Absolutely true story, and managed to write it in Poetic Asides’ 10×10 form as well. My cousin Gregg and I are a lot alike: Complete unimpressed by celebrity, and able to get off a one-liner without cracking up (until later). You go, cuzzy!
Carradine vs. Laughlin (0-1)
You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead
But this one’s too funny to go untold
David Carradine, in his “Kung Fu” days
Came to a rest’rant my cousin Gregg ran
Carradine went barefoot a lot back then
and Gregg said, “Sorry, no shoes, no service”
All puffed up, the star went on to protest
“Don’t you know who I am? Any bistro
would be glad to serve me, barefoot or not!”
Gregg deadpanned, “I suggest you go find one.”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at Writer’s Island, my NaPoWriMo home, and at Poetic Asides, plus, as always, Poets United.
Off-prompt today… soothing thoughts from the sickbed of yours truly… and it’s written in one of the few forms I have been able to capture with any sense of satisfaction – the shadorma. Peace, Amy
Late At Night (a shadorma)
Late at night
A fine resting place
‘neath the stars
on soft grass
bathed in moonlight still spilling
silver on the field
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is also published at my Poem A Day home, Writer’s Island, and at Poets United.
Two in a row for We Write Poems: “I do my laundry when…” One fun, one serious.
These are also at Writer’s Island and Poets United. Peace, Amy
Laundry (haiku)
I do my laundry
when I damned well feel like it.
I am self-employed.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
—————————
I Do
“I do.” My laundry: When he needs his lucky shirt
for Dart Night with the guys.
And despite my long hours at work,
I end up cooking every meal.
He reclines his spine on the sofa
without a “thank you” for the chips and dip and beers I
serve his buddies while they sit and swear at the ref’s bad calls
and don’t call it a day until after 10 p.m.
“I do” sealed my fate until the swearing
was no longer aimed at the refs, but at me and
the bowl of dip just missed my head
falling in clinks and plops to the just-mopped floor.
Darts no long reserved for the board:
He’d found a new target.
It wasn’t always like this. In our early days,
kisses and promises of blissful years ahead.
Words I believed until my lips met
with his fist; until sunglasses became basic makeup.
“I do” sounds lovely at the altar, but so hollow when
promises melt and mingle with the salt and blood at my feet
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Answered the call at We Write Poems (although we won’t post there until Wednesday) to write a poem that begins, “I’m willing to eat ____.” Tried to avoid the most obvious noun (ha ha), because, although I have consumed a fair amount of shit in my life, rarely was it willingly!
Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, We Write Poems, and at Poets United. Peace, Amy
Willing to Eat Worms
I’m willing to eat worms
or walk through fire for you
Shield you from harm
Comfort you when thunder
steamrolls over your sleep
Hold you when you weep after
someone calls you a name
Why? Because I’m your mother.
I’m willing to swallow all pride
…except my pride in you, kiddo
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Johann Ink and I were comparing notes on psychiatry today; much of this poem is derived directly from our three-hour conversation. Johann is a budding poet; we are both what is genially called in our society, “mental health consumers” (in other words, we’re both nuckin’ futs!). If you’ve never had the joy, the incredible honor, of being granted a meeting with a real live board-certified psychiatrist… consider yourself fortunate! Amy
(PS This poem also appears at Writer’s Island for NaPoWriMo 12.)
New Shrink Rap
(from a conversation with Johann Ink)
I’m checking in with my new shrink
society having granted me leave
from my sleeve-silky cubicle (AKA “acting normal”)
Now I sit in a leather chair so large
my feet dangle like Edith Ann
Doc is regally ensconced behind
an impressive antique desk
Drawers full of free pens from drug reps
Myriad diplomas staring me down
and sneering, “We’re smarter than you”
He’s new, at least to me, and eager
to change what my last psychiatrist did
He’s ready to rearrange my brain plane
because he has sample of a new drug
(They tested it on lab rats, so, hey, it must of OK for me)
I state flatly, “I want to maintain my current regimen”
He stiffens, doesn’t care to listen even thoug
I’ve been to the brink and back
(while he’s just read about it a whole lot)
Experience vs. experiments: The Great Battle of Which
“Man,” I itch to say,
“if you want to pimp for Big Pharma,
why not go all the way? Get yourself a solid gold chain
and maybe a diamond in your front tooth…
or don’t monster tires and hydraulics work on a Corvette?”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Take a trip to Three Word Wednesday, where this week’s challenge was to create a poem using the words Dare, Practical, and Essence. Click on the links of other poets and see the variety that emerges!
This is not a true story, by the way, except for the term “dust rhinos,” coined by my beloved Lex before we were married – at which point, I handed him a broom and said, “Go for it!” Amy
PERFECTLY ORDERED
She considered herself a practical person.
A place for everything; order ruled her world.
The little cup holding writing utensils was called,
“The Pencil Department,” setting a clear directive:
No scissors were allowed in that receptacle.
The essence of her need for these boundaries
came from (where else?) her childhood.
Mom was a gypsy tethered to a suburban home,
escaping for occasional adventures and
dragging daughter along for the ride.
Mom was not the housekeeper type;
her idea of ironing was catching Dad’s shirts
just as they came out of the dryer,
then folding faux creases in the collar and sleeves.
She only cooked frozen or canned foods.
The house was a mess, save the daughter’s room,
which sported a bedspread ready for
a drill sergeant’s quarter-toss and
neatly folded clothes, specifically spaced hangers.
All while Mom watched the soaps and drank.
Once on her own, the girl dared to let it slip a bit.
Her apartment was allowed to drift into disorder
until the day a dust rhino danced by her feet.
‘Twas then that her former, finicky self kicked into gear…
but every potential partner was repelled by her Pledge.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Jingle Poetry, we were asked to write about AMBITIONS. Having just moved to a new city and state (state of mind as well as geographical), I’m ALL ambition this week! Enjoy, Amy (PS What a month to move to Madison, WI! Super Bowl champs, but most importantly – no one was seriously injured. Amen.)
Making it Home
Boxes unpacked
Stuff sorta stored
Cat comfortably curled in
his new niche
Even the throw rugs and
coffee paraphernalia
have found their place
Pictures yet to hang,
but that takes
time
thoughtful placement
and permission from the wall
to be pierced by a nail
But until tonight,
as we snuggled in the delicious intimacy
of true lovers,
jigsaw pieces in a perfect fit,
this apartment was not Home.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 