Dentists and Origami
Dentists cling to
ass-slinging phrases:
“Only $3,000,” and
“We prefer implants,” or
“It’s easy, and it’s only $2,700!”
You are entering a world of pain,
paralyzed in their sterile chair,
these hair-raising inestimable estimates
tossed off like freshly folded
origami vampire bats
circling the cubicle,
jugular-bound to bleed you dry
Count the scales on
his alligator shoes
Take notes, the personal pix
of Peruvian vacation with
family, a long row of
perfect pearlies
The iron-clad irony:
We pay,
they play
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Isadora at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us to use one of our favorite movie lines in a poem… Just saw “The Big Lebowski” for the first time in years, and although it’s irredeemably filled with swearing – haven’t heard that many F words since labor – John Goodman’s line, “You’re entering a world of pain,” seems so appropriate here!
My empty tooth canal is stuffed with clove oil-soaked gauze and it’s still 85 degrees at midnight and I cannot go outside because the humidity is too much for my lungs, like breathing warm pudding. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you find the play?” Amy
Passion for Stinkin’ Plants That Will Die Anyway
84 degrees in the shade and I
drag my tooth-just-extracted self
to the garden store so all the
folks at church will see that
I am really making an effort
on the parsonage to… why
am I here? Oh, yeah, to buy plants
One purple, something pink, posy, daisy,
varietals, variegated, annuals, manually
cartsweatpushed to checkout
Then to the smoldering car
Four windows down and still
sweat pours through cleavage
pooling in my belly button
Home, quick, dig, plant, hose
A real Choo-Choo-Charlie effort
or is it “I think I can…?”
I start stripping at the door,
long line of socks, shorts,
shirt, until
(still in underwear)
I drench clenching teeth
in cold water shower.
Was it all a mirage?
No, merely stupidity
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Fireblossom at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted our passions. Well, the point behind this was more like Protestant guilt to try and “homey up” our new pastoral residence, but hey, the passion is what you make of it! Amy
Image Source: Wikimedia Commons
Flat-out Flustered Philanderer
Long ago, singing days, swinging and swaying to standards
Regulars down with the drill: no dating Amy
This old guy approaches, asking for “anything Gershwin”
His ancient, rheumy eyes focus on my rack like radar
Customers see the sad, familiar scenario
And if they could they’d counsel him to cool it
He’s nearer; breath reeks of bourbon and Bel-Airs
Tells me he’d love to lavish me with luncheon
My friend snickers: Here comes the hard-ass handslap
Old codger grins at thoughts of snowing on my green young grass
“Just ’cause I go crazy getting on my Gershwin
doesn’t mean I canoodle and cavort with his contemporaries.”
With that, he toddles off, tipping me a ten.
Poor old guy, chasing the chastising chick.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trying my hand at dverse’s call for accentual alliteration. It’s complicated stuff, and I’m not sure I have all the rules down, but it was a fun write, and my BFF John will tell you, the story is absolutely true! Also “on the sidelines” at my two poetic piano bars, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
Peace, Amy
Moustache Man
Your moustache tickles me
You tickled me from the start
The enchanting, spirited glow that
dissipated sad old shadows
You were a daddy when
one was really needed…
more than a stepdad, a friend
who liked the Simpsons, too
When I think on the day I first
noticed you, I recall your smile
The kind that made others grin
when you walked in the room
Now, as the moustache is iced
with hints of vanilla grey, you
are more delicious than ever
We sing in harmony, always
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I finally got around to writing a rhapsody for Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. And what other subject but my Lex? Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United. This pic came from the day we renewed our wedding vows, just before our 15th anniversary. He and I were both on our second marriages (thank God we’re United Church of Christ; a lot of denominations frown upon divorce, even those that lead to this type of better outcome), and he’s my “last husband.” Period.
Peace, Amy
Yes, it’s true, I’ve joined the “700 Club”! Oh, wait a sec… actually, this is a poem that Pat Robertson would do well to read, since he’s all about putting down anyone and anything he doesn’t understand, and using God as an excuse. He makes the phrase “bully pulpit” come to life in a new way… So let’s talk about love, shall we?
