ARMED
Put yourself in his position.
The kid was always odd.
Mom got knocked up but
some guy married her to
keep her off welfare or worse.
He grew up. Spoke loudly
at worship when he should’ve
kept quiet, now they thought
he was more disturbed that ever.
Roamed around with a bunch of
homeless dudes, got kicked out
of his hometown, they booed him.
“Crazy,” they whispered. Harsh.
He gets in big trouble and
hides out in the woods, but
one of his gang gives him up to
the authorities. He is cornered.
If Jesus had had a gun in Gethsamane,
would he have taken aim at the guards?
Nowadays, it would barely make the crawl:
“Middle Eastern man, 33, guns down cops.”
Jesus would never own a gun; he shunned
violence. He preached unconditional love,
and that’s not shown with assault rifles.
Even when betrayed with a kiss.
Even when tortured by Roman soldiers.
Even when people screamed at him
on the long, laden perp walk to Golgotha.
Even bloodied, he forgave those who
drove nails into his body.
Even as he was raised up on the cross
and set up for display like a sick statue.
Suspend belief in the resurrection
for a moment. He had no idea what
was coming next, and still, he chose death
willingly, for the sake of others.
What if Jesus had an assault rifle or
a high-powered Palin moose killer?
If you’re Christian, ask yourself:
Whose message do you put more faith in?
The words of Christ… or the lobbyists of the NRA?
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, we are back to Square One: A! I imagine this will ruffle some feathers, but remember, the crux of this not “either/or,” but rather, priorities. One can be a Christian and hunt, go to the shooting range. It’s a personal choice whether you feel safer with a pistol in the house, but if it’s stored and the ammo locked up, as it should be, that’s not a lot of help when, as Rush Limbaugh so eloquently put it today, “Obama’s thugs come to your door to seize your guns.” Ted Nugent would call me nuts, but I don’t think hunting requires Kalishnikovs. People are so fearful (some of that biracial man in the White House), they are stocking up on ammo!
FYI: Despite Rush’s ranting about the Commander In Chief (calling the president Socialist, Muslim, Nazi, racist, a traitor, and TAR BABY… let’s all throw up now), RUSH is the only radio talk show on the Armed Forces Network. This treason goes directly to the troops. Your tax dollars at work, and mine.)
It’s all about choices. And politics. And remembering who, and whose, you are. As for me and mine, I’m with Jesus; Gandhi; Martin Luther King, Jr.; the Buddah… you get the idea. Peace, Amy
THE ROYAL PAIN
He’s had all the royal breaks.
His every wish was fulfilled.
He could go on a bender,
drunk as a skunk, end up
naked in a ditch, and the press
would chalk it up to
youthful royal wildness:
Poetry for the masses.
In a world hungry for virtue,
there is diminishing patience
for the antics of the royals,
living in palaces that have
many suites – but no room
for commoners, nor
succor for the poor.
Perhaps William will rise to lead
a new England. A good start,
taking steps to dismantle
the British Behemoth,
the burden borne by the masses:
Royalty.
Privilege.
Birthright.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
THE JOURNEY
Wriggled, writhed headfirst
down a one-way tunnel
Saw a pinpoint of light
Of hope
Squeezed, squished
through the door
into the light
Boogermeister suction
But finally
bundled, bawling
Soothed by mama’s waiting breast
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trifecta wanted exactly 33 words about “new beginnings.” Can’t think of one better for my daughter, nor for myself. The journey continues – she in California, artist on fire; me in the chill of Wisconsin, warmth all in my heart.
We always called the blue suction bulb the “Boogermeister.” A family thing, like “melty and weird” and “migdo pigdo.” Ah, yes, my family keeps me sane! Peace, Amy
(NOTE: This instrument, called the hang, is pronounced “hong.” Click on the video before you read the poem!)
ZEN MAN
Find him in nature
a shaded nook where
trees whisper stories of
the ancient ones.
Matthew finds a
perfect perch and
carefully lifts his hang,
its song to share.
Nimble, careful,
deliberate fingers seem
carved from soft wood,
burnished brown.
He conjures chords,
soothing harmonies,
unearthly sounds, yet
so natural: Soul songs.
In this moment there is only
Matt, the hang, and strains
of unrestrained bliss;
the gods conjured his gift.
And we, who were
a moment ago merely
bumps on a log are
lifted to a higher place…
Musical, ethereal, reflective, mindful.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Perfect moment for ABC Wednesday to feature the letter “Z.”
Also, Kim Nelson at Poets United (my poetic shady nook) asked for poems about reflection.
My cousin by marriage, Matt Venuti, is a soulful musician. Please visit his site, www.mattvenuti.com, for more videos and information about his art. He also plays the EVI and a variety of other instruments, but the hang has his heart at present.
