Night Bus, NYC
Pummeled by brutal fluorescent light
of the crosstown night bus
All sections crammed, and damn, that
fella giving her the FishEye
won’t give her his seat instead
She leans on a rail, awaiting her stop
on the West Side, where Cuban Chinese is
on the menu – her roomie sets a nice
take-out table with chilled Dos Equis
“Broadway at 86,” robots the loudspeaker
As she bunches her keys blade-out
(you never know on a sweatsullen
Manhattan evening), she feels a grasp
The hand of FishEye Guy clasping her ass
She steps back, grinds the tip of a 5” heel
into his sandal-clad foot ‘til it bleeds
“Oh!” she chirps, “I’m so clumsy”
Time wounds all heels, but
hot-rod pumps do the job in a pinch
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
First, Three Word Wednesday posted a call for these words: Brutal, Grope, and Transfer. Then (much to my delight), Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Isadora put this challenge up… “Create a list of three words or phrases specific to the worst job you ever had and craft a poem having nothing to do with work. List the words, write the poem, and take back the power! Make sure to include your list of words or phrases in your post…”
My words were from my hellacious years of waitressing at a Greek restaurant that was actually Greek, run by a guy named Dino who was a sweetie (he called me “Amy the Sing-ger,” with a hard “g”), and all the folks were wonderful, and this was back in my hometown of Binghamton, NY. But waitressing was not my calling. This was before my PTSD diagnosis, so every rush hour I’d break into a sweat, forget orders, and neglect to write down prices, resulting in my being docked. (Yeah, like the Hudsucker Proxy… “Ya forget a price, they DOCK YA!”) I was THE worst waitress in the world… and I really didn’t care!
My waitressing words: Take-out, sections, and bus (as in clear tables). Actually, there was a fourth restaurant reference in there – did anyone catch it? Izy, thanks a bunch. You were right about “taking back the power.” Simply transporting myself to The City, when I was actively singing as well as working at a very cool marketing research place (where I met folks who are still friends today), was the start of heaven.
And yes, this is a true story. I had a bad temper in those days… Peace – and Cuban Chinese on your menu soon, Amy
Mary, Queen of Rights
Raise your voices as one
to a woman who lost it all:
Widowed, children dead from dread yellow fever.
After kids perished, she nursed neighbors.
To a woman who rose from grief and chose
to take up the burden of others:
Mothers, fathers, children, laboring side by side
in factories, in fields, on farms; long hours for pennies,
as their cruel, crafty masters garnered a tidy profit.
Fat cats whose fortunes were secure.
Rich men whose better angels whispered,
“Show love, compassion.”
But Greed and Hubris shout down the likes of angels.
They blot out God in a frenzied cloud of
green ink and gold coins numbering 30 and more.
Still, this widow woman knew nothing and cared less
about her own comfort. Others’ welfare trumped wealth
in her sensibilities; she saw only exploited masses.
She trod into the mines and the mills.
She talked in the fields, where the hopeless
worked long hours under punishing conditions.
She could juggle advocacy, jailings, and public speaking;
she was, indeed, “the most dangerous woman in America.”
She spoke of dignity (if she’d stopped short there,
she’d never have been slapped in a jail cell).
She spoke of fairness (watch it, lady).
She shouted about rights (ah, the gloves were off now).
She stirred the pot, this big little woman,
pistol under her petticoat, taking on police
sent by their rich masters to break up strikes.
She was the voice of unions, the midwife of labor.
Let’s raise a toast in tribute to this hero,
who warned us that labor leaders should never
wear fancy suits or fatten up through union dues
(are you listening, gentlemen?).
A woman who taught us that, no matter what
the rank and file must be protected:
Raise your glasses high to Mary “Mother” Jones.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, which tossed us the word “juggle” in the sense of handling many tasks. Perfect for this subject, no? Also for dverse Open Mic Night.
