In the Palm of God’s Hand
I dreamed I was in God’s palm
Not alone – a hundred or more
sought the same succor
I explored this miracle
Felt a callus on God’s finger
Sensitivity for the laborer
No silken luxuries in this hand;
traces of humankind’s misdeeds
His right eye, littered with shrapnel
Her left eye wept tears
black as the rains of Hiroshima,
thick as dredged Gulf Sea Tar
One arm was tattooed with a number,
the other bore scratches of barbed wire
from Matthew Shepard’s execution
The pinkie, blowing off bit by bit
by IEDs and drone strikes
His nose broken by bar fights,
her cheek bruised from spousal abuse
A rainbow was painted on God’s cheek
The children on God’s palm cried
One sold, one raped, one homeless
Adults cuddled them, sang songs
to them, and God smiled
“You are my angels on earth,
the face of Jesus, the form of
the Divine Sofia, and the human
evidence of my love for all
“Wake up and help me heal”
When I awoke, I prayed thanks
for this visit, and promised God
I’d give my all, with a servant’s hands
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Not written to any prompt, but on the Open Link page of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and sidebar of Poets United. This was an actual dream… and there was so much more to tell. Peace, Amy
I Beg Your Pardon… really
For my sisters, who have had to
put up with my leftie ranting and
defense of my gender-queer daughter…
I beg your pardon
For my daughter, who had to
endure a childhood with a single mom
who was not yet diagnosed as mentally ill…
I ask your forgiveness
For my husband, who has seen me
through hell and back, fat and thin, and
bears my depressions with understanding…
I’m sorry I’m a high-maintenance partner
For my dead parents, about whom I write,
who defend their actions, their hideous
alcoholism and abuse of their daughter…
I regret nothing
Finally, to myself, for all the mistakes, the
mysterious paths I’ve chosen, the years of
drugs, the booze, and the frozen career just thawing…
I repent. And I sharpen my pencil once again.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Fireblossom Friday at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asks for poems about repentence. I won’t go into the God thing here. I’m keeping it tangible and earthbound. Shay, you rock! Peace, Amy
The Migraine Speaks (much to my dismay)
Yes, that ball bearing behind your right eye
It is I
Thief of thoughts
Barbed-wire butchery
Trailing tacks and nails and
prickly pins
I’ll stick in your head
‘til you wish you were dead
I strike with little warning
and lots of retching and tears
and pulling of the blinds
I am your migraine
You are my prisoner
(until the meds kick in)
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I have not shared much in the way of my artwork, but lately I’ve taken up drawing as therapy. The picture above was drawn during a migraine, so it was quite a feat for me.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, plus dverse Open Mic, and ABC Wednesday later this week… “M” is for migraine.
The Gossip Girls
Have you seen the way she dresses?
Half slut, half bag lady.
And always with one dangling earring,
one post. Is that a gay thing?
Well, she does march in the parades.
And all that gay rights nonsense and
on and on about the homeless.
Her husband is a saint to put up with her.
If I talked that way and dressed
like a tramp, my husband would
slap some sense into me, and I’d
have it coming.
Mine would, too.
I miss the old days when we knew
what was what and who we were
supposed to be… oh, wait, sssssh…
she’s coming.
“Morning, ladies, how’s everything
with you today?”
“Fiiiiiiine.” Butter wouldn’t melt
in their mouths.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Kim Nelson wanted poems on gossip at Poets United – check out the link and read some other poets as well. Poets U. is a wellspring of talent. Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
PROCESS NOTES: As Alice Roosevelt Longworth said, “If you don’t have anything nice to say about others… come sit next to me.” I abhor gossips, quite possibly because I am the subject of same in some circles. Such is life lived out loud! Amy
I lost a week in there with oral surgery (no, they didn’t sew my mouth shut, but I know of a few people who wish they had!). But I used last week’s Sunday Whirl words, which I will share with dverse and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday.
My friend Rev. Tisha is working on a program concerning violence against women. Please feel free to forward poems to me by email – either paste the poem in the message or attach. Here is an example, and I can only say that, as a survivor of a different type of violence, these girls huddle in a corner of my soul. Peace, Amy
SECRET TO SURVIVAL
Three girls
torn from the cradle of mothers’ arms
peering past bad circumstances
The secret
to their survival in exile was the stories
Pry open clues with claws forged of need
Pile bits
of memory, tiny green apples
as unripe as they. Their rash hope:
that spirits
would comfort them as they endured
man after man on a filthy mattress
The spirits
were their only treasure, clutching and reciting
concocted tales of their shared princess-like past…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
PEACE IS POSSIBLE (a Fibonacci)
One
mindset
among many
will cause peace
to flow all around us
like a mighty, majestic river of unfathomable love
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is my prayer for peace, as prompted by Mary at dverse Poets. Of course, I did not make the deadline, so perhaps I will submit this for dverse Open Mic Night as well as the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. And, yes, I managed a form to boot, using the word-count version of the Fibonacci Sequence (1-1-2-3-5-8).
The latest carnage in Kenya, at a mall in Nairobi, took many lives at random. And yet here in the States, gun violence continues to claim veterans, spouses, children, and people caught in the wrong place (or school) at the wrong time – also, a gun on hand means access to a fast suicide, rather than trying to reach out. The Second Amendment provided for armed militias, like the National Guard, and was conceived when one-shot muskets were the standard. I’m not against others hunting (as long as it’s for meat, not ivory), but the proliferation of high-powered rifles with huge magazines – and people with violent histories being allowed to own guns? Is Ted Nugent running for president or what? Get a grip, people. Peace, Amy
ORAL FIXATION
Following years of extractions,
protracted dental procedures
that chanced to finance
dentists’ kids’ tuition,
here’s the fruition:
End of line for teeth like mine
Complete comeuppance
(come-out-ance?) of my
upper floor of teeth (the basement
to remain untouched beneath)
Oh, doctor, pray thee
go gentle into that good right
side; succumb that gum with enough
anesthetic to render a rhino redundant
Gas me gutless
The final result, partly insult
My smile replaced;
our savings laid waste
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You know I will write about anything when you read this one, right? Yes, I will join the “upper denture” group this week, after years of secondhand nightclub smoke plus poor access to dental care rendered my upper rack wretched and wrecked.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday and dverse’s Open Mic Tuesday. And if I’m absent over the weekend, it will be because my face looks like a cauliflower and feels like the aftermath of a prizefight! Peace, Amy
All That And More
Voice like menthol
Balls of brass
Face like schoolgirl
Killer ass
Charmful armful
Singing sinner
Rings the bell for
raunchy dinner
All the makings
All the style
Shimmy, chanteuse
Make ‘em smile
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You want a jazz poem, dverse? One from the heart, heels, and head of a vintage babe who sang in clubs for 35 years and never overstayed her welcome. .
Also on the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
The Siren
Older men
seasoned
schooled in seduction
bandied like young bucks
at the sight of
her winsome face
her womanly walk
Behold, that silksultry cool
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Mama Zen at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us for eight. Eight lines, eight words, anything Eight.
Eight lines to describe the face a thousand words could not paint… I’ve known this woman. Today, she’s still got it… she just uses it to better advantage!
Also at my poetic perch, Poets United.
Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 