And So, He Goes
(for our traveling friend, George)
Can there be
any better place
than just around the bend?
Goodbye once again
His car crammed with stuff,
fairly brimming with
all the absolute necessities
plus a few luxuries- an old quilt
to nestle in, dreamgazing
Sojourning toward Someday
Will it end, this road,
this exquisite journey?
Or will he fall
Touch down softly
where peace and love are waiting?
Where he feels
alive, vital at last
At present, tense – but future…
Don’t give up on
these outrageous dreams
of belonging somewhere as unique as you are
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday (Fall, Absolute, Nestle), and posted at The Poetry Pantry, Poets United.
Our friend George (buddy since high school) has been traveling for so long, it’s almost a game, like Where’s Waldo? Where in the World is George Sandiego? He’s on the type of quest we all dream of making, once we’re of an age and a mindset to understand the meaning of the Taj Mahal while standing in front of it. He’s taking his time, keeping in touch, and Lex and I pray for him always, as he figures out this grand scheme, this labyrinth of possibility we blithely refer to as Life.
Incantations in Jazz
Back in The Day
jam sessions were serious affairs
Jazz hinged on trust, ears, collaboration, and rotgut
Cat would stay
Play for no pay
‘Til break of day
Strayhorn charts in clouds of smoke or
off-the-top-of -your head bebop
Slammin duels or cozy duets
Soubrettes mimicked Ella, got laid
Torchettes dug deeper, got respect
Getz and Jobim brought bossa to the scene
Miles straight up in any incantation
Trane proclaiming A Love Supreme
but his lover was the needle, the ride
Recording sessions went straight to vinyl
Benny, Lionel, Slam – his high-pitched, mellow voice
doubling his bass lines, so fine, class, no sass
Basie showed Sinatra how to swing
(before the “ring-a-ding-ding”)
All live, driving, vibrant, vital
Women with ample curves strung like pearls
Billie moaning, Ella owning the scat, Bessie howling
Flat-out fine, no whine about the need for pay
Getting laid, getting high, getting by
by the grace of jazz, flowing like honey or
slappin you upside the head like a pissed-off date
He’d make love to her later
after the session cooled off, horns packed up.
Then everyone got down to real business
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “I”; Three Word Wednesday (Need, Hinge, Lethal); the open call at Real Toads, AND Trifecta’s word, “Ample.” Also at the place where I’m always jammin, Poets United.
This is the soil from which I spring. Call it a dangerous environment for a young girl, but I was right at home with the old cats, the ones who gave Art Tatum driving lessons (he was blind)… the ones who ruined their voices on bathtub gin and took up the drums to keep bread on the table. Imagine my luck, a little white girl who could sing blues, accepted by musicians of all colors and lifestyles! Peace, Amy
TODAY (a shadorma)
It’s today
Came upon me fast
Heard a bird
Opened my eyes
Surprise! Before I blink twice
It’s over
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (doncha love that name?), the suggestion was to reach into your jar of short scribbles, pick out a slip (or the back of an envelope, or a cocktail napkin, or the back of a church announcement!), and expand into a poem – surprise, a shadorma from one who generally eschews form. Peace, Amy
Black Sheep (a tale of three sisters)
Our mother, civil rights fighter
Big sister
Rebellious, slutty teen
Now Fundamentalist Rightie
Middle sister
Former activist
Now Tea Party
Little sister
Feminist, liberal Christian social activist
Two drank Kool-Aid
I’m an orphan
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, the challenge was to use the “Rule of Three,” in exactly 33 words. Hope my sisters do not read this, but, hey, if they do, it’s true! The number three was always tricky, as Mom (social justice applying everywhere but in our home) often pitted us against each other.
Triangulation, thy name is Charlotte. Love you, Mom, but really…! Peace to all, Amy
Hello, all…
Just to let you know, Lex and I are on vacation from Wednesday, August 29, until after Labor Day.
Feel free to peruse the offerings already on this blog (over 500!), or read an article about my singing career in ALL ABOUT JAZZ.
Back very soon. Peace, Amy
C’mon. Don’t tell me you didn’t see a rant coming this week! Politically yours, Amy
Naked at the Tea Party
Morning mist lifts over Madison
yet a cloud remains
following the foolish victor who
occupies a solid gold throne
furnished by a Faustian family
from a land far, far away
As he breaths through his mouth
he complains his crown
is bulky, unwieldly (gotcha! He doesn’t know that word)
adored as it is with spangles, sparkles
the spoils of ill-gotten gains
and still – ill repute remains
He resigns himself to another day
of allowing teachers to go home (forever)
Freeing children from pesky doctor visits
Yet his doom looms: HE IS JOHN DOE
Jump one hurdle, slam into a wall
The drumbeat grows: Indict “Koch Lite”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Bulky, Mist, Reign.