In our house growing up, Mother Jones was a patron saint. Social justice is only achieved when regular folks get together to affect change. If anyone could be considered “just folks,” it was Mary Jones. I wonder what she would think of some of our union leaders today? For as the rich demonize unions and spit on the rank and file, they should really address their complaints to greedy union bosses, something Mother Jones warned us about in her autobiography.
Remember, it’s not the average wage slave at fault: It’s corrupt bosses, bought off by the likes of the “usual suspects,” the ALEC crew and the Kochs. UNION YES!
In the words of Mother Jones, “Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living,” Amy
Photo used by permission of the Women’s Rights Museum.
Blessed Blue
I am one of many or one of few
blessed with blue beneath my beige
Age has no power over singers
even the unbalanced or quirky
First a slap on the upright bass
not uptight, plays soooo right
Then a snippet of snare and a
clink on the ride cymbal, yeah
Dust off a classic, “St. James Infirmary”?
Nope, too melancholy mournful
This lineup deserves a quick trip
on Route 66, flying down that road
on wings of azure razor-sharp steel
In an instant, the crowd really feeling it
One deep breathe and she does the whole
trip, all destinations, in one breath:
St. Louis, Joplin, OK City, Amarillo,
Gallup, Flagstaff, Winona, Kingman,
Barstow, San Bernadino… and then,
with a gasp, winds down to the final line:
“Get your kicks – on Six-Six”
Sure, it’s Nat’s line, but it’s homage
to the King of cool, of keys, ivories
We’re all Cole miners in this club
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo of Amy sitting in with Madison’s All That Jazz, used by permission.
NOTE: The links below lead to YouTube videos – check out Krupa, Sinatra, and especially my girl Dusty.
For the Sunday Whirl and Poets United’s Poetry Pantry. The word “Blue” shouted to me in the Whirl Cloud – then the snare and ride, both essentials in any drum kit. The snare most folks know – it’s the smaller drum up front; the ride cymbal is one of two in most kits, and it gives a light tapping sound, while the “crash” cymbal does exactly that! There’s also a “high hat,” that gizmo with two small cymbals facing each other, connected to a long rod and controlled with a foot pedal, sometimes hit with sticks during a solo. Add a bass drum controlled with a kick pedal and a tom-tom (or “tom”), which has a deeper tone than the snare, and you’re about fixed. The toms get a workout on Gene Krupa’s classic, “Sing, Sing, Sing.”
Of course, REAL jazz players use more than sticks; for singers who have a ballad to share, they should have brushes for that swooshing sound in the rhythm. Some players use bundled bamboo sticks, which give a sharp, crispy tone to the skins (drum heads). But the most important part of any drummer’s kit? THE BRAIN. Good drummers have taste, a knowledge of the tunes (not just the pace, but the flavor of the song). The best musicians I know, the non-singers, learn the whole song, including lyrics. This gives a distinct flavor to any solo, knowing what word goes with what note, so when they streeeeeetch out on Johnny Mercer’s “Laura,” say, they can slide into “footsteps that you hear down the hall” with meaning. (Mercer wrote the words after David Raksin provided the theme for the Gene Tierney movie, “Laura.” The tune was so popular, they hired Mercer to write lyrics, and the song took off, especially the version by Frank Sinatra. any others. Same goes with “Satin Doll,” the Ellington classic – lyrics later provided by Mercer.)
Good example of tasteful sax soloing: Listen to Dusty Springfield’s version of “The Look of Love.” Stan Getz, who went to Brazil to pioneer the samba with Gilberto and Jobim, plays the sparest, breathiest solo to back up Dusty’s menthol cool. Tasteful piano? Listen to Bill Evans back up Tony Bennett years ago, two giants in one studio. Another vocal-sax pairing of note, Billie Holiday and Lester “Prez” Young.
I could go on, but how about this: Tell us YOUR example of taste in a song, where all planets were in alignment! Peace, Amy
Gorgeous “Goldfinger” Gal: Shirley Bassey
Ah, the Bond movies!