He is also one of those musicians who didn’t get into it so he could drink and smoke on the job! He’s a gentle soul, utterly sincere, and wildly talented… yet humble. If you’re lucky, you’ll experience him performing live.
Peace from a lucky cousin, Amy
Peace and War and Pieces of Human Beings on the Ground
Hiroshima met Fat Man
or rather, Fat Man
sat on Hiroshima,
then swallowed it whole,
including civilians.
Japanese neighborhoods
did not understand the
death knell of “the flash.”
they only saw seared bodies
bobbing on river’s surface.
Ancient remedies could not
damage the damage done to
frail Japanese bodies,
some tattooed with the
pattern of a dress or shirt.
Scientists in America had
mixed opinions; some were
happy with their new-found status
as innovators, adventurers
in the heretofore unknown.
Most others signed a petition,
pleading with the government
to not inflict their dragonbaby
on innocents. They wished
they hadn’t been so clever.
Japan was losing the war;
America claimed the bombing
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki
saved the lives of 100,000 troops –
men who knew the score.
Every life is precious, has
potential to create. There is
no such thing as a just war,
and no war ever creates peace.
It simply withdraws armaments.
Until the next time.
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, where host Mary asked for poems about peace. This may be the odd approach, but I stand by it as a pacifist.
Saw the movie “Black Rain.” Very tough and so moving, it makes a case for the end of nuclear weapons, which America still stockpiles. The movie is must for students of WWII… or for anyone who believes that the US had to drop hydrogen bombs at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The indelible effects of our awful weapons destroyed entire cities and put countless civilians through hell.
We wept when the Towers went down. But imagine all of NYC leveled, from the Battery to the Bronx. Or even your own town. Leveled by foreigners who had a new toy and wanted to show their supremacy.
I, too, wept when the Towers collapsed – because I knew that war was imminent, despite Bush’s assurances of diplomacy first. And the cost of the current war to Iraqi and Afghani civilians is higher than our own troops. War is an evil act. Why not try peace? Let the war machine bitch all they want. They could be building housing for the homeless instead. Peace, Amy
TWOFER
Two in one
Joined at the skin
within
Yin/Yang twins with
opposing forces:
One, golden innocence
the endless blossoming
of girl to young lady to
woman to mom to
crone
The other, haunted by
events time will not erase,
rusted razors
The miracle is
they both survive
the chaos
One diary; two lives
The perfectionist clips
fraying edges of her life;
her trademark, a lack
of deceit.
The dangerous silverfish
dives endlessly into
threadbare carpet on
the walls, only to emerge
unspooling, unruly,
unnervingly unorthodox
One seeks applause
The other, a pause,
if only to seek a blank sheet,
a mulligan, a cosmic do-over
(and over, and over)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, “Get listed.” Huge list of words, and I managed to use quite a few. Thanks, Fireblossom! Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United. I was too late for dverse Open Mic Night. Drat! Finally, for Trifecta, “survive.”
RE: Life… Finally back among the functional, for the most part. The two in one of this piece are, of course, Amy Before She Knew and Amy After Diagnosis and Realization that her youth was stolen. Both are good people with frenetic days, bad tempers, and other challenges. Many thanks to all who have been sending good wishes during my hiatus. Happy New Year and Peace, Amy
VIOLENCE (a barlette)
Kids on playgrounds
play cops and robbers
(“Bang! You’re dead!”)
“Children’s programming”
mandated by FCC, any cartoon
(Lots of ‘heroes’ in bloody battles.)
Coaches in high school
Sometimes violence = cash
(A Benjamin if you take out the QB)
Gay teens shoved in lockers
for daring to be themselves
(“My pastor says they’re evil.”)
At home, children try to ignore
drunk mom and dad going at it again
(“Time to play Grand Theft Auto.”)
A Connecticut mom has five guns, all
registered, all legal, all for use
(Why give a troubled kid access?)
Unbalanced, alienated son
walks into school for reasons unknown
(First he killed his mom and took her guns.)
NRA: “Guns don’t kill people.
People kill people.”
(Morons. People with guns kill people.)
How many presents have been bought
for kids who are not coming home?
(And what will we do about the weapons?)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTES: A barlette is my own form. Two or three lines, followed by a commentary in parentheses. ABC Wednesday is on the letter “V,” and I was stuck… until today. Also on the rolling sidebar at Poets United.
I am a firm supporter of the Second Amendment, because many Americans (especially Wisconsinites) hunt and use the animals they kill fully, wisely. My brother-in-law, now deceased, used to shoot one deer and turn all the venison into marinated meats for the freezer.
All the same, “assault rifles” MUST GO. By “assault rifle,” I mean any gun or rifle that shoots more than one bullet with one pull of the trigger. It’s that simple. Banning certain models simply means manufacturers will modify that model a bit and skirt the law.
