Wedding Night Waxes
He carried her over the threshold
of their bridal suite:
Room 5 at the local Super 7
(couldn’t afford the Super 8)
She said she had prepared
a “goodie bag” for their wedding night
“What kind of goodies?” he asked, and
she just winked and smiled.
The Marriage Bed, they called it,
laughing (the baby was due in May)
They sat on the edge, making small talk
by the light of TCM classics on TV
She grabbed the mystery bag
Vanished into the bathroom and
squeezed into the silken nightie
she found on Clearance at Victoria’s Secret
(a bit swollen, but still sexy)
At that moment
the TV flickered off and
lights outened themselves with a snick
“Babe,” he called, “power’s out…
You OK in there?”
Her answer, opening the bathroom door
She held a basket with wine, crackers and cheese
In her long red lingerie, she stood
bathed in candleglow
“When I said I put all we needed
in the goodie bag, I wasn’t kidding”
His answer, a low, appreciative whistle
A single candle, stuck in a precious bottle:
The very first Chardonnay they ever shared
It was in the cab of his truck
They’d traced constellations and snuggled
and the baby was probably conceived
under Venus’ approving gaze
Now wax stribbled down the green bottleneck,
obscured the label, pooled on the night stand
as wick flickered…
a newborn light
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United’s Wonder Wednesday asked for poems about wax, candlelight, and such. Candles are the cheapest accessory for romance, so I thought about a young couple who didn’t have much but each other and took off from there. Peace, Amy
Psych Ward Visitor
In the Bin
again and I notice
someone’s playing
peek-a-boo
Someone just out of sight
Furtive, foggy, stalking us
Around the corner
near the Med Line
Waiting to see
who’s farthest gone
Patiently holding vigil
as patients tossturn
overnight ‘til dawn
He bides his time
rolling dice that are
all snake eyes
No worry, no hurry
He’s not on a schedule
Then Lonnie got a call
His wife wants a divorce
She took the kids and
he can’t do a thing but moan
Next morning
we watch him swing
as the nurses try
to cut him down
No resuscitation, he’s
blue and past blues
We all cry and then
I realize, shuddering
the stranger is gone
Death is done – for today
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, the definition of Death as the destroyer of life, represented usually as a skeleton with a scythe. In this case, Death is a bit sneakier… but always gets his man (or woman). Also at the Poets United Poetry Pantry, where you’ll find a diverse group writing about all sorts of things!
First Time, No Charm
Fifteen
and the only girl in her class
who hadn’t “done it” yet
Sharp gossipy tongues
of her peers rendered her
brittle, an underachiever
Sure, she had the fever, but
no boy had the charm, the
romance she longed for
Fearing she would develop
a discernible crust beneath which
no one would wish to explore
she began to wear shorter skirts,
willowy legs bending, swaying
as a breeze blew through her branches
She spied one guy, gave him the eye
that said, “I want,” and he knew he’d be
Her First, and thus accoladed by his buds
That night, they threw down a blanket
Some pot he’d rustled up for the occasion
dilated their pupils, lazy balloon eyes
A few harsh kisses, some fumbling
some mumbling, but not calling her name
He opened the packet of the sheik sheath
Almost exploding as she put it on him
(like the banana in health class) and then he
crushed her with his weight, piercing her
It was all of ten minutes, leaving her with
the wound that never needs mending
And an unbearable feeling that there must be
more than sex than this, a barbarian invasion
Otherwise, why would musicians bother to write
love songs?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Sheaths, Explode, Unbearable, Fever, Willows, Crust, Mending, Breeze, Piercing, Brittle, and Rustle. Click on the blog name and see what everyone else got from this interesting group on the Wordle! I am glad to say this is NOT autobiographical.
I’ve chosen this poem for dverse Open Mic Night. Also at my home base for all things poetic, Poets United.
