Thank you for the visit, it really was sublime
To catch up on the news after all this time
I packed in such a hurry, some things got left behind
So if you wouldn’t mind…
My toothbrush and my dental floss, I left them on the sink
And a lone Peruvian earring, in the living room, I think
Some pictures of my daughter on the table by the door
And my lingerie we left scattered on the floor
It’s really quite the laundry list, but there’s one more thing I missed:
Bring back my heart, return it to me, at the first convenient opportunity
It was left there on the shelf and I had planned to keep it to myself
I didn’t leave it in the bedroom, I’m not blasé
That’s not the place where hearts are given away
Perhaps it was the restaurant, where you took my hand
And told me life had not worked out exactly as you planned
You asked me whether I had hopes to share my life again
And I told you God had plans for me but wouldn’t tell me when
My heart was mine alone, and until we kissed, I thought it had turned to stone
Bring back my heart, we’ll see what’s in store
Make my office gossip when you show up at the door
Bring back my heart, but until you do
I know it’s safe with you
So put it in your pocket, keep it close
Hold it with the treasures you love most
And when you return it, here is what I’ll do:
I will scent it with roses, wrap it in lace
Lay it in the lining of a golden case
And I will give it right back to you
© 1996 Amy Barlow/Beehat Baby Publishing
Many, many years ago, before I knew what the real thing was, I wrote this during a long drive home. Just me, a thermos of coffee, a steno pad, and a Ticonderoga #2. I would pull over, scribble a bit, hum some, and eventually, this song was an actual THING.
Many thanks to my friend Jon Randel for producing this song during a visit to the Upper West Side all those years ago.
Wasn’t until years later that I found out I didn’t have to give up my heart, or any piece of myself, to be loved. And yet, this song lingers. I hope you find your love. And if you have it, I hope you give it attention daily. Amy
One by one we gather, every Sunday morn
Some have come into this place from the day that they were born
Some awakened lately to the glory of his name
Each has equal favor, ‘cause he loves us all the same
It’s the work of many hands, it’s the sound of many voices
It’s the love of many hearts that make a church
Creating, crafting, singing, or speaking from the heart
Each of us has special gifts that make us who we are
We know that our talents were given from above
The Holy Spirit gives the gift, and we pass it on with love
It’s the work of many hands, it’s the sound of many voices
It’s the love of many hearts that make a church
Someone said the Christian path is narrow and long
On the wider avenues, there’s so much to be done
So feed the hungry, find the friendless, let your spirit soar
You never know when Jesus Christ is walking through the door
It’s the work of many hands, it’s the sound of many voices
It’s the love of many hearts that make a church
© 1997 Amy Barlow, Beehat Baby Publishing
Shout out to Rev. Cliff Aerie of The Oikos Ensemble, who was my pastor at First Congregational Church in Binghamton, NY years ago. Not only did he encourage my songwriting ministry (he produced this track), but he married Lex and me in 1998.
Stay safe and stay blessed, my people. Love, Amy
It’s not my fault, I’m not to blame for our stolen kisses and whispered voices
I tried my best, and it’s a shame you couldn’t stay away despite my fashion choices
I didn’t shave my legs, or touch up my roots
I didn’t put on makeup, and even wore my hiking boots
But you see what you want to see, and say what I need to hear
And in your eyes I’ve always felt beautiful and dear
But you came here with your girlfriend, so in my own defense, I’ll say
I didn’t plan on loving you today
I broke out just in time to look my worst for you
It’s guaranteed my kneesocks spoiled the southern view
You see me with your heart, I know, the way I’ve always been
And in your eyes, it’s long ago – and I’m young and sweet again
I knew you both would be here, but I stopped by anyway
I didn’t plan on loving you today
Why can’t you behave – and why do you insist
On turning back the pages to a time when we first kissed
You couldn’t have me then, and I can’t have you now
This is not for keeps, my friend, but I love you anyhow
So maybe we can meet when we both need to smile
For though we live in different worlds, we share a common style
Fate was always strong enough to sabotage my plans
And though I love you endlessly… the rules of love demand
That I didn’t style my hair
And I wore mismatching underwear
