FIRST: Still hanging in the Garden for NaPoWriMo, where Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Aprille challenged us to write a “double dactyl,” which is best explained HERE. Not sure I managed form correctly; I would love any constructive criticism. This is also at Poets United on the right “crawl.” Finally, my prayers to anyone else out there with PTSD, because I don’t know about anyone else, but I was hyperventilating into a paper bag last night. Too much.
Pointless (double dactyl-ish)
Ever since Boston, the
TV preempt, I’ve been
breathing through paper bags,
tot’lly farklempt.
PTSD holds me
in its sad thrall, what’s the
point of my watching the
TV at all?
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
——————————–
SECOND: A free-verse rant about media in general… with specifics.
“Liking” Murrow on FaceBook
Yesterday, some hundred years ago,
we used newspapers for news flow
Radio then put us “In the Mood”
TV babysat us, totally glued
Roof antennae, CBS on the air
Dad adjusted via attic stair
Test patterns nightly, with droning tone
Cronkite and Murrow stood out… and alone
Then came the cable, a crapfest galore
With QVC “gotta-haves,” plus prime-time gore
Televangelists weeping, shouted HOMO
Then they begged money on bottom-crawl promo
All-night-long movies, MTV Michael
Later, the twenty-four hour faux news cycle
Now, the addiction is this Internet
Needn’t leave one’s snug abode to get
housewares, clothing, and even free porn
(Hide your identity, saves you from scorn)
Facebook, all social networking, damn!
Farmville, un-friending, broadcast nastygram
Huff Post huffs and puffs ‘bout the Right
By day, the Tea Party (dons hoods at night)
Hackers and hucksters, scams and teen passes
Internet: Opiate of the new masses
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The bottom of my email signature has a list of causes I support, along with a tag line: “Stop complaining; become part of the solution!” Seems like folks blow off steam on Facebook and via email forwards (some network blasts from Tea Partiers I know have been answered by me with calm, bullet-point questions and even suggestions… these are often answered with one line, like “You’re sadistic” or “Stop pushing your homosexual agenda at me.” (Ahem, who started the “dialog”?)
Manners are gone. Thing of the past. All that matters are angry birds, more cows for one’s farm (cyber-greed), and ranting online without doing much of anything other than spreading the word. Some is vitriolic, some is obscene, some is so darned funny I laugh my butt off and am immediately ashamed (as with Jim Carrey’s recent “Cold Dead Hands” song on a Hee-Haw set).
The Net is good for calls to action such as petitions, but the best action of all is LOG OFF AND MAKE A PHONE CALL. I have all my legislators’ local offices on speed-dial, plus the White House for my daily “Please stop the drones and bring our kids home” call. Most of the volunteers who staff those lines know me by now!
Log off. Pick up the phone. Give ‘em all hell, because they wheel and deal while you and I suffer and end up addicted to this interactive Oxycontin. Peace, Amy
Before I launch into the poem… It’s late at night, and I’m thinking about today’s horrific tragedy. I pray for the day when people won’t have to kill and maim others to “make a statement,” to draw attention to their cause, or whatever it is. The fact that today is also “tax day” may prove relevant, I don’t know. My prayers to all in Boston, to all who have lost someone or whose loved one is in hospital. My prayers that another entire class of people aren’t stigmatized because the perpetrator suffers from a particular mental disorder. My prayers for the soul of our nation as we continue to install puppet figureheads and then turn around a drop bombs on them when they don’t do our bidding. As we drop drones on innocents to “get” one “bad guy.” I guess I’m just praying for our world tonight.
I wrote this poem today while Lex and I lolled in a cafe, our favorite day-off pastime – this was written hours before Boston. Hope you can enjoy it despite what’s going on. This is for Poetic Bloomings’ prompt, Rain. Peace, Amy
Half a Rainstorm is Better Than None (Bermuda, 1987)
Favorite haunt in Hamilton.
A day-off treat, strong coffee
dense shortbread, and
small talk with a friend.
Sky darkens, pavement is
wet across the way.