Little Lajwanti Lost (Brothels of India)
Plucked from family tree
nowhere near ripe
Sold to brothel
Dignity denied
She aches, lacerated
Beaten if she says “no”
Infected if she says “yes”
Enslaved since she was five
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I saw a PBS special last night that changed my life. Although the perpetrators of violence against women in this film are mostly dark-skinned, it’s not a racist film – those who know me understand I’m open and outspoken about my own childhood sexual abuse, and we have plenty of work to do around the unearned shame of victims and survivors Stateside. This is about girls in Asia and Africa who lack support of any kind, who through no fault of their own are disowned by families after being raped, who are sold by families or total strangers into prostitution… and the brave women and men who risk all to come to their defense.
“Lajwanti” is a Hindi name that means “a sensitive plant.” I chose the name for the specific irony of the fate of mostly lower-caste girls. The sex slave trade in India is protected by local police bribery and fought by a lion-hearted woman named Somaly, who as a young girl was sold into slavery and now runs a refuge for the girls they are able to spring from the brothels. She says, “They are me.”
The PBS special about the film, Half The Sky, is not to be viewed with popcorn and brewskis. It is a brutally frank account of violence against women, from culturally sanctioned rape to girls as young as five sold into prostitution worldwide. From the brothels of India to the rape of girls as young as two years old in Sierra Leone (where to “devirginize” a girl is a matter of pride for the man), this film also shows some real-life heroines who deserve our support. Please click the link above to learn more.
There are stars, beginning with George Clooney’s commentary, along with several female stars traveling to witness and comfort the rescued girls. A tremendous scene: A former prostitute who was rescued, now aged 15, confronting a roomful of men and quizzing them on why condoms are useful. She even shows them how to open the packet without damaging the contents and looks them straight in the eye. Like I said, lion-hearted women.
If you want to help this vital movement on behalf of half the world’s population, visit THIS LINK.
As a “little white suburban girl” who was used for sex by her own father, I can tell you this: Look behind the siding of houses in your own neighborhood. Men who use girls (and boys) without conscience are everywhere, often trusted family friends or family members, scout leaders, upstanding clergy, teachers…
I am eternally grateful for this prompt, from Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, where Mama Zen asked for a poetic drama in 30 words or less, and Roger at ABC Wednesday (L). Also at my safe haven, Poets United.
Peace, Amy
Playing Bongos in Topanga Canyon
Several members of our tribe are
breathing slowly, exhaling with tenderness
the holy incense of the day
Shakha opens tent flaps and
scurries to exchange the
stinky bong water for fresh
Empties grimy slog into
Topanga Canyon’s stream
without fear of discovery
We are in the back of
the deep woods now
Our prayers answered
Don strums his twelve-string
as singers attempt the dazed
yet sweet harmonies of ambivalence
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl, click to see Wordle and other folks’ posts. Thanks, Brenda, for some words that almost gave me a contact high… but that was the 70s for ya. The memories do linger after all these years. Some flashbacks are quite sweet, and so are the people.
Also at my poetic all-time clear-headed high, Poets United!
Thanks to all who sent notes of support during my recent “computer Blue Screen Of Death” crisis. Took a day or so to read the work of others before starting to post again.
To followers of this blog, THANK YOU for your patience. If Sadie doesn’t Blue Screen again, I’ll be happy and she won’t be carted back to the shop sniffling. (OK, I was the one sniffling…)
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about creativity. Seems like a good starting point for getting my groove back, also to post at dverse Open Mic Night, as well as the site that never BSODs me, Poets United (become a member, y’all!) and the whimsical Imaginary Garden with Read Toads for Open Link Monday. The seed for this poem was in a note to my dear friend Sidnie, with whom I share certain parts of the bozosphere.
