Looking for _____, says the prompt at Poetic Asides. As usual, my Irish is up!
LOOKING FOR PEACE
Swords into ploughshares? Not anytime soon.
We’ve been at war for thousands of years.
Men have fought over women, over money,
marking territory like dogs, changing borders,
shouting orders that (_____) is to blame and
(_______) MUST be annihilated.
Special ops, men made of steel and guts –
many who live to tell the tale, broken and unsure.
Troopers exacted the only death toll at Attica.
Nixon said it was an acceptable loss.
Collateral damage: Arms, legs, burqas,
babies. Baskets full from market, now
bullet-hewn produce strewn on a rocky terrain.
“Meanwhile, back at the ranch,”
Skinheads field-dress a man whose only sin
was a wink at the wrong guy; he is strapped
to the bumper of a cracker truck with the
Confederate flag flapping in the breeze of
the ultimate joy ride – ice-cold beer and
today’s catch dead and mangled, trailing them,
bouncing in the tread marks.
A woman says the wrong thing (again)
and gets what she had coming; he talks to police
and she hides her face, mumbling “mistake” and “sorry.”
A shelter’s bell rings at 2 am:
A mom and two kids barefoot in Buffalo snow,
wrapped only in bedsheets. As they are clothed and
warmed by cocoa and reassurance, they tell of
the boyfriend confiscating clothes and shoes nightly
so they might not leave. Now they fear he is near.
In D.C., no matter who started it, the drones find
their next predator… surrounded by family members.
In return, a boy straps on the gear and becomes
one cell phone call away from the CNN crawl.
Everybody has nukes as long as the US says it’s OK.
Israel walls off Palestinians, we pay for the materials.
If we complain, we are called “anti-Semitic,”
even if we’re Jewish!
Mexican cartels are doing well and causing hell,
while the CIA protects Afghan poppy fields.
But we are made to worry only about people who hope
to clean toilets in America – the least of our worries.
God, Jehovah, Adonai, Allah, Creator
Give us peace, we pray in our churches and temples
We didn’t listen to Moses.
We didn’t listen to Jesus.
We ignore the Five Pillars of Islam.
We didn’t heed the Buddha or Gandhi.
We didn’t follow Dr. King past his death.
We only listen to TV…
Why don’t we listen to God?
(c) 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!
——————————–
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
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
It’s November Poem A Day (PAD) at Poetic Asides. Today, we were asked to write on the theme of closing a door or turning a page. We’ll be here all month – try the chicken cacciatore! (Ba-dum-DAH!) Amy
TURNING THE PAGE
Close the door on yesterdays
Memories can burn
sure as acid
etching pain into your very bones
Strange Celtic text
something about Dad
something about trust
Close the door on yesterdays
People who hurt you
and in return were abandoned
deprived of your vitality
and also your venom
Hieroglyphics
indecipherable
You don’t plan to study the language
There’s no point now
Turn the page
See a life unburdened by the past
where forgiveness reigns
in beauty
in hope
in trusting the words of one who
forgave so much more than you endured
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore
At Big Tent Poetry, we were asked to think long and hard about our dwellings… then write about a favorite place. I knew right away where my heart lay.
OUR KITCHEN (for Lex)
In times long passed,
the kitchen hearth was
the heart of every home.
Scent of drying herbs
a potpourri of potted and garden delights.
Fresh-baked bread beckoning.
Perhaps a rocking chair for Gram
as she sat and choreographed
the preparation of the evening meal.
And always, a pot of coffee.
Our own kitchen is quite small,
but the walls, tomato red, stir appetites.
We collaborate on meals:
Here’s the wooden board, I’ll chop veggies
while you brown the chicken.
You, the king of piecrust, rule the rolling pin
while I slice apples and stir in spices.
Occasionally, we bump butts, laughing.
Small space, but a romantic place.
Our kitchen is the heart of our home.
Rented, but ours, still
because we’ve made it so.
The cat watches longingly from his perch
awaiting his shre.
We cook, bake, talk, share
and pray over the meal we prepare,
for patience, for love to loom large
over the rest of the world. As for me and mine,
we are at peace.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Our prompt at Three Word Wednesday was to create a poem using these three words: fragile, rampart, tremor
FRAGILE TREMOR
She seems invulnerable, so this was inevitable
The strongest fortress cannot hold its ramparts forever;
so the toughest girl on the block
cannot hold back the torrential reign of love
For beneath her crunchy exterior
lies a fragile veneer
covering a heart of molten chocolate
And now comes a presence
A murmur
A whisper of change breezing through her being
A tremble, a tremor, then
a collapse of her carefully maintained façade
She’s hopelessly heartfelt
More than a smidgen smitten
Finally fallen
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Our word at Sunday Scribblings this week was CURIOUS.
CURIOUS GEORGETTE
She trudged through our high school halls, lost
Aimless, claiming no one as her love,
let alone as her friend.
Defenselessness, defensiveness, born of low self-esteem…
Her mirror reflected no redeeming qualities – only questions.
She never knew we admired her aloofness.
It seemed like proof that you could survive high school
without a claque to back your every utterance
Graduation for Georgette was a slam of her parents’ back door
and a bus to the Left Coast.
The most she could score was a waitress gig,
but the tips were sometimes rolled in papers
or powdered, in neatly folded, palmable packets.
This was bliss. The otherworldly state, what was missing.
Communal living, easy giving
A belonging, a sense of family at last.
She offered her body to many men and
contracted various venereal diseases.
Still, she was pleased that she was wanted (though warted).
Dabbling in acid: Placid conversations with river frogs.
She produced artwork – optical delusions infused with
confused contortions of her new reality.
The hissing kiss of hashish in a hookah led to opiates of a wide variety,
side-winding her to limited life choices.
Not heeding her inner voice
(with its annoying mantra: “CAUTION!”),
she finally gave way to the needle.
Super Georgette, the heroin of her own life story.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Down the hold, harasses by nasty queens (and other tarts)
who wanted their money, honey.
Mad slatterns offered a spot in their stables,
and she complied… lied to her parents when she’d call for money
“I’m behind in my rent”
(I make rent using my behind)
smaller and smaller georgette shrank
until one day, shanked and shriveled,
she ceased to be at twenty-three.
Curiosity killed the kitten.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 