Birthday Bash
Let’s get the party started!
Food paradise on the table
Platter of hummus and
fresh, warm pita bread
Little cakes with jelly
And for the sweet tooth,
rows of rich truffles
All to celebrate Kelly
who leaves behind her
twelfth year and gears up
for the teenage rage
(a stage for a different page)
Enter candle-lit cake
Death by Chocolate, mmmm
Kelly’s belly will be full
and the gravity of a cavity
looms large in her future
Dad always presents cake
He trips on a rug
Mom tries to catch it
A clean miss and the
mess is in my lap, a
motley mash of icing
and one still-lit candle
I don’t usually cotton
to such antics, but
don’t blame Auntie Ame –
the birthday girl started it:
“FOOD FIIIIIGHT!”
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The Sunday Whirl gave us a fun Wordle. The first eleven words were contributed by Barbara Yates Young. The final word, motley, was contributed by Catherine MacGregor, to make it an even dozen.
I went with the premise of the birthday (celebrate, platter, jelly, bake) and simply let it ride from there. Honestly didn’t know this would end up the way it did. Pesky characters are running around in my cranium today! Thanks to Brenda Warren for keeping our Sundays “awhirl”! You can see the Wordle HERE. Peace, Amy
From Whence, and Why
(My Poetic Manifesto… because Gay asked for it!)
I write to give voice
to those without a choice
The homeless, incest survivors
Deep-water depression divers
I’ve been, at one time, all of these
I claim it, no third-person tease
Stated as fact, no truth untold
Some wish that I wouldn’t be quite so bold
Raised to speak raw truth to power
Toe to toe with guys who tower
far over my little Irish ass
(Pardon me, but I can be crass)
Give me paper, a sharp li’l pencil
and life’s underbelly I will stencil
Most people in sight of my spigots:
Racist, homophobic bigots
I’m not important, not myself
My poetry rarely graces a shelf
I drop truth bomb after drone
My words, the only weapon I own
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Poets Pub, our host Gay Reiser Cannon asked for “Manifestos.” Reasons why we write, our impulses and drives, where it all first came from. I dedicate this piece to my late mother and my grandmother Blanche. The maternal side of my family, shanty Irish, were always mindful of those who had less, whether people of color, LGBT folks, victims of war (especially troops who died and their families)… perhaps because they themselves had been in a position of being homeless and next to starving during the Depression of the 30s.
They also thought Ayn Rand was full of shit. We ARE our brother’s – and sister’s – keepers, and if you deny that, you supply the world with ZILCH. Hence my manifesto. Peace, Amy
New York Doll
There was a time in her prime
when she’d mime drink orders
to cordial bartenders who always
tended to her needs. Never one
for thinking while drinking.
She’d haul a Hal to the juke
and dance dance dance
A chance to prance from
Latin to limbo to limo to
blow snow, no dough, only
her willingness to be ill-used
(not abused in the classic sense;
her men’s tastes not leaning toward
the waste of a pretty face)
The pace of the chase
was hasty and tiring, and so,
rewiring back at the flat, we
would recount the bounty
that shines brightest at 2 am
The night, our flight, our fight
to be noticed in an
anonymous
bottomless pit
of a city
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is why having a roommate in the larger cities is important. Who else will listen to your triumphs and tragedies ‘til dawn? This one will be at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads on Monday and dverse Poetry Pub’s Open Mic on Tuesday. I’ll add the links in the next two days so you can click and read some soulful stuff from a vast array of poets. Peace, Amy
So Dangerous He Needs a Soo-da-nim
(Racist Homophobes Who Comment on My Blog)
He knows the Founders so well
Sure of Second Amendment intent
He channels Jefferson
in sick séances where
the tea’s past rancid
but the linen is fancy
except for the nibbles
of moths in every closet
He is steady on the mark
with his Glock and his spiel
about black/brown (like
HIS ancestors didn’t
come from Africa too)
About ‘cullahed peeples’
and their unoriginal sins
About ‘faggots who want him
to bend over and take it’
He knows it by their eyes
His guns were loaded that day
He knew the kid, he really did
Must’ve because he’s been
entrusted with innuendo that
spews out his piehole like
a sick gospel. And he lives
right down the block from you
But he keeps swastikas
hidden in the basement
encased in old-growth wood
covered by a Confederate flag
Proud patriot with a
genocidal mind and a blog
He’s so dangerous, he told me,
he needs a pseudonym
Sad, dangerous, sick
little man with a laptop
he uses at Denny’s and also
big guns and bigger dreams
Gonna clean up AmeriKKKa
We won’t know his real name
‘til we see it on the CNN crawl
But the ironic thing is
his mentor’s name
is Jewish.
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
His name is Legion. His mentor is Zimmerman. He trolled (!) my blog for a long while, actually claiming he writes under an assumed name, lest the government shut him down. I, like a dutiful bartender, called him a cab and sent him back to his bunker.
Eyes Wide Open
Sweet little Amer’s very first kiss
Quick, get a camera to document this!
