DAD’S DYNAMIC DEEDS (The Talented Mr. Barlow)
“A really good fart should come from the heart.”
So said my dad, with no shame, accepting blame.
He blew more gas than a Guernsey.
A one-man methane machine; each a Homeric task.
Expansive explosions the stuff of legend.
The Cryptkeeper would beg for a match
if Dad opened his hatch for a quick dispatch.
Our eyes would water from the slaughter,
and we’d laugh ‘til we cried over his
lack of knack to hide what was inside
and his singular absence of embarrassment
about the mass of gas from his ass.
My mother didn’t mince words:
“BUD! Did you chew your cud?”
Take all the grazing grain-fed cattle,
every bean-eating buckaroo from Blazing Saddles,
plus the backfire from a battered Buick,
throw in a whoopee cushion (or twelve),
push ‘til you’re blue, and your result
would be an inadequate insult to
the Sultan of insufferable incense
A mere shadow of the Shaman
A whisper on the wind compared to
my dad, The Singing Sphincter.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTES: Absolutely true, and one of the best memories of my dad. Seeing “Blazing Saddles” with him at the movies was a trip. The two of us got to the campfire scene and laughed ‘til we cried. I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack, gasping for breath. But then with the belly-laughs came the wretched gas. He poured forth and I had to change my seat for a few minutes until the cloud cleared.
To this day, I don’t think I laugh at anything more than passing gas. If you are near me and “let one go,” I apologize in advance for my guffaws. Can’t help it. It’s hard wired. Just ask my sisters or my best friend, John; they remember. Hope you had fun… Now open a window, for God’s sake!! Peace and a vanilla-scented candle, Amy
For ABC Wednesday (D), and Three Word Wednesday (Backfire, Embarrass, Task), and my source of poetic refreshment, Poets United.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads gave us a form to work on, the Cinquain, sort of like haiku, but with a different syllabic structure (five lines; 2 – 4 – 6 – 8 – 2). Its inventor was the American poet Adelaide Crapsey. I wrote three: one funny, one environmental, and one about our praise service at church. Enjoy. If I didn’t make the deadline (often the case!), it will be shared on Real Toads’ Open Link Monday! Process notes below.
CINQUAINS FOR “REAL TOADS”
What’s In A Name?
Only
myself tonight
wondering how someone
who made this lovely form was named
Crapsey
Skeeter Davis Said It First*
Human
obsolescence
has been hastened by our
wanton disrespect for this gift,
our Earth.
Sing Hallelujah!
My church
Prayers are souldeep
Singing is loudrowdy
When the band starts in to jam, we
“pray twice”**
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTES: Cinquains ideally have a nature theme, similar to haiku; however, Americans generally disregard this, as is our nature. There are other suggested rules, and I didn’t bother with those either. See, I’m more of a “free-verse” kind of woman, and after years of songwriting, being constrained to any form makes me all twitchy. But for Real Toads, I did my best! Also on the right scrolling column of my poetic haven, Poets United.
* Skeeter Davis’ biggest hit was, “(Don’t They Know) It’s the End of the World?”
** Old saying: When you sing in church, you pray twice. Once with words and again with the joyful noise of rhythm and voices!
Trifecta wanted a dialog in exactly 33 words. Not the most pleasant topic, but until we ensure all women have equal access to birth control, this conversation will keep happening, with different outcomes. My hope is birth control for all women who want it, and men who will “man up” and use a condom every time, because the Pill isn’t a 100% guarantee… and there are STDs to consider. This will also be my submission to dverse Open Mic Night. Peace and mindfulness, Amy
About the Unexpected Little Visitor
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Thoughts?”
“It’s your body. Do what you want.”
“Funny, it was OUR bodies that night. I’ll book the appointment and send you the bill from my new place.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
CHANTEUSE IN SNEAKERS
From that first jam session, I was
the little girl singing with old dudes
They told me I “brought it”
Caught ‘em by the spiritual heel
Held ‘em with my feeling, healing
No drab days after that debut
Wandering out the back forty
serenading the birds who
sang back like they were answering
Daydreamed through school
Lyrics in mind (not math)
Pondering styles on mental stylus
Teacher would call on me
I’d pulsate from embarrassment
No clue as to question or even subject
Kids laughed and teachers scolded me
about my silly sidetrackedness
But I’d have luxurious revenge
Within two years, the best songs
ingrained in my brain, a tendril of
inspiration connecting song to singer
At the jam, I shocked even my siren mom
when I sang “Embraceable You,”
a pint-sized vixen, meaning every word
Caught glances of awestruck audience
I watched their reserve melt away
Drawn into my world, surreal, transfixed
They left reality behind, escaped the moment
of “I’m guzzling a martini” to float into
a haven of heaven, losing themselves
I was seven years old
when I realized I had the ability
to eat other people’s shadows
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, the final stanza is the first line of a poem by Hamilton Cork; we were given several lines from which to create a poem. Thank, Izy, for a great prompt. Read all poems and a bio of Hamilton Cork HERE.