I didn’t plan on loving you today
But you loved me anyway
© 1997 Amy Barlow/Beehat Baby Publishing
Back then every morning broke both ways. Salty and sweet
Head already splitting sitting up, sliding into bell bottoms, frayed hems fringed over faded espadrilles
Peasant top, you know how it was, a roach clip on a looooong feather clipped into frantic loopy hair
Sip of last night’s to get me out the door, down to Ruby’s
Step out near the canals, the shaggy likewise join the journey
Who’s holding? Lights up, the high travels along the line of linked arms like a fuse
Snickersnorting to the boardwalk, Jingles and Frank ready for busking
All the lovely boys building bodies to bodacious on the beach, sand sticking to evvvvvery sinewed limb, pump pump bump
Now we can smell the coffee smell the bacon smell half the customers too, or at least their smoke
The clatter of breakfast – and always smiling Ruby (“somebody hit the juke for Ray Charles!” and his voice, “They saaaaay, Ruby, you’re like a dreeeeeeeam…”) She was 100% movement but never rushed us
Lazy, luxurious breakfast, runny eggs, and how they got bacon that crispy while retaining every bit of grease that came off the hog is a mystery of faith
OJ from the carton (back when we still called it that) not fresh, but we only drank it for the sugar hit
And so Sunday began. We were together. We had survived another Saturday night. And as we ramshackled back onto the mostly deserted boardwalk, it never occurred to us that something else might happen. That soon, Ruby’s place would turn into Starbucks; all the trash on the beach would become all the Eurotrash in the tragically samesame cafes; and eventually, Jingles might get a ticket for loitering.
Not yet. We didn’t have a clue that it was coming: the encroachment of developers, the diaspora of cool. I can still smell Sunday morning, the sweet greasy and the sweat weedy.
Thanks to my old friend Roger Green for kicking me in the butt to post something! He’s at www.rogerogreen.com
People have lots of opinions
about religion
about politics
about morals
about what a family should look like
and who should be allowed to Thanksgiving dinner
But I never realized how opinionated people could be
until I told them about our plans to retire in a tiny home
The astonishment, the disbelief
And then it really begins… the inquisition, the condemnation
The comments that show just how little people care about your feelings
-Tiny houses are a fad
-They are crappy structures, I saw that on HGTV
-Are you going to just roam around the country for the rest of your lives?
-Don’t you want a REAL HOME? (House as Pinocchio)
-They’ll make you live in a trailer park (this insults all the cool folks who live in trailers and RVs, frankly)
-You don’t really buy into that Green New Deal stuff, do you?
-Do you really want to compost your poop?
The answers:
If it’s a fad, we’ll bring it round to being sensible (and wonderful)
We want to leave the world a little less crappy for our kids
Homes are as real as people allow them to be
Home has been hundreds of apartments for decades
for both of us, as well as our child, for as long as we can remember,
and we always made it work
It’s only BS if you buy into the paradigm
And sure, managing composting toilets is tricky
But again, leaving the world less crappy is kind of the point
So spare me the whining
or you won’t get invited to experience the fabulousness of it all
(c) 2019 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, the letter is T
T for Tiny, T for Tremendous
T for ‘Take That, Naysayers’
T for Trust
Lex and I spend hours poring over websites and drawing diagrams. The biggest problem will be which city and where to park it. Our list of Must Haves gets shorter and shorter. We are “three hots and a cot” people, always have been. Hell, I stopped counting after 40 moves! (Of course, some of those were couches…) As long as Lex and I can figure out the snoring thing and the ‘Mommy Needs A Fan All The Time’ thing, we’ll be fine. Peace, Amy
Looking forward to old age, to age-old dreams
We decided to Go Tiny
Minimalize
Buy a little crackerbox and live the Keebler life
It won’t be for a long while
But I have started shedding stuff
it peels off daily
Flotsam off the shelves
Out of closets
So much stuff
Stephanie said, “But you don’t have much stuff”
I so, SO get what she means
We are actually simple people
Complicated but unencumbered
It’s part of the pastoral couple thingie
And yet, daily, I find piles to move along
Clothes I will never wear
Art supplies I have not used
(Sure, I might take up painting again,
but the acres of acrylics
the pall of palettes
oy.)
