Apalachin
No, it’s not Appalachia
It’s Apalachin
Like apple achin’
In the sticks, with
cows munchin’ grass
over back of Lisa’s house
Kitty caught a mouse
and laid it under
the rear tire of our car
The guts went squishin’
I’m wishin’ Beth was there
She’s one for the messy stuff
There was a mob meeting
years ago, the REAL mob,
the Mafia, on the other side
of town and police raided them
for tax stuff, I dunno, but
Mom says we got a reputation
The Klan was real busy
two towns over, and Mom said
they are fools who wear
dunce caps and I think she’s
right because she’s always right
and you better know that…
Otherwise, you get The Squint
or get called “Sadie” or
worst of all, really, is when
she says, “T’ain’t funny, McGee,”
(some old radio show) and then
you know you’re in trouble, kiddo
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse called for poems that are uniquely ours. This is I, the queen of lofty speech, speaking from the front yard of 55 Brookside Avenue, Apalachin, New York, in 1962. (I was already scared of cameras, afraid they’d flash; early sign of PTSD.) The only thing I couldn’t get in was Mom’s Midwestern way of saying “roots” and “roof” with a short “oo.”
Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
He’s Gone (for George)
He’s a bust-my-buttons hello
A faithful friend; we’ve
weathered some shitstormish eras
when nothing made sense
(save ourselves and
our good opinion of each other)
The kind of friend you can hug
and not let go
and know
it never has to get weird
The one who understands
the digressions of an alcoholic parent
who is like a child – and can
also laugh at some of the confusion
The one with whom you can
watch movies in total silence
or howl and poke each others’
arms, like “yeah!”
He hit the road again
just now
and I wrote this to remember
He’s a quick-before-we-cry
goodbye
An endless paradox
An understandable conundrum
He’s George
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Some friends you keep forever. After forty years of our friendship and many years of knowing my husband too, George will always be a part of our lives. We should all be so lucky to have someone like that in our lives!
Posted at ABC Wednesday (V is for VISIT!) and in the margins at Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
The Advent of the Adventure
The story goes that
a baby was born and
placed in bin where
the animals fed
Shepherds were awed
Mystics from the East
gave him expensive gifts
(but nothing practical)
The time leading
up to this event
is for considering
whether we’re ready
Ready to go on
the adventure once more
To seek justice, love kindness,
and walk humbly with our God
Ready to hear stories
from the man with the plan
who ran afoul of authorities
and, like Mandela, was
a prisoner of conscience
Unlike Mandela, he was
executed by the State in
the most humiliating way
Are we ready to follow the star?
Are we ready to see the babe?
Most importantly, ask yourself
the question Christmas poses:
Are you so focused on the baby
that you forget the lessons of
the man? If you max your cards
this Advent, the answer is “yes”
Give to charity in his name
Give to a homeless person in his name
Give thanks to God in his name
Give your heart to pursuing justice
…in his name
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday. Now that “Black Friday” and all that mishigoss has passed us by, I still wonder whether the secular Christmas has more meaning for people than the actual event. I don’t care that Jesus was probably born in July; I don’t “need” an immaculate conception or miracles. And I love Winter Solstice celebrations. But I do take my marching orders from Jesus!
Peace, Amy
UNDER THE HARSH
Sleeping on a park bench
Living in a Chevy beater
Winter covers each with
an unwanted blanket of snow
Downtown, shoppers
pay them no mind; while
searching for deep discounts,
they discount these folks
Tonight, under starlight that
sets the frost a-twinkle with
thousands of crystals, remember
Jesus is sleeping under cardboard
not too far from here…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Michael Crawford sings this song with heart, with understanding. May we all remember the homeless during this HOHOHO season of frenzied gift giving, as we fatten our credit card balances buying crap made by child slave labor in China.
For ABC Wednesday, the letter U. Pick one: Underfed, Underemployed, Under stress, Under cardboard boxes. Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
The weasly guy from “Mad Men” and
Demi Moore in drag?! Pass the cranberry sauce!
ThanksGIVing?
Here’s to my Mayflower descendants who
enslaved indigenous people.
Here’s to Wrong-Way Columbus, who
first allowed them to show how to grow food.
(Then he enslaved them.)
Here’s to Columbus Day, which
celebrates the schmuck above.
Of course, there’s always
another side of the Judas coin.
It’s a great day to spend with family,
gorging on food and getting tipsy.
It’s a great day to celebrate the
American version of football.
But this year, 2013, we have
a special treat in store:
Retail workers ripped from their
families to work on pre-Black Friday.
Come to think of it, just about
everything Thanksgiving is BS…
especially what they taught us in school,
that “the Pilgrims” (um, the Settlers)
and the “Indians” (who were here first)
dined together and had lots of fun.
Want to see fun? Take a trip to a local
reservation. And I don’t mean the casino…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At this, the 11th hour, I implore you, DON’T GO SHOPPING ON THANKSGIVING! It’s not fair to the employees. Of course, Lex and I will boycott all the Big Box stores putting this hokum over on America… but at least let the stores be empty on a national holiday. How about it?
And take a moment to pray for “American Indians,” whatever the hell that means. Just because they have casinos doesn’t mean squat – the guys at the top make all the money, after they pay off their Malaysian bakers for funding the building. And that takes years!
For ABC Wednesday, “T,” and “in the margins” at Poets United and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. With hope, Amy
Handling the Truth
(for Euro-Americans)
Bought and sold at auction
Everyday transactions
Fractionally human, they said, if that
In those “golden olden days,”
African lives were cheap
From deep in jungles, sold
by bribed tribal chiefs or
simply rounded up like
fleet and feisty animals
This nation brutalized
an entire civilization
If Anglos never feel
the slash of the lash…
If whites will not dare
to share the shame of slavery
After all these years
the pain of the past endures
and we won’t even watch the film
How can we dare say we care
about rancid, ruthless racism
still rampant in America?