Davey Bargetzi was awfully cute
Brown eyes and almost a birthday suit
How many girls can say their first action
Was a photo op for Mom’s satisfaction?
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Completely true story. Like most of my life, staged in front of a live audience! 8^)
Posted at Open Link Monday at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, and, if I remember, I’ll also link it to dverse on Tuesday. IF I remember, and that’s a crapshoot these days… Peace, Amy
First, apologies to all who comment and have to wait for moderation. My last posting was invaded by vendors in the comments, so back to the drawing board (sorry, Mary! I know you like to see your comments posted). Someday, we will wrangle this digital world; in the meantime, spammers run it. We just live in it. And now for a look at the man behind all the gay-bashing and LGBT arrests. Vlad, methinks thou protesteth too much…
Pimping the Olympics
Yay! Way to fatten
Putin’s pockets
Plus private security
tho’ LGBT “inferiority”
is policed to a polish
Don’t get me started on
Elton’s gig; he and David
could shtoop on the steps
of the Kremlin, but Russian
gays are jailed every day
Could Russia BE more hostile
while playing host to the
world’s athletes? Gay or straight?
Do the math: Pocketful of zloti
for self-loathing Vladi
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Vladimir Putin is a great example of “I want to bare my (pretty disgusting) physique for all to admire, but gay men with six-packs and lesbians who could take me in three rounds should all go to jail.” He is a pathetic closet case, if you ask me. I said months ago we should boycott these Olympics when the laws against LGBT people were being passed, but then again, we also appeared in China… our athletes wore clothes MADE in Chinese sweat shops. The Olympics have become a pit of corruption. I’m skipping this year… NBC won’t show the Canadian curling anyway. Peace, Amy
Clothes Make the…
Picture this
A cocktail party
Only chic elites parading in
Ralph Lauren, Valentino
Stella Mc (no, no Butterick)
Dripping in blood from
Harry Winston diamonds
Sleek, shiny, baubled
Finest wardrobe money can buy
Picture this gathering of
the 85 people who own
HALF the wealth of the
planet. 85 = $½ of ALL OF IT*
Crappy, credible math
They drink, snort, and laugh about
those wretched K-Mart shoppers
About the 99% (that’s you and me)
“How do they manage?”
“They should get real jobs”
“I never shop at WalMart,”
smirks one of Sam Walton’s girls
Their gowns, regardless of
high-fashion label, imported
from Chinese sweatshops
from Indonesian factories
Bangladesh burned but they’re
still pumping out product,
thanks to hard-working
child slave labor (and women)
These rich women, coiffed
and manicured, preening
These sons of smarter men, coiffed
and manicured, peacocks
They say clothes make the man
but these schmucks
sure as hell didn’t
make their clothes
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* Per OxFam, a non-partisan worldwide watchdog for the underprivileged
First, a HUGE “thank you” to all who have sent messages asking where I’ve been and if I am all right. Long story short: Played at two Christmas Eve services, then got the holiday/deep winter depression… followed by a flu I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even GWB. But finally able to sit at my desktop (the messages were monitored on my phone, but it’s no good for posting poetry) and contribute once again.
So off to my “play pond” I ran! Shay at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Fireblossom Friday wanted a poem in which clothing is a major component. See, I can still be politically snarky while writing about high fashion! Peace, Amy
Image used by permission of Wikimedia Commons, thanks to KLNMAX
Christmas Traditions…
The era after World War II
when “I’ll be home for Christmas” came true
People craved security
Best shown beneath the Christmas tree
War-worn dads took comfort in
their jobs, affording clatter and din
of toys beneath the Douglas fir:
endless bounty for him and her
The dolly really wet her diaper!
A toy gun for a future sniper
Pink for girls and blue for boys,
tearing paper off new toys
Thus was born a new tradition:
Lots more gifts! Spend with ambition!
As songs of Santa replaced carols
Jesus was lost, all was sterile
Once, one gift, just one – no more
Now Christmas spent at mall and store
This season is depressing; why?
Because the Christ child gets passed by
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You know most people are burnt out on pseudo-Christmas by now. The constant post-Thanksgiving pop music. The who-can-buy-the-most-presents crap. Endless parades of ugly sweaters destined for the Goodwill shop.
The Longest Night, also called Blue Christmas, is a Christian service on the Solstice, this year Saturday. If you’re not feeling “holly jolly,” if you want to get a little Jesus back in the equation, check out a service. Lots of homeless folks, people who’ve lost loved ones, who’ve lost jobs… people who are simply soured on the commercialism, all get together and share stories. It might be the best Christmas present you give yourself this year… and let me know how it turns out.
No prompt for this one. Just sending it out into the ether(net) and hoping you don’t get “the Christmas Blues” like so many. Peace, Amy
Artwork © Amy Barlow Liberatore
Wisconsin Winter Weather
Weather winces
Wisconsinites, whether
winkled or wrinkled
Why would we winter
where winds’re
wild, wooly?
Woven, wistful warmth within
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, as well as ABC Wednesday – this week, of course, the letter W! “Amy Bawwo Wiberatowe”
Sharp Little Pencil 