Portrait by Edward Lear, poet and artist
I Made a Bu-Bo (and other nonsensical blather)
Snickering up on the biggest owl
on the entire Gaia Marble,
the Eagle Owl
(some are longer than,
some are heavier than,
but the Eagle Owl is
generally considered, by those
ornithologically inclined,
to be biggest, so who am I
to argue with expertations
of the nth degree; their
degrees on their walls and
in their halls of edification
So I am snickering up,
that is, asneak, all the better
to pop the vroom lens on my
Kodak Not A Brownie But
Something Of Great Cost,
the camera, my only friend
since my husbandonment
left me too for spending
so much money on this
gadgetary nonsense
As I said (for I digress,
even upon egress), I am
snickering up sneaky as pie
to take a rotogravurical image
of the Great (if not largest or
heaviest, per said experts)
Eagle Owl, as rendered
(in ink, not in olive oil,
for this bird has little meat,
and the plucking’s torture,
especially if the owl is still
alive and quite ornith… ornery)
I say, as rendered by the Even
Greater Edward Lear, I thus
with my gravuracospity at its
heightedness, do snarkily step on a
bygone Snickers wrapper and oops
The Bubo-Bubo, as it’s called
in Eurasia, yes, boob that I am,
it flies off before I can get a shot
(with said camera, and not with
assault riflage of any repudiation)
My questation, a lost causation…
The owl, gone the way of
other fowl, and growlsome, I
retreat fleet back to my bungaloo,
buggered again by Naturama.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, a tribute to May birthday boy, poet and artist Edward Lear/ I thought he was known only for his doggerel (including The Owl and the Pussycat) but now I know (thanks to the site) that he produced fine artwork, especially his collection of bird portraits. I decided to try the fun doggerel style of Lear as well as writing about one of his portraits. Hope I succeeded! This is also on the rolling right column of my poetic nest, Poets United (proud to be a member!).
The Eagle Owl is arguably (as poem says) the largest owl, found in Europe and Asia. It’s about halfway up the Endangered Scale. I like its expression because it looks like my late black kitty Missy when she put on her “mean face”! Amy
Let Your Heart Take the Reins
In Biblical times, the “heart”
was actually one’s gut.
To “know in one’s heart”
was to feel in the region
of the solar plexus the nexus
of thought and emotion,
an ocean of intuitive knowledge.
If you get that pain
in the pit of your stomach,
stop. Listen to your
better angels; let your heart
guide you, provide you with peace.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Kim Nelson at Poets United’s Verse First wanted a poem, in fewer than 13 lines, about our passions. Mine do not include brevity, so this was a good challenge for me!
Interpreting the Bible to relate to modern-day times is a passion of mine. So many folks use the Bible, as my friend Ben recently wrote, as a weapon… slandering gay folks, denying poor women health care. All the things Jesus decried when he said, “Love your neighbor as yourself…” Loving God brings me closer to doing the right thing. It’s hard, having manic depression and PTSD, to find that quiet place, but the ache in the pit of my gut I always pay attention to! Peace, Amy
El Junque
Small island we called home
Puerto Rico, me encanta
Friends apologized for
the recent visit of Hugo
“El barstardo” tore down buildings,
but the saddest casualty was nature
El Junque, the rainforest
hidden inland, had paid dearly
Now there was but a bit of heaven:
Lush ferns, lantana underfoot
Palms, missing top feathers
but swayin what Mama Earth gave ’em
“Lo siento, Amelita,” said Fran
(I’m so sorry, Amy)
“El Junque is but a, how do you say,
una sombra de los dias pasados”
(A shadow of days gone by)
Yet, as I watched a paradise-painted parrot
linger on bird of paradise, gilding the lily,
I witnessed nature’s sense of humor
And as the juice of a fresh-picked mango
rolled down my chin, all I thought was,
¡Puerto Rico, mi alma! My soul!
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Amy de Barlow y Laughlin, la lápiz pequeño y perspicaz)
Hannah at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted poems about the rain forest. How about having one in your back yard… or at least a few miles down the road from you house? That was the luckiest part of living in Puerto Rico – apart from friends I made and abuelitas (grandmothers) who cooed over pictures of mi nena (my little girl), Riley. Gorgeous island, beautiful people. Peace, Amy
Shark Smack Redemption
In this corner
we have two junkies
(clutchin their insides,
achin for a fix)
And in this corner
a dealer and his flunkie
(carryin’ with pride
the primo mix)
Gentlemen
Come out bargaining
C’mon, Mister Bang
don’t keep us hangin
Last week was a deal
a downright steal
Yeah, that was last week
Now it’s changed
replies Mr. Silk Suit
Buddy carries the loot
Have mercy, Bang
I need it badder’n bad
Cantcha see I’m dyin
One cringe away from cryin
Tell you what, Jake, says Bang
Remember your girl
That blonde was right rooty
and she sure got the booty
You want her, she’s yours
She’ll do what I ask
Just give us a taste
‘fore we go to waste
(Scans the room in panic
Isn’t it romantic?