So St. Vinny’s (patron saint of people who just moved into a new place and really need stuff) takes on my burdens
I will burn a candle at his altar
Fly, my pretty things
Fly and roost on someone else’s house
Our nest will be empty (mostly)
again
(c) Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
She was a shy little girl
But the years saw her follow a dazzlebright dream
Sometimes salty with her tears, but free and blazing and true, that spotlight
the place where fear faces down a mighty shout
and the shout wins
Keeping it upright for so long, night after night, year after year, life after the death of innocence and rebirth into a style that was right and real
She had more class in her little finger than those girls from school had in their bigass suburban bedroom closets
She was a gold mine of good stories and
the kind of crooked wisdom that comes from living out loud and voraciously
“This life is mine,” she said
“This room is better for having me in it,” she breathed
And they knew she was right
© 2019 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl, the words were style, finger, light, mine, shy, salt, collide. Also follow, cats, and a couple of others, but I didn’t have the wherewithal after a full day of church to get them all in!! Peace, Amy
The first time I saw an apple doll was in a picture book
Kids in the suburbs don’t have homespun toys – but that particular book, from our school library, was one of those “Back in the OLD DAYS when people didn’t have SHOES so they walked 12 MILES to school BAREFOOT” kind of books, the ones your grandparents swore was written about THEM
The doll’s head was an apple
(well, sure, or else it would have been a Prune Doll or some such)
An actual apple, dry and old and quite wizened up, used up
The face was dead
Not peaceful, died-in-their-sleep dead
More like starved-to-death or “Bitten By A Brown Recluse Spider” dead. all sucked in on itself, so dry I could almost hear the parch
And the reason this came back to me one night while we were watching TV
(this bizarre tidbit from the Bipolar Lock Box/bat haven)
It was his face
His face as he put his crusty hand on an actual Bible
and swore an oath to do a bunch of stuff we all know he won’t do
does not intend to do
assumes he is above bothering with it at all
That dried apple yawned open, then closed
It never kissed its wife
It had few. if any, words for its own young son
When it blinked, bits of peel seemed to shard off and
float the astroturf carpet below its feet
A desiccated, ancient thing
Perhaps it had been vital at one time, but it was never top of the bushel
The apple a grocer hides in the pile, hoping some unsuspecting shopper
will pick it up along with the other, shinier ones
A wormy, mealy apple
Fruit of a poisoned tree
(Thoughts on the inauguration of Donald J. Trump)
(c) 2019 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, “L” is for “licentious” and “lecherous.” And “lousy,” “loathsome,” and on and on.
Truth: I wrote this the night of Trump’s inauguration but didn’t post it until now, because I have spent the last three years (plus) freaked out by the fact that this pustule is actually president of the United States. PTSD takes its toll on survivors of sexual abuse, and the Access Hollywood tape, along with all the other insults to practically everyone who is not a straight, white, Christian, Republican male… Well, yeah, that’s why I have not blogged much since then.
I am disappointed in myself, that I could let one man steal that much joy and power and enthusiasm from me. But see the comment above about my childhood sexual abuse. I learned, very early on, that one man could, indeed, steal my innocence and trust, so why not joy, power, and enthusiasm, too? I mean, he is the president. And he does believe he is all-powerful. (Just don’t look behind the curtain. That fat king is buck naked.) Amy
A chance conversation with a stranger
leads to both of us feeding the Hungry Cup on the sidewalk
A smile on my face, returned
by someone else
leads to just that – our grins
The new couple on the block
passed by with their
happyhappyyippeepuppy
which led me indoors to
appreciate our lazy cat a bit more
The phone call from an old friend
that was actually a text, but quite effective
A prayer answered, the one you didn’t know you needed
Unexpected blessings are the whole point
(c) 2019 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, the letter U. I must admit, that letter prompted a poem about Ugly, Ubiquitous trUmp, but I thought better of it.
Concentrating on those blessings each day. Trying to get the hang of happiness.
Amy
Simple Summer Pleasures
simple things
seeing sunrise after a good night’s slumber
strrrrrretching to the tune of birdsong
Smell of Sumatran coffee, steaming and silky
A decent back scratch, administered by someone special
Some time in the garden amongst slinky, slimy worms and snickering birds (beaks full of seeds just strewn)
Sitting on the porch, swig of beer, clack of dominoes, sunset smiles
Snuggled on the couch, where in our house,
“Netflix and chill” means
watching an actual movie with the air conditioner on high
Sweet dreams, beautiful summer day
See you at sunrise
© 2019 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Beehat Baby Publishing
Thanks to Roger at ABC Wednesday for this prompt, the letter S. Was just out in the garden, surveying my new raised bed, built for me by Lex and our friend Stephanie. Will probably wax poetic about that little garden soon. Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 