Wisconsin Mud
Autumn task
Baskets of weeds
Seeds fall to soil
Toil with the tiller
Clay ground first
Curse of my garden
Hardens like rock
Mocks my feeble shovel
Red, this level
Beveled by tilling machine
Green detritus mixes
Fixes a greyer hue
Potting soil on top
Prop myself with a rake
Stakes then reposted
Toasted from our labors
Add soil meant for pot
Plot now proper brown
Garden set for sleep
Steep some tea and rest
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was simply “mud.” I’m also putting this on a shelf in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United and spilling on the bar at dverse Open Mic Night!
Of course, the damnable ironweed of earlier in the season (CLICK HERE) refused to disclose the center of its evil web of roots, and the pye wede followed suit. Monica planted some spring bulbs in front; a failed daisy plant finally sprang into life in late autumn, surprise! More daisies will be planted, as well as tiger lilies, the bulbs go in now. Next spring, we hope to have a plethora of pots: Herbs, petunias, Sweet William, lobelia, and Johnny Jump-ups (my favorite).
Formula for a Lasting Marriage
Uncle Tommy told me
that successful couples should
each try to give 70 percent.
“That way, when one partner
isn’t up to giving their full share,
the other person compensates.”
Works for me.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trifecta wanted a “formula” poem, in 33 words. My Uncle Tom and Aunt Clare were married many, many years before Tommy’s death. Tom was my mom’s brother, but Clare always called my mother “sister” instead of “sister-in-law.” They were so close… I’ll write more about them at another time.
Years later, Clare was lucky enough to find love again with a widower named Bob. They both kept pictures of their first loves in the house and talked about them all the time. That kind of selfless devotion, while still in a wonderful new relationship, speaks to their happiness. Bob died a few years back, and now Aunt Clare (whom we visited in California) is still shiny as a new penny, a truly lovely woman. When I think of Clare, I think of class, patience, and gracefulness. Her son, Gregg, is the cousin who got me to move out to California and work at the Great American Food & Beverage Company, a true adventure and one of the best moves I ever made. Greggie is still too cool for school, after all these years!
A little more family history from your friend in poetry, Amy.
The Sweetest Presence
A gift from her sister, I was
oooohed and aaaahed over
Now I hang on a rusty hook
near the back screen door
Listening to kids running
in, out, in, out, slam, slam
Her husband complains that
I’m in his way, bang
(He is too tall, but
I won’t be the one to say)
I was once a variety
of leftover spoons and forks
Then, refiner’s fire made me
flatware that’s really flat
Now comes a quiet breeze
breathing through me
and the gently moving silverware
makes music to soothe the soul
I may not chime the hour
but I have my own charms
She hears my call and
joins me for a cup of tea
Always remembers her sister
when she listens to me
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My dear friend Sherry Blue Sky turned me on to this prompt. Hannah Gosslein (known to many of us as “Sweet Hannah” offered a prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, to inhabit the spirit of a forest plant or creature. I made a detour and chose something that is affected by nature, the humble wind chime. A friend had some that were indeed forged and flattened forks and spoons, leftovers from an old family set, and it left a definitely impression on me. Thanks, Hannah! Peace, Amy
Mama Zen at Real Toads asked for a 20-word synopsis of the election results; ABC Wednesday asked for poems about the letter Q. Short and sweet today… very sweet, in fact! Also at my poetic polling place, Poets United.
Quick Recap of Quirky Election
Some clues
to amuse:
No horses, only gardens.
Women keep reproductive freedom.
Neither of the First Couple dye their hair
But there’s still war.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
When prompts are posted, it’s common for me to miss the deadline. I still post these to my blog anyway, because that’s part of the work of the poet. Sort of like a rejection letter, and I respond to those surprisingly well considering my condition.
Anyway, Trifecta had called for “why we write” in exactly 33 words. I humbly offer this, better late than never! It will also be at my resting place, that little slice of blog heaven known as Poets United. Peace, Amy
Because I Can
My ears are seashells
My eyes see past the world
My brain harbors memories…
So much conquered, understood
I write so I can tell the misunderstood,
“It’ll be okay, I’ve been there, too.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: Before you all think I’ve lost my marbles, this is in response to Fireblossom’s absolutely brill challenge at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads: She wants us to B.S. her. Couldn’t resist this subject, and hope I’m not too late in posting it. I truly hope the Tea Partiers understand the irony, but I’m starting to lose hope that they want to learn anything new or think outside the Fox Box…Peace, Amy
Ladies First
Ann Romney. A First Lady we can embrace.
She has real values: Family, her husband, subservience, being Mom and Grandma.