He motions for Jill
to join in the thrill)
Mr. Bang offers three
One for him,
one for his co-horse
Third to prime “First Course”
Go on now, Jill
I’ll see you back here
Just give Mr. Bang
a little that thang
But Jill shakes her head
Tells him she’s not for trade.
You can’t redeem this girl
like Green Stamps for a whirl.
Off go Mr. Bang and ass-
istant to find other buyers
No jack, No Jill for Jake
just sweats and a bellyache
No redemption
Smack preemption
Simply two losers
who, tonight, will be boozers
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Poets, Victoria Slotto wanted a piece that describes our passions. I give you the opposite, in a way. I’m still fascinated by how far people will go to get high, to self-medicate, and that much further away from love, from God, from peace. I have known women who would give their bodies for the sake of a fix for themselves and their old man. In the Old Daze, I could have witnessed a scene very much like this, when it was LA and everyone thought they were immortal. Then a junkie died in my lap, and I saw things differently indeed. Peace, Amy
Pride and Pettiness (and the Gospel of Matthew)
There are in this world
people who gossip and
believe not in consequences
Care not of feelings
Worry not of redemption
I feel sorry for them
Living self-contained,
self-serving lives, not
penitent for own faults
Gossip is the stuff of
cowardice; direct talk is
the only right course.
If you love me, tell me
If you hate me, tell me
Don’t go behind my back
And remember, when you
point a finger at me, you
point three back at yourself
Matthew 18:15-16 says to
speak to the person directly
A tribute to righteous living
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday gave us Penitent, Tribute, and Believe; ABC Wednesday is up to P. Also at Poets United, where there is never any backbiting or pettiness, just poetry! Too many communities, not just Christian, are prone to gossip, to not speaking directly to the person they are mad at or have problems with. Just a reminder from The Word. Peace, Amy
When Mama Zen
asked us for brevity
I thought ’twas the
height of levity
For how could I
ever think to contrive
the breadth of my soul
in a mere forty-five?
Yet brief it must be so
I bequeath to you, my-
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads has Words Count With Mama Zen, who sets the limit at 45 words or less. I may break most rules, question authority, and generally raise hell in politics, but… “when Mama ain’t happy, ain’t NObody happy!”
Also at Poets United, where they let me blather on all I want. Mama Z, thanks. This is a good exercise for me!
A bit of doggerel from your dogged friend, Amy
Last day of Poem a Day, or National Poetry Writing Month. It’s only fitting that I should “pass the torch,” in the form of a poem about our girl Riley, the artist. I’ve included one of her recent works, so PLEASE respect her copyright on this. For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, an “A to Z” write. Enjoy! Proud Mom Amy, who also took the picture years ago, when she was three.
Portrait of the Artist as a Little Girl
Artist, budding
Crayons, drawings,
echo from goodgone hours
I just kindled logical moppets’s
newfound outlet
(preference, quietude)
Riley, shading timber umber
Visioning whales,
xysts, yurts… zebras
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Painting by L.R. Weinberger © 2013, all rights reserved.
Used by permission of artist.
UPDATE: This was just reblogged by The Real Cie at The Cheese Whines. Thanks, Cie! Click the link
to check out more Cie-mantics!
No Blame, No Shame
(a different kind of coming out)
The LGBT tradition of admission
(sometimes to family derision)
is called, “Coming out of the Closet”
The closet, a cloister of treasures
like Jimmy’s high heels and
Ellen’s bow ties: Sanctuary
Once declared, closet is aired,
fairly cleared, faintly scented with
lavender or motor oil, and shame
Mental disorders, the discordance
of synapse each to the next, need
same mother/father confessions
Nowadays, they call it “coming out,”
but why steal a feeling so specific,
resulting in either terrific or horrific.
I call it, “NO BLAME, NO SHAME”
when I get around to telling confused
but Amy-supportive family, friends
Once, we were “possessed by demons,”
the spectre of exorcism (still practiced
by propagandist sects, ignorance exalted)
Later we were ruled by La Luna,
hence, Lunatics, Loony, Moon-tuned
with no room for self-love
Then we were Frankenshocked
thru electric sockets into submission
A rotisserie for the hotheaded
Now we are diagnosed, presupposed
unless war and gore have inflicted
all-too-visible, invisible wounds
No blame, no shame. Nobody can
tell us anymore that we are “less than”
To hell with stigma, guilt, and hiding
I’m simply seeking help to become
the most authentic Amy I can be,
more in control of the blogroll
No blame, no shame. Say it loud,
I have manic depression and PTSD,
but they don’t have me.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Went to the Wisconsin State Conference of NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. Did you know NAMI started around a kitchen table, as some moms discussed their children’s problems and diagnoses? Once again, proof that I am in a good place. Geographically speaking. Peace, Amy
Yes, it’s true. I went back to Friday and answered ALL the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads prompts, to keep up with NaPoWriMo (I didn’t have access to a computer at the hotel, but I did write other poems daily). So here come Fireblossom Friday, Saturday’s International Frog Day (yeah, I know… but I chose a toad!), and Sunday’s call for poems inspired by Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird (I did one about seeing the movie. Hey, it’s Gregory Peck and Robert Duvall as Boo Radley; what’s not to like?) In order, starting with Friday. Enjoy! And WHEW.
