Springing to Life Again
‘Tis the season of Winter’s evaporation
as Spring supersedes chill,
tugs at our trowels,
breathes into us tiny moments of joy.
Water, as mist, rising in the fields
as fodder for mudslides in the canyons,
as morning nymph, awakening seaweed
beneath the shoreline.
Water, released from stasis;
then, in Nature’s tightly embroidered womb
disappearing in the evaporation
that will bring the earth full cycle; back to balance.
World awakening. Welcome!
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
For A Whirl of Wordling Sundays, Writer’s Island, and as always, Poets United.
Wordle words: tugs, seaweed, mist, tiny, released, breathes, slides, evaporation, embroidered, water, river, supersedes
Cat of Nine
In a cafe on a blissful Madison spring morning.
I sip coffee and poem peacefully.
A harpist sets up his hand-crafted instrument,
intricately carved, and he plays with his heart on his sleeve.
Spying his technique from the side,
I see calluses, thick pads on his fingers
as he deftly navigates the strings
to bring forth delicate melody.
His other hand surely must bear the same scars
of practice, of pursuit of that elusive
perfection – real musicians know
it’s ever out of reach, but the muse still coaxes us on.
I look again at that other hand;
he has only four fingers. He’s a vet
who lost his ring finger in combat but
chose beauty over bitterness on his long road home.
See nine strumming fingers thrumming Celtic chords.
Watch the strings continue to vibrate as sound reverberates.
Feel his joy, throw a few bucks in the tip jar,
and take that love with you as you leave.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Poetic Asides prompt: On the Other Hand; also posted at Poets United.)
Last Stop on the Erie-Lackawanna
She sits on the train and stares at the passing hillsides.
Animated visions of towns she long since left
are whizzing by, their whispered plea, “Come back,
you are still thirsty for that bottle of mistakes,
come partake and we will sustain you.”
Bad memories, resilient buggers.
Aching for revenge that will never be hers,
she stands on the platform of the caboose
and, hearing the thrumming of the engine, wheels at full-tilt pace,
she decides this may be her stop after all.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
Many thanks to Brenda Warren at Beyond the Bozone for the Wordle. As usual, a cheerful offering from yours truly…!
The words were: revenge, aching, train, thirst, thrumming, visions, resilient, sustain, animated, hillsides, whispered.
Powerful Urge (For ABC Wednesday and Poets United)
Never one to linger backstage,
craving instead gelled red-hot spotlights overhead.
Sustaining me through sickness, divorce, and
freewheeling, full-tilt mania
Yet there lingers within that nauseating self-doubt:
Will I ever be good enough?
The first time house lights went up,
a chill raised the hairs on my neck,
and I gave out with
the best version of “Skylark” I ever sang.
So maybe the self-doubt is actually
my own spirit stirring me up to help me through.
I am the siren who makes sailors crash into rocks (or fall off barstools)
and I love that power.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ignore the racist stereotypes and see true athleticism, artistry and energy. The incomparable Whitey’s Lindy Hoppers, and the poem follows. Watch the video first; I dare you not to be amazed. Band is Slim Galliard and Slam Stewart; Slam spent his last years in my hometown, Binghamton, NY. A gentle, sweet man who never lost his soulful voice and way with a bass.
Lindy Hoppers
Back when jazz was hot
When the drums meant dancin
jitterbuggin, Lindy Hoppin
shimmyin, shakin your sugar…
Lil, Grace, and Fancy
flounced and flirted in the finer clubs
Gracie, she was fine on the dance floor
Lil had more meat on her bones,
made lifting for the Lindy doubtful
Still, she clapped and hooted off on the side
beer in one hand, the other tucked in Slim’s front pocket
Now, Fancy was a flimsy-thin frail
made for stompin at the Savoy
When the band commenced to wailin
she’d be flyin over Jimmy’s head,
flung between his legs and back up again
She shined like a new penny,
bronze and easy rollin
Her real name was Flo
but once they saw her dance
hellzapoppin on that floor
they renamed her Fancy
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Thin, Jitter, Grace, blog
Precipice
Teetering on the rim
of crystal so thin
a butterfly’s wing could
send her tumbling back
down, down, down
into the glass carnival
Where distorted lens
meets bloodshot eye
Where feet lose footing,
sliding on the gloss
Where beating on the wall
can cut you to the bone
Where they can look in
but she is alone
trapped in prisms
of sunlight’s whim
Where is she’s not careful
she will be burned to an ashen memory
The limits are clear,
but not so the options
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, the letter “P”; for We Write Poems, “Take it to the Limit,” and, as always, at Poets United, the home of so many wordsmiths, for Thursday Think Tank: Monsters. If you visit these blogs, either click on the “comments” button to access the work of plenty of amazing poets, or at ABC, simply click on a face! Peace, Amy
The prompt at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem using words you hate. This covers a wide spectrum from one part of my life. I miss you, Jeff. Love, Amer
Panel from the Memory Project
Pneumocystis Pneumonia (PCP)
Prone on the steel-back chair.
Probed straight down the gullet.
Cysts and rancid breath emerge
as he lay stupefied.
He will awaken and count the hours.
Tick, tock, curse the clock.
Swabs grabbed cultures.
Petrie dishes cook up the fetid truth:
He has it.
He has full-blown AIDS.
It is 1985.
He is 32.
Tick. tock, curse the clock.
Skeletal soon enough, too soon.
Patches of scabs peel off his scalp.
Bactrin on every sink so that
if he barfs, bleeds, or brays
we can wash it off.
Tick, tock, curse the clock.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at Writer’s Island (Day 28) and Poets United.
Poetic Asides had an interesting challenge: “A World Without ____________.” Yeah, go figure how this one came to mind (wink)! Amy
A World Without Gay Men (what a bore)
No Dr. Kildare
Nor “Night and Day”
No “Pillow Talk”
‘cause Rock was gay
No Sistine Chapel
Virtruvian Man
No Mona Lisa
No inventions grand
No Karloff’s Monster
(James Whale’s work of art)
No Benjamin Britten
Johnny Mathis, my heart
Gershwin, Sweet
Embraceable You,
the Man I Love
is a classic, it’s true
Greg Louganis’
diving perfection
Leonard Bernstein’s
symphonic direction
The list could go on
til night turns to day
but what a dull world
without men born that way
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, Writer’s Island, and at Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 