Love is Not/Love is
Love is not the flip side of hatred
Love is not a sexual act
Love is not what your parents told you
or what your friends brag about
Love is not locked up or meant to be hoarded
Love is friendship to the nth power
It’s giving up what you cling to in the world
for the sake of helping another
Turning your back on Honey Boo-Boo in favor of
cradling abandoned crack babies in the NicU
It’s holding hands that are colder than yours
Love is vast as creation
Warmer than bread fresh out of the oven
More beautiful than your granny’s eyes
Each day we are given the chance
to show love to others
Love is the only thing that can heal our fractured world,
and it starts with each one of us.
Fling wide open your arms
Dance to the sacred rhythm
Unlock that latched love and give it to the world
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United, where Kim Nelson was looking for poems about locks. I wrote this earlier today before encountering her prompt, as though the planets were in alignment! Also “in the margins” at my poetic Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace to all, and let the love begin. Amy
Ginger and the Need
She shambles by in vin-
tage thrift store pin-
stripe threadbare and win-
some smile, rootless, adrift
She spots me, grin-
ning at me with an in-
the-know winkish bin-
there-dived that, too. We kin-
dle fragile friendship, cin-
namon stick in cocoa, fin-
ishing each other’s thought, in-
tuitive, this girl, and worth more.
I have meds, in-
temse therapy; she sin-
cerely deserves same. I win-
ce at her need because din-
ner, doctor, care are in-
trinsic parts of my day. Fin-
ish this sentence: “Homeless Gin-
ger deserves less because ______.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We know that many homeless Americans are in dire need of solid therapy and usually some psychiatric care as well. This girl is detached in an odd way – she smells, but not for lack of a bathtub; she’s comfortable in her own aroma soup. She’s off the wall, but no more than I used to be before I got help. She’s homeless and does the dumpster dive; we have that in common from my Bad Old Days. She is a fascinating human being who deserves better. The missing piece of this puzzle? Health care for all Americans.
Hats off to De Jackson, AKA Whimsy Gizmo, for the hyphenated fractious quality. De’s freedom with punctuation and wordplay astonishes me, and I know she will not mind my “borrowing” a device from her toolbox. Check her out – click on her name.
Written for the puzzle prompt at dverse, and thank goodness Mr. Linky is still open! Also in the margins at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
Please join with me in engaging the homeless when you have a spare hour. You’ll know whether or not there is a threatening vibe, trust me. There is no sin in stopping the relationship at taking them to lunch and simply listening for an hour… sometimes, that hour is their diamond in an otherwise suck week, and you will be doing a mitzvah.
Peace, Amy
True Colors of Madison
Now this was in months past, mind you
Whodathunk that this move would find you
midst masses of rowdy-sprout color
from the bloodred truth to the duller
Not one box yet unpacked, you hightailed
to the Capitol, there you right-railed
‘gainst the governor, Koch Brothers feaster
(though we failed to toss him on his keester)
For the sake of each other’s opinions
They had gathered, the Left and Right minions
And there, near the downtown Radisson,
you found the true colors of Madison.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hannah, promptress extraordinaire at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, offered us rows and patchwork valleys of tulips for a colorful prompt. I do love flowers, but I found the best colors of my life at the 2012 Madison Pro-Union Protests… red, white, blue, and then some! For me, color has a voice, and the more “colorful,” the more effective. I did love the golden glow my camera managed to catch; even the slight blur belies action.
This pic shows an array of color – lots of “Badger Red,” as we are the Badger State and red is the color of our home teams. Then green for peace and any color each person could throw on as we ran out our doors downtown, to wage battle for union rights against a truly clueless, mouth-breathing governor. He prevailed for the time… but we will not be broken. Next election, he’s out on his precious Teapot, if the elections are not once again paid for by billionaires.
Leave it to me to take a peaceful, flower-y prompt and go all political on you. But hey, what did you expect? Black-Eyed Susans? This is me. Peace, Amy
An Activist’s Fourth of July Vacation Agenda
Celebrate my reproductive freedom (oops)
Go to an LGBTQ marriage in Wisconsin (oops, no license)
Celebrate “one person, one vote” (oooooops… Citizens United)
Celebrate American Union rights (oops)
Call Edward Snowden, invite him over to relax (is he still at that airport?)