Ann, so blonde, even in her 60s! Real Americans can relate to her.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
PS I must admit, I didn’t realize there was not a word limit… confused with Trifecta… guess now I have to go off and look for those marbles after all, huh? Hee hee, A.
November Dilemma
Conflicted electorate.
Convictions worn like armor
or on sleeves, bleeding
or, better yet,
whispered in the back rooms
of country clubs and
boo-yahed in skinhead bars: Are you
white enough, is the White House
white enough, is the First Lady
blonde enough for you?
If the robber barons manage
to steal this one, we’ll be
back to Reaganomics and
a president who, like Ronnie,
dyes his hair. Just. That. Vain.
The Trickle-Down Theory
will be the law of this land…
once again, the Free Market
(“as opposed to the slave market,”
joked a RedStateNeck who thought
I wasn’t listening), yes, the
Free Market will reign. And rain.
Trickle-Down Economics.
We know what’s gonna be
trickling down on us; we’ll need
lots of toilet paper to clean up
that mess. Should I buy stock
in Kimberly-Clark? It’s bound
to shoot higher than
Mitt’s real hairline.
Ah, but Kimberly is owned by the Kochs,
who invented the Tea Party (ironic,
those initials: T.P.).
Thus, you see
my dilemma.
Shall I profit off
the grief of the majority
or continue to
fight the moneyed minority?
Yeah, like there’s an option!
This year, make “Blues in the Night”
a victory dance,
if we stand a chance
against Diebolt and Hype Finance.
Or will we be finessed
by Salt Lake City’s best,
confessed, silk suit pressed?
(Though his agenda for the oppressed
shows him decidedly undressed.)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday: P is for Politics! Check in a few days to hear it at Buddah Moskowitz’s Virtual Poetry Reading site. Also at the politically non-affiliated hub of activity, Poets United. Adding to the dverse Open Mic Night, too!
Well, here we sit, Lex and I, at the home of his sister Sharon and her wife, Linda, in the sweetest darned neighborhood of Sacramento… And I realized I forgot to tell you all that we are on vacation until Halloween! (Insert embarrassed face here…)
Will be back soon with glorious pix of locales all over the State of California and various friends and, of course, our gal Riley. AAAs soon as I figure out how to download the pix from my phone… and find the charger…
Love and peace to you all, and see you soon, Amy
PLEASE NOTE: If you are strictly anti-abortion, you probably won’t want to read this. Better yet, perhaps you should, because it deals with a particular “method of conception,” as one lawmaker so callously put it recently. So that makes me… a walking uterus? And since I’m post-menopausal, that would make me useless… It’s like how they called cigarettes a “nicotine delivery system.” And don’t get me started on “legitimate rape.” It’s violence and power, not sex. Hey, women can see past this malarkey. Remember in November, sisters!
Scroll down a bit for the poem.
Since the Procedure
First appointment since
her miserable abortion.
She’s 18 – nervous, tearful.
The nurse who knows her and
helped with the procedure
is by her side. Part rock, part teddy bear.
Then Doctor steps in.
Without a word, detached,
he flips up the stirrups
like it’s a mechanical bull and
not an exam table. “Slide up,”
are his first words to her.
He invades her with icy hands.
Palpates roughly.
Orders her to relax.
This from the man who
vacuumed her womb
only last week. He performed
the abortion, but you can feel
his disgust toward his patient.
“I said RELAX.” She tenses at the command.
Then, he mumbles, “I can’t do this
if you don’t cooperate.”
Briskly sheds his latex gloves;
brusquely exits the room.
Nurse holds the girl as she shakes and sobs,
“Take the money and run, doc.”
Later, Doctor gripes, “These girls
get in this type of trouble
and I have to take care of it but
they don’t help, not a bit.”
Nurse blurts, “Yeah, don’t you hate it when
girls go out and get themselves raped?
Honest to God, you have no idea, do you?”
Her indignant outburst is lost on him as he
flips through a Bermuda Vacation catalog.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday (yes, it’s Sunday, I’m well aware!) asked for a poem including the words Miserable, Brisk, and Detached. I knew a doctor like this… one of my friends was raped and he had ZERO pity, zero compassion. There are plenty of wonderful doctors, but this guy wasn’t one of them. That nurse (Catholic by faith, dedication to social justice gospel) quit the practice and opened a counseling center for girls and women recovering from abortion. “It has to be legal, clean, and safe,” she said, “but it doesn’t have to be even more traumatic than what some of them went through to need the procedure in the first place.”
I will also challenge readers at dverse Open Mic… perhaps I’ll get some flack. In fact, I hope I do, if only to open the door for mutually understanding and conversation. May every child be a wanted child, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 