The Best Bits
Howard’s to be married Saturday
Family watches the Oscar show
Hometown winner claims he’s gay
Howard becomes the town floor show
He insists his loafers are heavy
Sweet, slim bride, a fellow teacher
Media stalks the little town
Finally, before the preacher
He says he’s gay; bride belts him and
his dad says, “Was it that Streisand?”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Izy asked us for a ten-line “Cliff’s Notes” version of a favorite movie, book, or play. One of my favorite movies of all time is a little comedy called, “In & Out.” Kevin Kline is the groom, Joan Cusack (an amazing physical comedian, sister of John) is the befuddled bride-to-be, and Tom Selleck plays a reporter with a secret… Debbie Reynolds and Wilford Brimley are his folks.
Best moment: After being jilted at the altar, Joan Cusack emerges from her hiding place and yells at the congregation, “Do you have ANY IDEA how many times I’ve had to watch “Funny Lady”? Loads of Streisand references, great for little “fruit flies” (LGBT allies) like me. See it. Glenn Close almost steals the show with a single scene.
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 25, still going strong! Amy
A Brief Hello
Fruitless labor
Pitocin-dosed
forced contractions
Tears doubled
by knowing
what’s to come
The final push
The heartbreaking
silence
She holds the baby
who will never
suckle at her breast
Tiny boy, gone
before he arrived
An empty promise
Yet, she holds him
Swaddles him
Kisses him
Strokes him
Adores him
Names him
One photo
Mom and Gabriel
Her little angel
Goodbye
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Well, after the fun with Shakespeare yesterday, I fell into memories of my mom and her telling me about “the one that got away.” Times have changed since then: Even though my mother’s baby was about six months old, she never saw her second girl child. Susan at Imaginary Garden With Read Toads, where I’ve been posting daily since the first of April, asked for a Hello or Hello/Goodbye poem, so this allowed me to put my emotions into words. This will also appear at my poetic birthing center, Poets United.
Nowadays, they take a picture, they do name the baby, they have a funeral, a burial or internment. I think it’s a healthy part of the grieving process that will come no matter what, for the mother with swollen breasts and no baby to feed. I wish my mother could have met her baby girl. May all babies be born healthy – and wanted. Peace, Amy
Forgive me, dear Toads, but I have dissected, line by line, Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be?” soliloquy and have thus bastardized the Bard in such fashion as to concoct complete nonsense on this, the anniversary of his birth, his death, and now his utter humiliation. And so, dear readers, we bring you our humble offering, which shall also be posted forthwith at Poets United.
Tubby or not Tubby; that is the question.
Whether ‘twas nobler in my mind to suffer
the stings and narrow minds of outrageous torturers
Or to shake my arms and see the blubber
and by supposing, to send them to the Y, to sleek—
No more, and by sleek to say we end
the fartbreak, and the thousand unnatural pocks
my butt was heir to. ‘Twas a consideration determined to be wished. To diet, to steep—
to steep—purchased two creams, ay, there’s the rub,
For in that steep of meth what schemes may come
When we have shuffled off to Buffalo for more,
Bust, give us pause. There’s no respect
for my anatomy of so long this life.
For who would bear the rips and tears of seams,
Th’ dresser’s wrong, the frowsy girl’s costumely
The bags of disguised lovehandles, the raw decay,
the insulin they’ll proffer, and the spurs
That patients merit from unsweetened cakes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With her vibratin’ “him”? Who would goutless bear,
to grunt and swear Richard Simmons’ life
Is that dread of aerobics after meth,
My undiscovered bounty, from fat hath born
No lipo rejects, drizzles the swill,
And shakes us farther, bear those chills we have
Than cry to others that we Nutraslim?
This consciousness makes cows of us all,
And this, the plaintive whew! of redistribution
Is stuck o’er with the frail past of night,
An enterprising great bitch who foments
With disregard their comments turn away
And lose the name of active. Soft, I’m now,
Get bare, I’ll feel ya! Wimp, in thy horizons
be all my skin remembered.
Yes, I was overweight and quite happily so for many years. But then my knees started to creak, so I ended up losing 50 pounds… with no help from Nutrislim or Richard Simmons, thank you very much.