Eat “brats” and drink beer (except I don’t eat pork, oops)
Guess it’s down to beer.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
As always, Mama Zen at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wants ‘em short and sweet, and she asked for vacation themes. Since activists are NEVER on vacation, this is as close as I’ll come! Peace to all, and prayers for the troops… and I stand by my comment on Edward Snowden. I strongly disagree that he leaked security dox that would “compromise national security.” The American, Iraqi, and Afghan people are suffering national INSECURITY, and any info we can get from the “transparent” Obama administration about this (insert expletive here) war is like gold. We are being taken for the same ride that Bush started, and I don’t appreciate it, not one little bit. If I had my own country, I’d offer Mr. Snowden sanctuary, a free condo, and drinks on the house. Amy
The WiRE Part I
Here on Roo’s Island, beneath the rot-rusted trolley bridge (unstable, but no one had actually plunged to their death in years); here at the calm elbow bend of turned benches in Rock Park, Jordan could bear life as it was, in the Now.
Her Agency shift just finished; sorting the castoff crapfeed of the rich, separating Styrofoam from oily bits of foiling and whathaveyous. This place was her reward, her retreat, her parkit.
Although The Big Thing had laid waste to millions of people and many species of wild animals, plus many rabbles of butterflies – the heartbreak of that lay heavy – they thanked the Creator for honeybees whose hives still functioned, for bats that survived. There was still the shabblestone lane, a hazard… once smooth red brick, now jagged, tearing at her tragictrashed sneaks. Her shoes were sturdy and loyal, but they were also more duct tape than canvas.
Jordan could bear it here, imagine a bluebird perched on the blind light pole, part of the lost heaven her Gram described for her daily, like a multi-faceted mantra. “Oh, the meadow,” Tilly would sigh, her delicate parchment hands navigating tea from pot to cup. “It was all so green, until the Powers got fractious and on a flashnight, there was a lion’s roar… but what do you know of lions?” Tears in her eyes.
“Jordan,” she continued, “you are the keeper of those days. Are you making accounts?” The granddaughter nodded. “Good. This – how do you always say it – this ‘crassdoggish’ world will need to know how things were before the Agency, before the quadrants, and most of all, before the WiRE. Promise me you’ll never tap into it, Jaybird.”
“Tilly, you’re my grandma, and you raised me well. I’ll be a Throwback ‘til I die. I’ll stay freeclear and keep peace.” Her grandmother poured more tea in a silent prayer of thanks.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I have been toying with the idea of this story for a long while, as I ponder our dangerous future and watch kids all but implant cell phones into their brains. The loss of peace has been weighing on me. Then Brenda’s Sunday Whirl Wordle gave me bits and pieces that seemed to string together with a common rhythm to give me that hardest part – an actual beginning. Thanks, Brenda, for the feast of words!
This also appears “in the margins” at Poets United and at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, where I am the second-newest toad in the whole danged place. Congrats to LaTonya for joining us; Mary had to bid us adieu because she has so much to accomplish. Mary will be missed, and we will look forward to what LaTonya is up to! Peace, Amy
BITTER HOPES (The Tsunami, Sendai)
When ground beneath her desk rolled like
a carpet shaken of its dust, a terrifying
rollercoaster, Yuki screamed at
something unnamed and horrible
She thought, “This is IT…
The final moment, or the beginning of many
final moments”
Crawling out of her cubicle,
scenes burned their way into her memory
Ten minutes before, she and Hayashi had shared a cigarette
and a kiss in the stairwell
Now, he was pinned under a desk, eyes glazed;
a picture of their trip to Kanagawa
where they regarded the roses
had settling on his chest
Was this the last thing he saw? His last good memory?
She prayed it was so
Then came a blur of
walking nightmare people
bottled water
pictures posted with notes
questions without answers
Earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster
And of course, government downplayed the severity of radiation
She and Kenji commuted inland daily from their home in Sendai;
Father enjoyed the view of surf.
Why had Kenji taken the day off?
She knew now her brother was gone, as well as their parents,
swept from earth as waves wiped the chalkboard clean
Alone Safe Not safe Scared
A butterfly chose her at random to grace her
with a dizzying dance of color and life
“If only I had the mind of an insect,” she thought,
as bile rose in her throat
“At least butterflies hold the key to hope:
Live free for a season, surrender peacefully to death”
Her only hope was that the world see, and learn, what her grandmother
had told her, as she revealed flowered tattoos of her Nagasaki childhood:
Men’s greed and technology will never defeat the ferocity of nature
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Fireblossom at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted stories of loss. I took the loss of others and, in so doing, resurrected an old poem, because the last line haunts me. This was originally written (and much wordier) in 2011, before Fukushima. Turns out technology doles out terror in equal quantities… that also includes the effects of global warming. And humankind’s terror is reversible, but that is not in sight right now…
Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 