorphosis. I promised Robert, no cockroaches!
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Someone once said, “Before you’re 30, you look like what God made you. After 30, you look like what YOU made you.”
THE DEEPEST FURROW
Can’t outrun the clock
It chimes, it chisels
upon our rocks of ages
our faces, once smooth
Now grooved with memories
of roaring laughter
and mysterious fears,
tears settle in grooves
then follow the trail
downward toward the heart
Crow’s feet from laughing
from smoking
from squinting
from shouting about
how life isn’t what you’d planned
Face placid, etched like acid,
smile lines betray
black Irish humor
that finds even the horrific
a bit funny, given time
The deep Rushmorian crack
by the right eyebrow
was the first divorce
And the brand-new dimple
next to the smile line that’s
next to the other smile line?
It seemed to appear after
talking about politics
with my dear chum today
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
VOTING BOOTH
No longer safely ensconced
behind the curtain
the veil of privacy
No longer pulling levers
where no one can see you
registering your choice
No longer safe
from voting machine hackers
who can manipulate elections
Thank you, Bush and Dieboldt
for giving me a metal chair
and a stinking cardboard screen
The only ‘up’ side of the fetid new system
was watching Carl Paladino vote on TV
loading his card in upside down
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
previously published at Poetic Asides
Warning! This is about condoms and sexual responsibility and the futility of abstinence education!! Hey, I tell the girls, “No umbrella, no singin’ in the rain!”
CONTAIN YOUR EXCITEMENT, GUYS
In this age of The Pill
Please remember, the thrill
isn’t all it is cracked up to be
While you scope out the cuties
Do be mindful that cooties
will be waiting if you’re condom-free
There are Abstinence teachers
and well-meaning preachers
who will tell you to marry ‘fore “sailin'”
If you take my advice,
you will think once or twice
about abstinence and Bristol Palin.
It’s not only the babies
but some toxic “maybes”
passed on through that condom-free sex
HPV, Herpes, AIDS
the Incurable Shades
will haunt all who do not “man up,” Tex.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Another Poetic Asides “location” poem, but my blog is able to handle the Spanish, so here it be!!
SAN JUAN AUTUMN
Autumn in tropical climes
held no charm for me…
only a reminder that, once again,
I’d missed the falling leaves of October.
My little girl had not yet seen
the glory of leaves
tangerine, blood orange, marmalade,
Nature’s display, a free buffet
One call to my sister and a week later
the magical package arrived.
“¿Qué tal, Mama?” cried Laurita,
my little Irish Jewish Puertoriqueña.
“¡Mira!”
Overturning the box,
waxed leaves spilled onto the tabletop.
“¡Amarillo, rojo, todas las colores!” squeaked Laura.
We taped them to the white plaster walls
as though they were falling from a tree in heaven.
Random patterns of second-hand Autumn.
My child’s first dance with the leaves,
we filled the house and neighbors came
to marvel at our living fresco.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
…and sometimes the Page turns you
Betty Page was all the rage
Never had to hit a stage
Simply posed for photographs
Steamy, sexy, some for laughs
Never in apron or bonnet
Often with some leather on it
Betty Page was quite a oner –
Sharp as nails and quite the stunner!
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Previously published at Poetic Asides
Poetic Asides asked us to write about location. Nothing says location – or loquacious – like those damned Garmans!
LOQUATOR
He bought a Garman off the Net
Maybe so he’d be spared pulling over
and asking directions?
Yeah, it’s a guy thing.
It sits on his dashboard
like a chunky trophy
and says, “Course correction” a lot.
He set the voice to “Female Euro-trash.,”
which pissed off his girlfriend,
who refers to it as “Garmina the Map Slut.”
Gadgetmaster of Expensive, Trouble-making Toys,
thy name is Pete.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Published at Poetic Asides
When asked at Sunday Scribblings to write on the word “intense,” I knew exactly where I would go… to Riley.
FOR AS MUCH
For as much as her first movement within me
(like a flickering tub toy gone off in my stomach)
made me realize I was actually pregnant;
For as often as I ran to the bathroom
to relieve the heaves of morning sickness;
For as few times as her father bothered
to help me ride the subway to La Maze classes;
For as big as I got, flouting my expanding tummy
and allowing total strangers to lay hands on me,
connecting with her movements;
For as hard as it was getting stuck in a backwoods outhouse
only to be rescued by two Boy Scouts,
who undoubtedly had the best story around that night’s campfire;
For as bad as the lemon-lime Gatorade looked,
both going in and splashing out into the waiting bucket
until I agreed to the shot of Valium…
For all these things,
nothing could compare me for the intensity
of my love for my newborn child.
Even today, taller than I, she appears in my mind’s eye
a bundle of brown-eyed sweetness
wrapped in a blanket of promise and wonder.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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