And now, TO THE COMMENTS! Have at me, dear Bard worshipers! With a wink and a smile, The Unfair Amelia
Hamlet and Juliet in A Midsummer Twelfth Night’s Sonnet on Shakespeare’s Birthday
(with apologies to Will)
In my salad days, when I was green in judgment,
not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty,
I was a dish fit for the gods.
Now I’m in my prime, set up with a posh little Upper East Side co-op and a hefty trust fund from Daddy… plus a live-in honey who’s fast losing his sweetness. Nothing in his life becomes him, and nothing will come of nothing.
He awoke, rounded with a little sleep. “Ay, me…”
“I have not slept one wink,” I bitched, rubbing my sore bottom. “What a piece of work is man! Do you think I am easier played on than a pipe?”
He leapt from the bed. “That is should come to this! Why, only last night you cried, A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”
“True it is,” I countered, “that we have seen better days. Yet brevity is the soul of conscience, and the” (wince) “parting was such sweet sorrow.”
He was pi-i-i-issed. “Tempt not a desperate man, for delays make dangerous ends.”
(Now I’m thinking, “MY end got all the ‘danger’ last night… He hath eaten me out of house and home, and he thinks too much, with a lean and hungry look. There’s daggers in men’s smiles, and… is this a dagger I see before me?”)
I pointed to the door. “Out, damned Snot! Out, I say! Men of few words are the best men, and your tale is told by an idiot.”
“The course of love never did run smooth,” he stammered. “Shall we meet again?”
(Trying to live down the riddle… Q: ‘What do you call a bass player without a girlfriend?’ A: ‘Homeless.’)
He continued, “Don’t forget, dearest, we have a palimony agreement. You’ll pay a great deal too dear,” he grinned, “for what’s been given freely.”
“The game is up.” I stamped my little bare foot and caught a splinter. “This is the worst!”
He tried to rustle up tears as he packed. “There words are razors to my wounded heart. I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for Daws to pick at.”
(I knew that has-been “Mork and Mindy” chick Pamela Daws was after him, ever since the gig at the China Club.)
“In my mind’s eye,” I said, thinking of the money I’d have to pay this jerk, “shall I compare thee to the dogs of war? A borrower with a dull edge? The world is grown so bad, the fool doth think he is wise.”
I escorted him to the door. He shambled out, his bass hanging on his back like a monkey. Then, turning back to me, he whimpered, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s-” SLAM!
Peace at last. “I like this place, and willingly would waste my time in it.” Then, cutting the first of many checks I’d have to pay my new ex, I grumbled, “But first… let’s kill all the lawyers.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It’s the Bard’s birthday! He’d be three days older than water today. This is also (and this is so tragically Shakespearean) the anniversary of his death, so he deserves something special. Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us to have our way with him (well, with his writing, anyway), but I gathered so many snippets from so many plays and sonnets, if I tried to do citations, they would run longer than the piece itself. I leave it to you, my oh-so-savvy readers, to separate the Will from the chaff. This will also be posted to dverse Open Mic Night.
NaPoWriMo #23 and still ticking! This form, which employs lines from other writer(s) re-ordered to create a new poem, is called something or other, but dang, I can’t remember. Paging Viv!! Peace, Amy
The Hourglass
“Like sand through the hourglass,”
so goes the daze of my life…
a hazy mix of meter and mantra:
Shy shy little girl;
emerges from shell
only if she’s to sing.
Singer takes to the road,
works with the rude,
hangs with the rowdy.
Faces the raid of AIDS
on the dearest friends,
the dearest men…
Mentors anxious daughter
from dread-the-world to
worldly wise vixen,
fixin’ to show them all,
to know them all,
to grow from within.
I am all in this timekeeper:
A grain of salt or truth falls,
skims the surface of my past.
Don’t care how much is left
to sift and flow, but the
bottom bits… these, I know.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hourglass image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Day 22 of NaPoWriMo! PAD (Poem A Day) in April…
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads has Open Link Monday, so I will post there a wonderful prompt from my friends Walt and Marie Elena at Poetic Bloomings, “Time Flies.” When I thought of the hourglass, the next “tape” from the Music of My Life was the theme to an old soap opera, along with its catch phrase: “Like sands through the hourglass, so go the Days of Our Lives…” and I was off and running for my pencil.