Yes, I thought, let’s sit back and
drool over the biggest misogynist franchise
ever undertaken (overtaking box offices
worldwide, and a great date movie,
if the woman is passive: He can close his eyes
and pretend she’s Ursula Andress later.)
My “blah” goes gaga when Shirley Bassey
Herself takes the stage, clutching a mic
Her first phrase, tentative,
lacking that signature tremolo of
“Gowld-fin-gaaaaaaaah”
But as the song progressed, we
stopped staring at her stifling corset and
listened to the majestic magic spell
cast by a 76-year-old woman,
an icon in every sense of the word
(and a favorite lip-synch of
drag queens back in my day)
By the song’s crashing climax,
she nailed that note. Crushed it.
Grabbed it by the saddle horn and held onto
the bucking broncho of all classic
movie themes. She was triumphant.
Gracious. Luminescent.
In short, Adele could learn a lot from
the great, grand, gorgeous Shirley Bassey!
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Honest to Pete, I was ready to be embarrassed when Shirley Bassey came onstage at the Oscars. I thought, “Oh no, another golden girl who’s appearing in casino lounges now. This is gonna be bad, friends.” Later on, my BFF John and I were texting (throughout), and we agreed: Adele (although the cutest young woman and quite bubbly) wrote a song almost as bad as her rendering of said tune onstage.
BFF and I felt like calling both Bassey and La Streisand up to say, “If you two are feeling generous, please take that nice little Brit under your golden wings. WE BEG YOU.”
And about Affleck not being nominated for Best Director: Directors make those nominations, and I think they’re simply jealous that Ben looks better than most of them.
For ABC Wednesday, Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and dverse Open Mic Night! Peace, Amy
Welcome to my 600th post!! Of course, it must be a rant… where would I be without political commentary disguised as poetry?! Thank you, all my wonderful readers, for keeping me honest and challenging me on the more controversial topics, such as today’s… (drum roll, please, Riley)
Frickin’ Frackers
Relentless, those frackers are going for bear
Digging it deep to get what’s under there
Our potable water, environment, be damned!
Exhaust every option all over the land
Washington monument cracked at its top
Virginia’s first earthquake would not make them stop
Marcellus Shale bed on North P.A.’s border
extends to New York; Andy Cuomo’s no hoarder
He says, “Frack away and to hell with the facts*,”
although we all know methane leaks through the cracks
A Vietnam vet lives in Candor, near where
I grew up with sweet well water; clean, pristine air
This vet served his country and what does he get?
Tap water that lights up, burns like a gas jet
They’re siphoning water to sell back in bottles
I wonder which politic neck I should throttle:
The one who claimed fracking is “clean, natch’ral gas,”
Or our President Obama, for letting it pass
You cannot claim conscience and turn tail on truth:
No water, no farming; no milking. Our youth
inheriting worse that our parents gave us
We Facebook, petition; we Twitter and cuss
But no one will listen will Kochs are in charge
‘cuz they’re corporate energy – they’re livin’ large
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, now on letter F; also for Trifecta, using their chosen definition of “exhaust” as a verb.
One of the lines below my email signature is, “Citizen For Potable Water and AGAINST Hydrofracturing.” This proved problematic for a time, when one of my nephews was working for a fracking company out West; it caused friction between me and a family member… but I didn’t really care about that. The big picture is not how much money a twenty-something is making (and it was the big bucks), it’s whether or not we will leave our grandkids and five generations past that ANY drinking water. At this rate, we’re losing ground.
* For more on the dangers of hydrofracturing for natural gas, see THIS LINK from Wilderness.org. Peace, Amy
WHERE’S MY PENCIL?