Also for ABC Wednesday (C) and Three Word Wednesday (drab, pulsate, tendril).
So obviously I’m lousy at taking breaks; although, truth be told, I’m making much progress on the damned taxes, so I’m back for Sunday Night Funnerific-a-go-go, AKA “Four Prompts in One Poem.” Whew!
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
In the past, a vast empire of
mighty newspapers broadened minds.
The scale of subscribers was enormous;
most papers did not more than inform us.
Eventually “news” skirted the real story
under orders from rich men who tend to
eat the truth raw and spit it out, tattered and
slimy, pro-corporate, inaccurate drool.
The print version has since been scattered
all over cyberspace – in case you haven’t
notices, HuffPost will soon make The Daily News
a ghost (it’s on the edge, like most).
As for TV, I mist over remembering
Cronkite and Murrow, mirrors of our national
conscience (back when there was such a thing).
Now it’s “Happy News,” reported by interns and
delivered by softly curved Barbies with white smiles and
a light-skinned Black meteorologist. They report on
straw polls; they pitch their network’s upcoming
programs. Even the crawl crawls, clueless.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Inhale.) Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem on the word “Subscribe”; Brain Miller at dverse Poets wanted writings on media; Brenda Warren, at The Sunday Whirl, gave us a dozen words, and Poets United (all the poetry that’s fit to print!) has Poetry Pantry. So that’s FOUR prompts in one poem, and it’s still properly snarky, as befits my sharp little pencil.
I do miss real journalism… Moyers is all I have left, except for BBC.com! Peace (and a plea for something more than birdcage liner), Amy
Poem never made it to my blog until now – yet it was my first proper freestyle rant (on gentrification of L.A.), written while I was hanging with Riley, Marcia and Jesse on a trip to SoCal. Reason I’m putting this up? A friend of mine needs a KICK IN THE BUTT to jump-start writing her own stories of those years. God, I miss it so, the Boardwalk, the cheap breakfast, the neverendingness of it all… Amy
Venice Then and Now (1979, 2012)
We were free spirits, flowing with our Karma
Floating in a pot-scented breeze
But now it’s all money disease
Dis-ease about security sucks marrow from bone
Creativity from full-blown, fine, eclectic minds
The intersection: Hollywood & Vine… correction: What I Owe vs. What Is Mine
In your soul, the blues; on your mind, the dues
Paying for the right to live here, by the whispers of waves
Near palatial pavilions of the potently paid
Praying we could once again live back then, back when all was sensual, all serene
And the Venice Boardwalk a little less Green
Rave all we want, the money’s moved in
It’ll never move out ‘til tsunamis tumble Venice back to the trashy look
of hash-clouded, bearded marginals
Undulating madrigals with open guitar cases
Accepting quarters from faces unlined by gotta do gotta go gotta take this call
It’ll take the fall of L.A. to get it back to stay
No matter how much money they spend, there’s always more expense
for parking meters, Margaritas, Mercedes-Benz
What became of the real-deal drifters, grifting their way through a shroom-filled haze
Jingles and Frank and ragged reggae days
Muscle-bound bods of men well-oiled, well-pumped, unshod
Stores with honey-drenched Haagen Dazs in paper cups with wooden spoons
A pennyweight on a Mylar balloon –
we sent it skipping ghostlike toward the Venice Canals
Now they’re scum green
But the ducks don’t mind, they’re doing fine
Today I said hi and they called back
Money can’t make ‘em go anything but QUACK
If ducks = local charm, then why not beach bums, doing no harm?
Charm, like beauty, in beholders’ eyes
No room for human clutter, sweep ‘em in the gutter
like Rudy’s 42nd St., makes me shudder
The rich have L.A. well in hand
No handouts, no hand-me-downs, just put ‘em out, put ‘em down
Set down roots upon roots much deeper, roots of hippies without beepers, laptops,
Blackberry speakers attached to the ears of societal sleepers
Cops in Oakwood busted humble places – put those grandmas on their faces
Fat cats watch the breaking story – 5:00 talking head in her glory
Unless it’s your grandma’s face on the floor, it’s a sound byte, nothing more
And folks who really give a shit don’t have time to protest it
Scrimping, scraping takes its toll – staying, praying Rent Control isn’t eaten whole
by well-heeled leeches who want their condos near the beaches
Rich vs. Poor, at the boiling point
God, this city needs a joint
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Once again I find I’m lapsing
My brain is not synapsing
quite properly, and still
(as life requires we will),
I must do family taxes.
