Midsummer moist, midcity malaise until
block party can be heard two blocks away
Grab a sixpack from the fridge and
amble on over, no invite needed
Scrambled egos debating
Elvis vs. Beatles which
morphs into
Beatles vs. Stones
Who’s the host? The entire
block, sweaty from setup and
quenching thirst with first
bottle that passes
Kids and Popsicles, boys
chase girls and some chase
other boys
“Steamed clams up!” shouts
a generously endowed Tejana
Her radio channel is Mexican; it
blares trumpets and voices and
drums, overtaking Mumford & Sons
next door (Mumford’s mom is mellow,
doesn’t seem to mind)
Generosity here, tamales and
samosas, curries and jello,
the United Nations of food
Drinking local microbrews or
sipping red wine in jelly jars;
soda, water, soda water
Everything free and donations
pour in from neighboring blocks
Dancing, commence
Drum circle, all welcome
Serious rhythm, bone deep and
daring anyone to stand still
Swaying to the beat, one kid
picks up a djembe and beats
a scribbled, disjointed pathway
No one tells him to do different
Block party, where police kindly
cordon off the street and some
come in to join the fun
Block party, kind of like a rave
without the pesky Ecstasy
Just noise and sweat and
as they say in Brooklyn:
It ain’t the heat
It’s the humanity
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Joseph at Naming Constellations put up some pieces for ekphrastic poetry last year, and I revisited the prompt. I chose a Pollock, “Autumn Rhythm,” which caught my sense of smell and sound, rather a piece based on synesthesia as much as the ekphrastic prompt. I could immediately hear the drums and laughter, smell the clams in the steamer… This prompt was a feast for all my senses. Thanks, Joseph, and please find more poets answering this prompt HERE.
This can also be found at the hedgelines of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and my poetic block party that never ends, Poets United. Peace and steamed clams, Amy
Changes
Mail call, salvation in the field
Look, another book from my aunt
Shit. More poetry
and I thought I asked her to
send me dirty magazines
like she used to for my uncle
She says that was another time
Another place
Another war
Sandburg, is this guy Jewish?
Whatever, I’ll take a look
Bunch of stuff about Chicago
and I’ve never even been there
Whatever
A phrase catches my eye
“A Million Young Work Men”
First, I thought it would be like
A Million Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong
but I was wrong and now
I wish I’d never read it
Shit about dead young men from
two sides of a war and all of them
cold underground, slaughtered each other
for no reason at all except to make
their leaders fat and happy and rich
And then this poet, Sandburg
dreams of their bloodgutted ghosts
They all rise up out of graves and scream
Damn the czar and Damn the Kaiser
(I thought that was a roll, whatever)
But that was another time
Another place
Another war
We’re not in this because anyone
is gonna make money or score points
We’re in this because we are patriots
and we’re gonna teach these muzzlims
democracy, even if it kills us
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Fireblossom’s prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads is tricky today: Find a poem you love, then write a poem about that one, first person, third person, fiction or real, anything goes. Hers, about a man reading Byron to a young woman, seducing her with the words of a long-gone poet, really hit home. Read it HERE, it’s terrific. This is also “in the margins” at Poets United.
I love Sandburg in all his incarnations, especially his Chicago poems, because he deals with social justice in layspeak. Never talking above the reader, his words are carefully chosen and deceptively ordinary; yet, the power of his convictions is clear. I wrote this as an aunt trying to connect with a nephew serving in Afghanistan. His through brainwashing makes it clear: The Powers That Be have won… again.
Thanks for reading, and peace, Amy
Certain Seafood
I love me a fresh-caught fish
If it’s farmed, it’s not delish
Salmon! Salmon! Now you’re jammin’!
Halibut will stave off famine
Lobster steaming on the plate
Melted butter, that is great
But if it had a suction cup
Just the thought and I throw up
Octopus, call it calamari
But to me it’s “run-a very far-y”
Don’t even think to serve me squid
You will see me flip my lid
Please don’t serve me suction-cup seafood
Gives me willies. It’s not “me” food
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Just a little doggerel for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ “fish” prompt! And it’s true. Even looking at octopus, especially raw, gives me the sensation that my teeth are falling out of their gums. Somewhere between phobia and gross-out. What’s your fish/seafood pet peeve? Anything give you the willies? Let me know in comments! Peace (and melted butter for the lobster), Amy
This is also in the “right margin” at Poets United, my other poetic fish tank. Peace, Amy
Hellish Mind Music
Exquisite pain
Migraine music
Satan’s symphony
starts slowly
Building, blinding
to crescendo
Muted applause
at its end
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, all permissions given by Searobin, creator
At Poets United, Kim introduced us to William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow,” a simply gorgeous poem of only eight lines and no punctuation. Read it HERE. She asked us to build in the same form a poem in which every word matters. I woke up with said migraine, so it became my subject! Ah yes, art is pain… pain is art…
This also appears near the hedges bordering the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
Moongazing
Moon
Silver
sliver of
fascination
Her slow turn tango
across a black dance floor
No partner, save the sun’s light
No audience, save one wistful
woman gazing heavenward, wishing
this divine song would play on forever
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons; permissions granted by photographer, Dori
Hedgewitch at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads offered up a form challenge: the etheree. It’s a form I can handle… one syllable, two syllables… on up to ten. You can even take ten, go back to nine, and down to one to for a reverse or double etheree (ethefour?!).