My main ambition
my true volition
is to drain my head
through the lead
of a Ticonderoga #2
with poems, bright or blue
While others try
to paint a sky or butterfly, I
pollock my journals
with words scrawled above urinals
and turn folks off with truth
about dads, late nights, and vermouth
Social injustice feeds my need
I write with deliberate speed
before the thought goes awry
(my steel-sieve mind is known to fly)
And just when they think
I’m on the brink
of a total implosion
or mental erosion
I’ll come back with one
about how clowns aren’t fun
or talk to the president, poet-to-man
because drones still rule Afghanistan
Frackers, have fear
Amy’s still here
Secret Service, kiss my ass
I’ll face you again before I pass
And Blanche, my angel of mystery
Keep on sending vibes to me
I write to prove
I’m in the groove
The straight girl who’s an ally
to every queer woman and guy
I write to say,
“I’m here today”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
for dverse, Brian Miller’s Pretzels & Bullfights wanted a poem about why we write. Me? It’s all about the bitching and the truth-blood-letting and the mental illness and the child abuse… and making it understandable for those who either have experienced it or need to understand.
ALL AT ONCE
She drank to forget
But when she drank
she remembered
as though reading from
a volume of Dickens,
reciting a poem
by Gwendolyn Brooks,
exhaling a road song
by Woodie Guthrie
Slowly, no rampage,
these ramblings; recalled
in a trance of romance and
morbid, mothballed memory
all at once
Cloistered as she and I were
in our clapboard ranch house
To me, she was home
To her, this house,
this home meant a range,
a fridge, a freezer,
a coffee pot, a yard
a car, and especially
a bathroom that locked
all at once
“Back then,” as it always
started, these old stories,
“back then” was a
cumbersome load
carried by a little girl
whose mother would
disappear mysteriously
in the middle of the night
and come back weeks later
haggard but much calmer
after being committed
all at once
She told me of
late-night runs from
the landlord and the
perils of being the
only girl with an
absent mother and
a drunken father
and a brother who was
sent off to Auntie Ruth’s
All this turmoil
milling through her mind
In a gaze hazy with
absolute truth
all at once
She confessed it all
I was her eight-year-old
confidante, her committed,
codependent kid and I
maintained that role
until she died. It’s hard
being all things
to one person
all at once
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo of Charlotte at age 9 (with “Little Iodine” bow, all the rage back then), all rights reserved by Amy Barlow Liberatore © 2013
When I read Three Word Wednesday’s prompt words (Rampage, Morbid, Cumbersome), they took me back to The Kitchen Table Days, afternoons with my mom. She had gin and I had chocolate milk… later, coffee. I’d listen for hours; sometimes, she’d fall asleep in her folded arms and I’d wake her and lead her to bed. The three writers cited (Dickens, Brooks, and Guthrie, “all at once”) were embedded in this one woman forever. The poverty and sharp observation of the British author; the African-American jazz flavor of the poet; and her Midwestern upbringing in Iowa, along with her support for social justice (just read the unpublished final verse of “This Land Is Your Land”) by the songwriter.
There is much alliteration in this piece, among other “tricks of the trade,” so dverse’s Poet’s Toolbox will also receive a link. Check these sites out, folks. There are literally HUNDREDS of great poets contributing to these blogs. Also check out Poets United, my poetic family.
My mother: Singer, writer, storyteller, alcoholic, mental health history unknown. But if YOUR mom was institutionalized repeatedly and came back looking like Blanche did (haggard, calm after massive electroshock) in those days, you’d have thought twice about seeing anyone except your clergyman. I do not blame her, nor do I attempt to demonize her. Charlotte was a helluva lot of fun, and she and Blanche are a huge part of the reason I’m the sharp little pencil I am today. Peace, Amy
LION-HEARTED MAN (R.I.P. Marques Bovre)
From a distance
(when first I spied him
setting up his gear in church)
I thought he was an old man
He walked with a cane
Could barely negotiate
setting up his guitar
but his daughter helped
The closer I got to Marques
the clearer the view and
I knew this was a man
not only young, but vital
His face shined, his eyes
danced, and when he sang
it was coming from an old soul
with a kid’s sense of fun
The band played many of
his songs, the heart of
the ministry, seeds
sown for the Gospel
But it wasn’t a cult of
personality; Marques
was too humble for that
He said he was a servant
Then came the diagnosis
Rumors of tumors, he
even gave them names:
Hobgoblin and The Creep
Hoped to see spring flowers
He loved Dandelions and
made me love them too
He struggled but always smiled
We lost him this week
A lion-hearted man who
knew who he was, whose he was
and where he was going
We had many months to prepare
for this day, this awful news
The truth is: You can prepare
for someone to be dying
but you can’t prepare for
when they are actually dead
Marques, brother, father, friend
We’ll sing your songs to the end
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Marques Bovre, singer, guitarist, composer, artist-in-residence at Lake Edge United Church of Christ’s “Worship at the Edge,” died this week at the age of 50.