No time for “poem-relaxes,”
nor room for fun with Wordles
My cocoa sits and curdles
as I, ‘sharp little’ in hand
do battle with The Man.
But… one real poem for the road, what say? I’ll be back soon! This will be at Poets United, where the math is easy… but the social studies can be a bit challenging!
TOOLS OF HIGHER MATH
The utile compass pinpoints
and twirls
Traces my brain
seeking sense in vain
Its sharp center
pierces a fold and
the golf pencil
circumnavigates
in search of principles
and edicts, only to find
bloody rivers of
flowing memory
Streams of unconscious longing
Thwacking rhythms of
a gutbucket blues
Tintype verses
Blowfly curses
Meandering forgetfulness and
a singular kaleidoscope
filled with broken shards
of a life
and a city and
things that happened
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Psychiatry, according to my former practitioner, is in fact experimentation. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit,” he said, explaining that the details lie in the psychiatrist’s ability to listen, to ask questions about how the counseling is going, and to be sensitive to the patient’s vibe. I imagined what it would be like to look at my brain from a clinical, almost forensic, standpoint… except the practitioner is Tim Burton. Peace, Amy
Burnout
How could one who was
once so delightful, dancing,
brimming with cheer,
turn out such a burnout?
Was a time I was wickedly
comely; some said it was
a certain spark
that lit me from within
A blaze of glory,
my euphoric past…
Now I’m worn down,
perhaps a bit dimmer
Please give me a chance
to shed some light on
my matchless existence
until, used up, I
f
i
z
z
l
e
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Haven’t planted in quite a while, but Poetic Bloomings asked for poems that personalize an inanimate object. I looked toward the first thing I saw for my inspiration… one of those old hippie candles with the psychedelic patterns! Also at my favorite point of light, Poets United. Peace, Amy
At dverse, Hobgoblin asked us to attempt a poem in a foreign language. While I did spend years in Puerto Rico, my Spanish is a mite rusty; that’s why I buy bilingual volumes of Neruda, to strengthen that connection. Let’s see what you think (the English translation follows).
San Juan por la noche
Noches en la playa
de mi Borrinquen querido
Con mi amor, sin abarcas en la arena
y la aroma del mar
Besos dulces, cervezas frias
Manos entrelazarse
Estrellas bialando
por la cadencia de nos corazones
Muchos anos pasados,
yo recuerdo este amor… suave y eterno
TRANSLATION
San Juan at Night
Nights on the beach
of my beloved Puerto Rico
With my love, barefoot in the sand
and the scent of the sea
Sweet kisses, cold beer
Hands intertwined
The stars dancing
to the rhythm of our hearts
After so many years,
I remember that love… tender and eternal
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at “la casa de poecia,” Poets United!
Click on link to play. Amy on keys and vocals, Riley on drumset, Rob on tenor sax. Photo by Donna Dajnowski, used by permission of photographer.
FAMILY AFFAIR
Mother and daughter
Keyboardist and drummer
Our yearbooks diverged:
Mine said, “You are so weird,”
and her entries were all about
her coming out and being cool.
Years ago, the dissolution of
the marriage of her parents
put Riley in a tricky spot.
Years later, rarity of rarities:
Her dad, a great saxophonist,
joined us on a session.
Vintage jazz cut with
a medium beat, but
vintage Amy to the core.
We all felt vibes surfacing.
Felt the delirium of healing.
Created a legacy of friendship.
Sessions are not just for
the psychologist’s office.
Jams are not only spread
on whole wheat toasty bread.
Jazz has that knack of pushing back
what’s in the way; music, here to stay.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Jasmine Calyx, who printed an amazing list of words, including some of the above: Songwriter, surfacing, yearbook, drummer, keyboardist, rarities, delirium, legacy, dissolution, and vintage. She has a knack for highlighting the blogs of other poets… a truly selfless blogger. I dig her style – check her out! Also for Wonder Wednesday at Poets United (proud to be a member!), asking for poems about wonders of the world. I think that two exes and their daughter performing in one space, making great jazz, is a WONDER!
Riley, Rob Weinberger, and I did record this piece in a Binghamton, NY studio. Rob’s wonderful wife, Donna Dajnowski, took some pix. Lex was stuck upstate, but he thought it was a great idea. The cut needs some editing, but you get the idea. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 