We emerge, fully
expecting immersion.
Yet we’re on the “sunny side of the street.”
Rain spatters cobblestones in
a literal line drawn down the lane.
A meteorological DMZ.
Island storms are that specific.
I pass my hand into the storm and
pull it out again; palm to fingers, drenched.
It dries in the sun as we ponder miracles.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I still remember that day. I had never seen the “edge of the storm,” nor did I know the concept existed. I’m not even sure Riley believes me! (“Whacky mom stories,” like meeting Bob Dylan and realizing he has zero charisma… or that my right ankle is thick because of an unfortunate intersection of tequila, Quaaludes, and hopscotch.)
Skipping Rope at the Threshold
As often as we might come here
We are never skeptical of the weather
Even a slight shower will not control
our bold urge to unwind en la parque
I am the first of eight; I control the sign to
go or stay. Mama is home; the ninth hermano
almost here. At the threshold of womanhood,
I wield my sword of power gracefully.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Painting by Joaquin Sorolla, Public Domain
Day 14 of NaPoWriMo finds me once again in the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, where Hedgewitch suggested an ekphrastic piece based on the artwork Joaquin Sorolla y Batista, a Spanish painter whose works emphasized the natural light of his homeland and the people who dwelt under that light.
Also for the Sunday Whirl, where I managed to get the dozen words in two stanzas. Whew! Thanks, Brenda, for the prompt. Also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where the weather’s always fine.
Two-Gear Gal
Got two gears
Speedy and Gonzonked
Today feels orange, time to
RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNthunk
Mind did a hit and run
Curse, put ‘er in reverse
Survey the carnage
which looks like me
Time to drive
to the station
and on my knees
confess, I guess
But then this lass
Runs out of gas and
smack into my barcalounger
Time to
f
a
a
a
a
d
e
.
.
.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads pays homage to the poet Billy Collins (for more on him, click HERE). He often uses humor to mask the deeper meaning. Can you guess my vehicle in the poem above? Also for NaPrWriMo (two #13s today), and appearing in the side margin of my favorite rumble seat, Poets United – proud to be a member!
Jiminy Was Right
She sits up
sweat drenched, crying
Doesn’t mind pix with smeared makeup
After a miscarriage and abortion
she didn’t think a baby could emerge
Her first child suckles
Proof that dreams come true
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trifecta asked for exactly 33 words about a “dream come true.”
Many women experience misfortunes when it comes to timing pregnancy, carrying a baby, and actually coming to full term. I’ve held the hands of friends who were going to terminate a pregnancy – even paid for one, whose boyfriend was beating her. I’ve said “I’m sorry” and cradled sobbing girlfriends in my arms like she was my own child. The miracle of childbirth is a dream come true – a dream deferred for some. For others, they “drop ‘em like tadpoles,” lucky women!
The song, “A Child Is Born,” was written by jazz legend Thad Jones, with lyrics by Alec Wilder. Peace, Amy
Ted and Riley, back in the States, 1993
She’s Gotta Have It
Just after Daddy flew back
to the States and I was hiring
nannies so I could sing at the
casino lounge each night…
Riley and me in Plaza de las Americas
(translation: da mall). She spied
a toy so huge, brown, sweet,
huggable, fuzzy… and pricey
“¡Mamí, es MÍ oso!” The teddy bear
to beat them all. So tall, big as Riley,
a faint smile, Hershey-Kiss eyes,
just like my beba’s eyes…
“Maybe another day,” I sighed after
checking the price; in a trice, she
sneezed, spewing snot all over
the poor bear’s head. ALL over.
I scraped the boogers off with my
credit card in the checkout line.
He’s mine, for now, as she
gypsies her way around L.A.
Ted sits on a small rocker, with a
tiny bear on his lap, waiting for her.
When I miss Riley most, I find Ted.