The extra challenge was to make it ethereal as well. To me, there is nothing as ethereal as the moon in all her phases, whether obscured by wisps of clouds or viewed on a stark, clear night. Hope you enjoyed mine! For others, click HERE. Also linked to Poets’ United’s Poetry Pantry, where we all come out to play with words and thoughts. Peace, Amy
Attention! I did an OOPS! Forgot to mention that this poem also appeared on the venerable blog, ABC Wednesday. Thanks to Roger Green for pointing it out, and do follow the link over there to read dozens of posts – poetry, photography, family histories… anything about the letter “B.” Thanks, Amy
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What do you say we take a day off from political rhetoric, especially from cracker Jacks packin’ their pistols in compensation (read yesterday’s comments if you doubt me!). Kim Nelson at Poets United said today, “A good poem feels vivid and visceral and close to the source.” She then challenged us to get close to the source, using flourishes of color and other details to help the poem bloom.
She also suggests we offer one another constructive ideas about how to dig even deeper for that detail, so I look forward to your comments! This is also on the borders of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
Garden Bloomers and Bloopers
Hand in grimy glove, the garden game
Where woman meets Underground and
spies Resistance at every turn
On high, Frying Pan in the Sky flew off
(vacationing in Bermuda, warming
pink coral-shell sand, toasting tourists)
My sandals, cool blue cruisers, propel me
out the screen door (Squeak! It begs,
“Oil me, tend to me, love me too!”)
Horticultural not my forte; rather, my
pianissimo, yet with practice and practical advice,
I’m pure shovel, old wooden rake… and hoe.
A little brown Slimy slithers out to greet me,
kneads dense soil with time-honored intentions,
necessary cog in the nature machine of green
Rousting Brown-Eyed Susans, wilted into
Bruised-Eyed Brown Twigs; they’re sentenced
to the pile “where the worm never dies”
New, preening yellow slim thingamajigs
move into Susan’s former digs. I dig ’em.
Sprinkle ‘em. The rest sinks beneath my control
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I Stand My Ground With My Words
Why was the life of a black youth
walking through his “white” neighborhood
snuffed out by an old man’s bullet?
Fear. Racism. Because Zim had a gun.
When did “standing your ground”
mean wielding not words,
but a weapon?
Bad laws. NRA lobby $$.
When will we decide to
engage in conversation and reject
vigilante injustice?
When we resume being human.
We’ve been in collective PTSD
since 9-11, and brown and black folks
have lost ground since then.
Don’t tell me it’s not racism.
Hearts have hardened by war
and lies and this horrid Congress,
divided and divorced from reality.
They have armed guards.
Try this on for size: If you cannot
stand your ground with words, you’re
not mature enough to own a pistol.
Your possessions are not worth a life.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
‘Nuff said. For Poets United’s Poetry Pantry, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and dverse Open Mic Night.
Lessons Learned
I used to be approached by men
who were little more than boys
regarding me as made for them
like all their other toys
I used to see the handsome ones
who knew they looked so good
and acted thus; not calling back,
their conduct understood
I used to be a looker, then
when looking was to be done
For all the fun I could’ve had
I’ve had more peace with one
So wait for him, whose gaze rests not
upon your boobs, but your eyes
Who listens and responds in kind
For there your wellspring lies
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Suzy, who stopped by my blog and commented (I rarely reply, but rather visit the blogs as a practice), had a prompt of her own from “Verse First,” and it was to write of a lesson you learned. You can find other links HERE, but this was the best lesson of all for me. It gave me Lex.
This is also ‘in the margins’ on the sidebars of Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, and hoping you all find your true love, Amy
Dig In
Dig in, both hands, deep, deeper
Packed clay soil meets tenacious space
and gloved pincers, break it all down
to accept gentle roots of Gerbers
Pink, Orange… a splattergasm of color
Heat beats down; the race is on
Toiling Angla in 3-digit sunscreen vs.
ungodly hot-air soup
Inside, peeling the layers of me
Step into cold shower
Ice fire, tingling triumph
Good work; better remedy
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United: Kim Nelson asked us to “tap the water table,” literally or metaphorically. Believe me when I say this garden, planted in the middle of July, was hard-won labor but worth every drop of sweat! Also at my literal garden, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, in the margins (near the fence!). Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 