Buy the ticket, damn it
(You already saw “Hunger Games”)
Or was Jack Nicholson right?
“You can’t HANDLE the truth”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I have seen “12 Years a Slave” TWICE. Second time, to hold a friend’s hand and discuss the movie. Lex and I were breathless, angry, ashamed… especially that this film, the most important film ever made about the enslavement and unimaginable treatment of African peoples at the hands of “white” slavers, is tanking at the box office. People have said, “It’s too heavy,” or even, “I go to movies to be entertained, not educated.” Really?! What the hell do they mean? If people went through this shit, we owe it to them to at least watch a dramatization of the true story.
I know it’s tough. Especially when everyone is engorging themselves like tics on Thanksgiving turkey and bloating their credit card debt on Black Friday. But I implore you, GO SEE THIS FILM. We all need to face the facts.
This is for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads (protest poem) and Poets United’s Poetry Pantry. Peace, Amy
Folks, as often happens with my precarious mental health circumstances, I must take a week off blogging. I’m sorry I haven’t been posting regularly, and I decided it’s poetic fatigue… need to go out and catch a star, but first must rest my mind.
Thanks, y’all, for hanging in with me through thick and thin! I’ll sharpen my pencil in the next few days, but for now, I bid you peace. Amy
Folks, until I figure out how to make a separate Prose page on this blog, I’ll post here. This is Part II of a futuristic story I’ve been working on. No zombies, no vampires, no mutants eating people’s brains, although there has been a breakdown of infrastructure because of what they call The Big Thing. This is simply a story of one girl who’s trying to resist the temptations of a new society controlled by The WiRE, which resembles the Net, all your downloads, YouTube, and IGlasses, all in one neat operation – if you’re willing to have it implanted in your frontal lobe. She’s called a Throwback for a reason. She’s a survivor and an archivist of the Before. See Part I HERE.
The Throwback (story of a girl in the Someday) Part II
The Way Back When Café was in the Former district, the back-alley streets filled with secondtwelfthhand shops, coffeehouses, bars that served a semblance of what was once known as beer, and other places frequented by Throwbacks. “Ah,” murmured Jordan to herself, “the place the WiRE forgot.”
She was the last of her Circle to arrive. Bethinal waved and Jordan pointed to the counter – “Beloved bean first!” Grabbing a hot cup of brew, she joined the gathering in back. Comfortable chairs, sofas, the golden light of an antique lamp, jazz on the Box… all they could ask for in a meeting place.
“Jay,” motioned Cinda, “sit.” The two hugged and she wedged in between Cinda and Zack.
“So did you hear who flipped?” said Newt, resident keeper of all random gossip. “Zander Benton.”
“Zander?” shrieked Bethinal. “I was almost there with him. He was coming ‘round, said he was gonna check out our Circle and maybe join us.”
“Nope. He’s not only installed the WiRE, he’s Feed XR2.3 now. Games, illusions, sextation, even.” He saw Bethinal flinch and said, “Sorry, Betha. I didn’t know you were on for him. I begged him not to give in, but his parents wanted Zander in the Agency, and you ‘need to read the Feed’ for that.”
Two Feeders were outside, checking the café out. One of the joys of being WiRED was to “thump Throwbacks.” They entered, in that synched bop peculiar to the Plugged – they were obviously on the same input canal. The tall one with blue hair worked his lower jaw to turn down the volume within his head. “So, this a Nola nook?”
Jordan raised her mug. “Sure is. Care to unplug and share some actual conversation? Oh, wait,” she grimaced, hitting her forehead. “I forgot. You can’t unplug and the volume only turns down so much.”
“Why’d we wanna waste time when there’s so much more up here,” he sneered, pointing to his forehead.
Smug little surfer, thought Jordan. “All that’s ‘up there’ is what the Agency gives you. It’s like ultra-refined brain sugar. I’ll bet you haven’t had an original thought in months.”
Tall Blue’s face darkened, and Short GreenHead assumed the “Yeah, what he says,” pose. “You GranolaHeads think you’re big rebels. Truth is, you are living in the past – so far back you could never catch up to us.” He suddenly twitched his shoulder and said to Rust, “Get that?”
“Thanks for the bump, Stone. Stomp on Friday, at the Dome. Should be maze.” He turned to Jordan’s Circle and said, “See what you’re missing? You don’t get news flashes. You’re nowhere, you’ve got nothing to offer.”
“Oh yeah?” Jordan popped open the snaps on her shirt and bared her breasts. “I got a helluva a lot more to offer than you’ll ever get. Have fun offing with your imaginary friends at the Sextation in your cranium!”
Blue Hair stepped back and tapped his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s flow. Fist off, Nolas!” he shouted, slamming the door behind him.
“Another Circle, another interruption,” sighed Jordan, slowly snapping up her shirt, giving her friends something to ponder. Peace made dreaming possible, and she knew most of them would have sweet dreams that night.
They talked for an hour or so, then joined hands as Jingles lowered the music out of respect for the ritual. “Creator, thank you for our combined will to resist forces that would enslave our minds and erase the precious past. Let each of us be mindful, do good, and stayclear.” Jordan then joined them in a group LetGoFirstDareYa, the hug of all hugs. “Keep Peace,” they all murmured before scattering down the alleyway.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
“In the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Please, offer any constructive critique – especially you prose writers! I’m new at this. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 