Ted Nugent is embraced by the Right (who seem to forget he dodged the draft in Nam by smearing himself with his feces and not bathing and acting like he was mentally ill). Now he’s a “good patriot” by opening his ranch to vets in wheelchairs and giving them assault rifles to shoot imported game. Probably the last thing a traumatized vet needs is a gun in his hands.
If I hear, “Obama’s gonna take my guns and then he’s gonna make this a police state” one more time, I’ll vomit. My old friend Leslie moved to Newtown when we were in the fifth grade. I visited her often when we were growing up; her heart is broken. She was the one who gave me the last line; as she said, “How many parents already have presents wrapped and hidden in the closet for children who aren’t coming home?”
I pray for the families who lost loved ones, especially parents whose small child was killed today. I pray that the president will take this incident and push for gun control that really works. And I pray that the fear that has gripped our nation since 9/11 (collective PTSD) will give way to dialog, to common goals, and to peace. Amy
SPEAKING MY MIND
Never one to hold back,
even at the ever-so-proper
Council of Churches.
An abnormal annual worship
of all churches and temples
joined in the fight against hunger.
See, it was “ecumenical,”
which in the interim director’s mind
meant “Don’t offend Jews and Muslims
by even mentioning Jesus.” So we
gather in a lavish Catholic church,
and there’s a big old Corpus at the altar.
Jesus, dangling from a ginormous cross,
bloody side and all, eyes downturned,
but the director deleted his name.
Two days later, at a staff meeting,
everyone was grumbling about how
Jesus wasn’t invited to the party,
when 22 churches, a synagogue, and
a Muslim temple sent reps. “Politically
correct” was the term of the day…
…until the Director entered the room.
Then a hush. Then she asked, “Does anyone
have any thoughts about the worship?”
I looked around the table. Twenty people
shifted in their chairs. I raised my hand.
“Barbara, it was lavish but awful. You didn’t mention
the name of the real director of the Council of
Churches once.” She blanched. Crickets chirped
and people looked at me but didn’t say jack.
As though educating me, she crowed, “This was
an ecumenical service. I don’t think you understand
what that means.” And OF COURSE I had to say:
“I’m not a moron. Ecumenism is embrace of ALL faiths,
meeting on common ground. So you should have
included Jesus, Moses, AND the Prophet Mohammed.
“There was a big bloody Jesus nailed on the cross.”
(The others waited, breath bated. I was going to quit anyway.)
“The service was crap, but nobody seems to want to tell you that.”
You’a thought the roof would fall in or
lightening would strike me as I left, box of personals in hand.
But no, it WAS the First Horse of the Apocalypse,
the Horse that, incidentally, took a large dump on
the Director as it raced by, headed for the White House
so George W. Bush could get the next load.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is a true story, written for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads (roof caves in) and using words from Three Word Wednesday. Of course I was not medicated for my bipolar, so I probably would have used more proper language had it been today… but I still would have railed against her condescension and called her out on offending hundreds of Christian volunteers, as well as raising eyebrows with both the rabbi and the Imam! Speaking truth to power is never easy, but it can be a helluva lot of fun!! Peace, Amy
ROOTED (dedicated to Miss Forward)
Mama never got over being on the road with bands.
“Keep your roots shallow,” she said,
“so you can pull up and move on when it’s time.”
Yet, after wandering for many years,
I find myself grounded, firmly rooted.
Maybe it’s the friendships we’ve forged.
My innate knack for blooming in any new
place I was transplanted (quite often) from coast
to coast, and sometimes in the ocean, small isles.
Relentless in my search for home, the
perfect church… a city with a full spectrum
of cultures, history, creativity (plus a few vultures)
Some artists of delicate mien, others rampant,
unrepentant rowdies, all with eyes and voices meant
to rejuvenate others, if only for art’s own sake.
Madison. Never bland; blooming flowers or snow banks,
it’s all good, as long as the local microbrew beer
and the silk long johns hold out.
Grounded, circles of friends interconnect, grapevines
forming beneath the surface of simple kinship.
Home isn’t where I hang my hat.
It’s where I have planted my soul, patting down soil
in this haven of lefties, young and old, rippin’ good worship, and
a golden lady on the capital dome, wearing a badger helmet.*
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My first posting since hearing my brain MRI was negative… I mean, I still have a brain, but it’s tumor, clot, and stroke-free. This poem, for Sunday Scribblings (Grounded) and The Sunday Whirl (see Wordle HERE), is a celebration of sorts, as well as a love song for our adopted home, Madison, WI. This is also posted at my poetic home, Poets United.
*The “golden lady” is called Miss Forward, and she shines at the peak of the dome. She can be seen from a mile away. She does indeed wear a helmet with the shape of a badger, our state mammal, on top. Everything here is Badger: basketball, local football, everyone wears red. BADGER red. Me? I’m more of a ‘honeybadger.’ (wink) Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 