Hope all had a good weekend. I know I’m enjoying a break in the Wisconsin snow-spits of the past few days. Peace, Amy
KELLY LUNES
Sad Girl
She lives in the past
Hindsight rules
Her head in the ‘coulds’
Tender Tummy
Gable scarfed cat food
in seconds
Wait, here comes… feed-back
Mornings With Mom
Gin bottles rinsed out
Coffee’s on
Time to wake her up
Tentative taps on
her closed door
Muffled confusion
Soon she will emerge
eyes squinting
hands, shaking and cold
Wrap them ‘round the mug
Warmth stops shakes
Caffeine soothes her pain
All Lunes © 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three-quarters of the way through April’s Poem a Day for National Poetry Writing Month! Today, Grace (AKA Heaven) of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked for “lunes.” I chose the Kelly Lune form, an American haiku form based on syllables (one line of five, one line of three, last line of five; in a single stanza or multiples of same). The Collum Lune is based on number of words: Three, Five, Three; however, that form is for another day!
Thanks, Grace, for another lovely prompt from the Garden. Peace, Amy
Second poem of the day, I could not resist the dverse prompt about Spring, which means play, gardening, general silliness coming as a consequence of long Wisconsin winters, and… wordplay! Amy
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
SPRING AGAIN
Midwesterners aSPiRING to a quick thaw
as laSt year’s caPRIs cliNG to our memories
We know that SPRING is not far behind
and we’ll Soon bitch about sPiRitING away
A/C to ward off intenSe PeRspirING
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Slowly, Slowly (an ekphrastic poem: inspired by an image)
image: Blondine and the Tortoise, Virginia Frances Sterrett: Old French Fairy Tale
Slowly, Slowly
Dim, the forest
Hushed is the breeze
Stars sing o’er us
Quiet, the leaves
Travel slowly
on her smooth back
through the midnight
rambling, the track
Dodge all fauna,
trees of the ages
Carry me home
in dreamlike stages
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Kerry O’Connor granted me welcome release from events of the past week by gaving us several works by the same artist, Virginia Frances Sterrett, an American artist who died of tuberculosis at 30. The illustrations, so intricate and dreamy, were the antidote, for a while, anyway, to Boston and its nightmarish week. Who can imagine what this wildly talented woman could have produced, had she been granted a fuller lifetime?
I saw this image of the woman riding the tortoise and was thrown into a dream all my own. Who could see her work and not be entranced? To view more of her sumptuous illustrations, click here. Peace and prayers for the same, Amy
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, my April Poem A Day hangout, wanted poems about “melting,” but with an interesting twist: NO use of words like hot, cold, fire, or ice! So my original thought, “What a world! What a world…” a la the Wicked Witch was out the door. Ditto romantic heat. So I turned to… the news. Also at my hearth and home, Poets United.
Boston Meltdown
“We’re stuck in our house,
Diane,” she tells ABC News.
“Trying to figure out what’s
for dinner. My husband’s
defying the cops, going over
to the butcher shop… that guy’s
gonna make a mint, Mike’s
buying filet mignon.”
“And how do you feel
about this ordeal?” intones
Sawyer, safe in the studio.
“What ordeal? This is America,
and yeah, now we’re on lockdown.
My confidence in personal freedom
may be melting around the edges,
but now I kind of understand what
Afghanis go through every day.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Based on an ABC News interview of a Cambridge, MA resident. I am glad they caught the second suspected bomber alive, and I hope he makes it to trial. Peace, and prayers to all in Boston and West Texas, Amy
Susie Clevenger at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, my April Poem-a-Day hangout, asked simply for poems of encouragement. Who deserves more encouragement than a brilliant, beautiful daughter as she prepares to graduate college? This is also at Poets United, a source of endless encouragement for me. Peace, Amy
For My Daughter As She Enters The Real World
Sure, there will be chaotic days,
storms, trials, and simple
misunderstandings.
In the wider world, you’ll see
fights, flights, frights.
(Some people are best at being their worst.)
All these will be moments in
your timeline; some will leave
scars – but those heal with time.
Others will transcend reality with
luminous grandeur, majesty.
Some moments will simply be.
Hold onto patience. Be kind
to fools, for they know not.
Most of all, be patient with yourself.
Be mindful in all you do.
Remember that, no matter what,
there is love even in
crevices of broken bones or
wedged in the cracks of
distortion’s thin places.
There is peace in silence.
There is beauty waiting for
you to bring it into being.
There is God in everything,
especially you.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 