Also at my poetic soapbox, the ever-trusty Poets United (not a PAC, incidentally!).
Image courtesy of the magazine named for my patron saint: Mother Jones.
Shot Glasses and Shop Classes
Hammerin down bourbon like it’s
five minutes before Prohibition.
He only looks up when a
been-there blonde rasps,
“Don’t mean to chisel, but
can you screwdriver me?”
He knows she’s talkin OJ and a shot
but his gaze is stapled on her form.
Still staring, he scrapes up a sawbuck
and plunks it down on the bar.
They carve conversation
out of thin air til closing time.
They file out, arm in arm… maybe he
nailed her, but she ain’t tellin.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, asking us to pick a profession and use the “tools of the trade” (in this case, woodworking) and make the nouns into verbs. Wordworking?
Also at my poetic workshop (sawdust and all), Poets United! Peace, Amy
dverse wanted poems about music. How about lyrics to an original song, WITH the music track? (smile)
A lot of you know I’m a singer/songwriter. This is a demo (no great studio quality here, just the straight voice and piano) for a long-planned but yet-to-be-financed jazz album to follow up “Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride.” Click on the track name; lyrics are below. And John, my BFF, this one’s for you!
CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THE SONG:
My Cat Sure Misses You A Lot
My Cat Sure Misses You A Lot
Words and Music by Amy Barlow Liberatore © 1998
She sits on the window seat and waits for your return
She stretches lazily, ’cause she’s got time to burn
She thinks you’re running late, or maybe you forgot
But oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot
Remember how she’d snuggle up and commandeer your lap
And how you’d hold her tenderly when she’d settle in to nap
I’m sleeping well these days, or so I thought
But oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot
She’s mine and always was, but she gave her heart away
To a man who up and left one day
I’m fine, I’m over you… I only called to say
There’s someone in the house who wants you back to stay
Why don’t you come around and visit her sometime
An hour on the front porch swing would do just fine
Or maybe you miss her the way she’s missing you
Why don’t you take her home a day, or maybe two
‘Cause oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you a lot
She’s mine and always was, but she gave her heart away
To a man who up and left one day
I’m fine, I’m over you – I only called to say
There’s someone in the house who wants you back to stay
Why don’t you come around and visit her sometime
An hour on the front porch swing would do just fine
Or maybe you miss her the way she’s missing you
Why don’t you take her home – and take me, too
‘Cause oh boy, oh boy, my cat sure misses you…
Recording published by Beehat Baby Music, copyright 2012
Garden of Weeds
It can start with anything
A feather caught in a curling freefall
That cardinal pecking at my window
The random assemblage of spices
jumbled on the shelf – one tumbles me
awake, ablaze with cardamom coincidence
Mom’s spirit sharing coffee with me
telling stories from where she now resides
in heaven, and thisclose
Even bad memories stir me
dredge, sift, filtering through
my bones, seeping to the nerves
A prophet once told me that
love is everywhere
So is truth
So is pain
So is amazement
So is amusement
So is romance
So is anger…
despair …
relief
So it’s time
to reach for my journal
and sprout another plant
for my garden of weeds
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, better late than never! Marie and Walt called for poems about SEEDS… seeds to plant, to nurture; seeds of poetry and other art… the beginning little “oomph” that pushes one to action.
Photo from Vishwasaha on WordPress. The PROPHET is named Marques Bovre, who also composed a lovely song called “Dandelion.” He’s been through cancer threatment and half the known world is praying for him. He’s on the upswing, but add him to YOUR list if you’re the praying type. Peace, Amy
Omaha, Nebraska
Seated in the squalor that was
Council Bluffs in those days,
the big city seemed far away.
Even if she got there, someday
how would she find a job
that could pay? Really pay?
She dug up some money,
got a gown downtown and
she could pass for 21 (at 16).
She knew she could sing, then…
She dipped into Mama’s purse
and cursed herself for doing it, but
Mama wouldn’t miss the compact
as she was currently in the mental ward.
“I’m gonna look older, live bolder.”
And Dad was using his daughter
in ways that would not win him
Father of the Year awards.
So she packed up her pack,
left before Dad got back,
and boarded the ferry one day.
Hotel Blackstone hired her
at first sight and first song,
and yes, they would pay, hooray!
In years to come, she would
travel around, by bus, by car,
by train (not by plane).
She owed her start in large part to
Omaha. And Council Bluffs?
Only if there was a funeral.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “O.” Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United.
Image courtesy of “Heaven’s Gates,” but DAMN! This singer in the photo is an absolute ringer for my mom, Charlotte, in those days, when she sang as Patty Long and later as Jan Long (Binghamton already had one Patty Long!).
Sharp Little Pencil 