There have been numerous fundraisers to help pay for his cancer treatments over the past year or so, which brings me back to the fundamental question: Why should ANYONE have to have fundraisers to pay for CEOs to have private planes and yacht trips to Bermuda? Health care is a right. Now, Marques would be the first to say he was no better than anyone else in this world (in fact, on his last CD, “Nashville Dandelion,” there was one song called, “On The Body Of Christ, I Am The A**hole.” That’s his wry sense of humor, and we loved him for it).
Please visit Marques’ site HERE. There are his songs, his story. He never proselytized, and yet a more fervent believer I never knew. If you like what you hear, BUY SOME MUSIC. Tracy still has medical bills to cover, in the midst of her grief. It will mean a lot to the whole family, and to me.
Rest in peace, brother. This poem will be at dverse Open Mic Night and at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads (man, Marques would have dug that title), where the garden is open for any and all new poems. Love, Amy
DIVE RIGHT IN (from the mini-series, “Amy: The Lost Years”)
I know it’s a dive but
I dive right in anyway
Thigh-high boots first and
black silk bustiered boobs
not far behind
A drink; I start to shine; a
dim bulb sidles over, his
best pick-up line the
cobwebby question
of the truly unhip:
“What sign are you?”
After all these years,
you’d think it would
no longer be laughable
to answer, “Virgo”
But sorry-ass dudes
who think they can
get you with a ‘lude*
also seem to think it’s
hilarious to say “virgin”
Now he’s making fun
of my birth sign
“Hold on, Jack,” I snark,
“who’s the one with the
fake tan and a wink
that tells me you watch
WAY too much old
Magnum, PIs? Let me
illuminate you, buddy
I may have been born Virgo,
but I’ve a Gemini eye:
I can see Taurus rising
in your attitude, cuz
you’re way past horny
and full of B.S.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Back in the day, a “lude” was a Quaalude. It not only put you into a dreamlike state, it also cured constipation and shyness.
For Poetic Bloomings, Marie Elena and Walt wanted poems about our astrological signs. Since a whole poem about the anal retentive, positively OCD nature (OK, some people call me “meticulous,” but that’s because they’re trying to avoid my hypercritical, snarky attitude) seemed like a bore, so I put it within a salacious story. I mean, how much can I say about arranging your bookshelves by age of the volumes, then rearranging by subject, then again by author…
Also, Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem using the word “illuminate,” and I dare say this guy may have achieved some enlightenment. Man, I was caustic back then! Peace, Amy
FUNNY BUSINESS
Your hair has such flair
A bounce in your step and
a plop in your pratfalls
When you’re happy, we
all know it, it’s all over
your face
same as when you’re sad
Your car is so cool and
seats thirteen if some of them
hang out the windows
And your makeup?
To die for. Drag queens everywhere
could take some tips from
your brow technique
High brow, low brow
Take a bow, o clever clown
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Mary wanted a Valentine to someone or something we cannot stand. I don’t mind telling you, it’s not just a vague dislike… clowns scare the crap out of me, always have. I once wrote a horror poem about them. Grown men in grotesque makeup, falling on their butts and getting WAY too close to little kids for my comfort… The balloon animals that always managed to explode near me… Bozo? Yikes! Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 