Sit on the bed, hug him, and smilecry.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My sister says that once a child has peed, pooped, puked, or deposited any bodily fluids on a blanket, it’s theirs forever. And so it went with Ted. True story – I’d never seen a two-year-old put out that amount of mucus in my life. She really wanted that bear! This will appear on the side bar of Poets United, and it’s my NaPoWriMo #12 (National Poetry Writing Month: A poem a day!) Peace, Amy
© Chelsea Bednar, used by permission for this posting only
Broken
Shards of a gender
Picture-imperfect
Fragments of the feminine
Lacking evident wisdom
Made up for a mag
The desperate sound of
duller-colored cardinals
all together, singing a battered blues
Altogether shattered
Smatterings of health care
elusive as dust bunnies,
scattered like crumbs under
the White Man’s table
We long for freedom from
beauty measured in
facial symmetry, not in
the output of our brains
The Divine Sofia calls
The Painted Diva says
leave a message
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Artistic Interpretations with Margaret, at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, wanted an ekphrastic piece based on the artwork of the insanely talented Chelsea Bednar, who granted us permission to use her work for this prompt. The challenge was to speak of how the piece made you feel, rather than inhabiting the subject.
This piece spoke to me of women’s declining civil rights today: Denied access to safe, doctor-performed abortion; often refused birth control because “the pharmacy owner doesn’t believe in it.” We are half the species, under attack, including the late, lamented ERA. Look at the picture: The Pale Stale Males took a hammer to this mirror image. Keep your lamps trimmed and burning, sisters. The time is coming when… Peace, Amy
What Color Am I?
In the burbs growing up
I was browner than the other kids,
Black Irish, but still “white.”
In NYC walking about
I was one of many shades of brown,
but lighter than most.
In Bermuda, I tanned and
matched the other workers;
they called me their Little American Onion.
After Riley popped out, she
compared our “skins” and asked,
“Why am I darker than you, Mommy?”
I told her she was descended
from desert people, the Jews, who
were used to more sunlight than the Irish.
She went to high school and
her favorite teacher was Mr. Fuller, AKA
FullDogg; his dreds up in a knot, proud Black man
She only called him Mr. Fuller, and
I was pleased that, before I met him, she
hadn’t said, “He’s Black” or anything at all.
I don’t think the world is ready for “color-blind,”
but we are ready for “palms up,” for viewing
commonality and remember the truth:
We are all from Africa, and I am not “white,”
I am Euro-American, born of a race who dwelt
in colder climes… I am beige and melanin-deprived.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from mnsu.edu (Minnesota State University, Diversity Office, used by permission)
“Colored” was the prompt from the fabulous Kim Nelson at Poets United, and I decided to take it head-on.
Try this: Line up all your friends,or your kids’ friends, all ethnicities, and have then put their palms up.
Without exception, unless they’ve been playing in the mud, the palms are white,
as are the soles of the feet. Then, for a beautiful array of browns, hands down! Peace, Amy
Mama’s Gone
Still can’t believe
the ‘heart on my sleeve’
gone on heaven’s highway
Mom’s grief now has passed
Since she breathed her last
She’s taken the skyway
Let’s raise glasses now
to the one who knew how
to smile in earthly hell
Tell stories, we will
as bar counts its till
of Charlotte, pre-death knell
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday, which gave us Grief, Bask, and Raise. Sounds like an Irish wake to me! Also for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “M.” I don’t know whether this poem is a form, but it makes some sort of sense!
My mom could tell stories ‘til the cows not only came home, but went back out to pasture. I think she was a undiagnosed manic depressive like me and like her mom, Blanche, and she had that gift of gab. When she was drinking, she was either hilarious or hideously depressing; either way, I heard every story she could spare and committed it to memory and soon to memoir. Momoir?
Her death should have been scored by Puccini – agonizing, the slowest two weeks the world has ever seen, full of drama and angst. Twenty years later, I can still remember having to shoo close friends away from her bedside (“Don’t let them gawk at me, promise, Amer”) and take her home (“Promise me, no nursing homes”) to die in her own bed, another promise. She had not had a drink in 10 years, and after that last breath, I left sister’s side, clutched Charlotte’s hand, and sent her up with, “Mama, you died sober!”
Amen. Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 