FIRST POEM, “inhabit an animal”
Black Kitty Tells All (for Carolyn Bowes, fellow Kitty Voicer)
Why do they hide me on Halloween?
I bin stuck in this room like they
shamed of me or sumpthin
Rest of tha time
I’m
lickin what’s stickin
Clawin up the couch
(got no claws but I
got helldamn hard knuckels)
Oops I did a swear
I tha only cat who LOVE
goin to the vet cuz Dr. Jane,
she luvin all over me
Pritty kitty, she say
Strokin my shiny sleek fur
(I clean it just for her)
Sometime I get a shot
but Dr. Jane is pritty, too
so I don’ mind (much)
At home I get my own treats
This is tha truest story of all tha
stories you ever gonna hear. Reddy?
Mommy say, “Open it!” and I
put my paw around tha handle of tha
Treats For Missy and Not For Gable Drawer
an I pull the drawer open cuz I
smarter than Gable.
But I share him some treats anyway.
I love bein a cat all day
Cept for Halloween, I herd Mommy say
kids do bad things to black kitties then
We don know why.
They must be bunch of bitchholes
Oops, did it agin sorry
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
image from Wikimedia Commons
Fireblossom, Shay, asked for a poem in which you inhabit the skin of another animal. Shay, I know this is not what you expected, but truth be told, Missy was a oner. I could write about her all day and not repeat a line. I used to do her “voice” all the time (my friend Carolyn and I used to do kitty voices at our survival job in NYC – people would plead for us to stop! We’d look at each other, shrink up our shoulders all goofy, and say, “Hee hee hee hee they think they so smart, buttparts!” or some such foolishness.
God, the salad days. I miss ‘em. But I still see Carolyn, her hubby Duncan, and their madly creative daughters, Lily and Fiona, in Chicago. And yes, they have cats, plus a very sweet dog (who is dumb, say the cats). Amy
SECOND POEM: The Toad one.
Tell it to the Marine Toads
Cake gig in Bermuda
Got my own ‘scootah’
(Don’t be a yokel,
talk like a local)
“Watch out for toads,”
warning of the road
Marine toads on street
Poisonous, not sweet
Also quite slow
And that, even though
the speed limit’s lower
the traffic is slower
Fall off your bike
and scrape your chin
Next day you’ll know
the pain you’re in
Even dead, they secrete
poison in their “meat”
Flat as flat, concrete
retains this sad treat
But ‘specially keep them
From dogs, who eat them
Behind the eyes,
their poison resides
and dog will wake
with bad belly ache
Toads on the road, dead
flattened by mopeds
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Bermuda “road toads” (called that because they are usually seen flattened on the road) were imported by some guy named Vesey, in hopes they would control the insects in HIS yard. Like they were gonna stay there. Like they would not multiply. But the genius of the Marine Toad’s anatomy is twofold: They can tolerate and breed in the brackish salty ponds around the island (no freshwater ponds there), and they secret a toxin behind their eyes as a method of self-defense. I flipped off my moped once, slid on the pavement, and got coral sand bits in my elbows and knees, plus some toad poison, which survives long after said toad is squashed. UGH. I do think they’re cute, though!
FINAL POEM, the Harper Lee prompt
Of Mockingbirds and Mayhem
My folks couldn’t afford a sitter
so they’d bundle us three in the back
of our Rambler, girls and blankets
and go to the drive-in, secure in the fact
that we would fall asleep during the
first feature, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Instead quietly we absorbed the movie,
Atticus shooting that rabid dog, the folks
in the balcony telling Scout, “Stand up…
Your father’s passing by.” I cried. Then
came the second feature, when we were
supposed to be sound asleep: Elmer Gantry
Between falling in love with Burt Lancaster,
seeing what cheesy preaching was like
(we were Episcopal, the “frozen chosen”)
And oh! the scenes with Shirley Jones in
her little slip and long hair. You might say
this was our first dirty movie, at our age.
Next day, Mom knows we’re all in our
room, which usually means mischief
She knocks on the door: “Come in, Elmer!”
We’re all in slips, sipping ginger ales out of
champagne glasses. “What on earth do you
think you’re doing?” asked She, horrified.
“We’re Slip Girls,” we replied, in unison.
“We sit around all day, waiting for Elmer.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
True story. This upshot of this free verse piece was not inspired by “Mockingbird,” but if that movie had not been on the bill, if our parents hadn’t drunk all the babysitter money, if
“Mockingbird” had not been so wonderful that three girls (11, 8, and me, 5) actually stayed awake for it… we would never have learned how to dress up like prostitutes! Amy
NEXT:
Dear Friends,
I am taking a two-day sabbatical, in order to attend the Wisconsin Conference of the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). As you all know, I’m not just a supporter, I’m a consumer!
I’ll be back in action by Sunday. Please keep me in your thoughts as I cavort, cajole, and otherwise hobnob with my brother and sister “wizards”! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 