Creative Juices
In the game of Poetry*
there are no winners, nor losers
Our creative juices flow
sometimes in rhythm and rhyme
or perhaps in chaotic streams of
consciousness
One man’s Keats
is another women’s drivel
So please accept
these dribblings
from the
howling bloodhound slobberjaws
of my
creatively juicy life
(or not)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Shout-out to Buddah Moskowitz, who disdains “Capital P” poetry!! You’re my bruddah from anudda mudda! Ameleh
Well, before I Blue Screen of Death again and haul this thing to the shop, I have to get in two more poems. One for Sunday Scribblings, the other for the Sunday Whirl; both are also at my poetic screen that’s never blue, Poets United. I will log on at coffee shops to see what y’all have written and comment there… “Quick, before it melts (down)!” Amy
SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS:
Pages of Stone
Fabricated from actual mineral
My favorite journal
Pencil circles, meanders
Glides with ease, with grace
Number Two lead, sharply honed
sings as it moves along the surface
Needle of an old phonograph
Playing Ellington from a shiny vinyl
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems around the word “ease.” This was the first thing that came to mind… I found a journal with pages actually fabricated from STONE! How different, how environmentally intriguing. Then, when I ran my pencil over the surface, it was like writing on a whiteboard… it almost squeaked! Find some and tell me what you think.
SUNDAY WHIRL:
The Ballad of Marie Dressler (1962-1977)
At the dealer, climbed into a Volvo sedan
Paid cash; remained in the driver’s seat for years
My first car, a ’62, back when Swedish mechanics
crowded into one room, hovered in corners
and built them by hand, bolts to bumpers
My singing mother said, in her husky whisky tenor,
“Always bring mascara in your gig bag. If something
happens on the way to make you cry, you won’t show up
looking like a damned raccoon.” Good advice:
That night, my eyes were dampened in this way…
Stopped at a red light, rearview mirror shows a large car
barreling behind me; instinct pulled foot off brake and
left heel jammed in the clutch. Trapped. Impact. Moment.
Bundles flew, slow-motion; shocks shook with sounds of
metal bending. The anger and the floodgates opened together.
Dazed, I pried open the door, stormed back to give
that son-of-a-bitch the old what-for. Window rolls down,
old lady (sure!) says, “I’m Sister Elizabeth. I think I’m all right
but my Mama seems to have cut her lip.” Suddenly, I
got it: God’s dope-slap for sleeping with a priest.
I opened Mama’s door, her face was ash. “S-s-stay here,
ladies… sister… Mama…” Closed the door – on the nun’s
mother’s rosary beads. Clinkclickclink, all over the pavement.
(This, the coup de grace, surely sealing my ticket to Hell.)
Car was totaled, but I insisted squad car take me to my gig
where I played for eight hours straight with one potty break.
Songs I’d never known. “Piano Man” heard once in the dentist’s
waiting room. “Havah Negilah.” I was a shock savant.
Made $200 in tips, turned out that was down-pay for a one-way to LA.
Nun didn’t get a ticket (she was doing 75). Catholic cop.
Always name your cars. “Marie Dressler,” for the 30’s again actress:
Big, old, white, and beat up, but she still had a lot of class.
Her rear end was wide enough to absorb the impact. (Bless all in
Sweden!) Cop said, “You’d be DOA in a Chevrolet.”
Marie Dressler, faithful old gal, rest in pieces. Fondly, Amer
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The Sunday Whirl (click to see the Wordle) gave us a dozen words, and this true story is the result. The Church gave me $600 for my car, and that with the tip money was enough for the plane ticket and an efficiency apt. in Venice Beach in 1977 (this is back before Venice looked like Starbucks threw up all over it). Thanks, Greggie, for urging me to go West. You SAVED my life and helped change my destiny.
NOTE: “Amer” was my family nickname, and all my East Coast friends call me that. LA friends call me “Amers.” But the praise band’s director, Ben, calls me “Amypants,” because I’m so opinionated. Now they just call me “Pants.” Go figure! Peace, Amy
Dear friends,
Sorry, but the dreaded Blue Screen of Death is plaguing my computer, Sadie. She is going to a REAL computer shop tomorrow AM, since the Geek Squad are generally rude and inexperienced, at least at the Best Buy I went to.
Will try to post from other computers over the next few days, so please be patient with me as I sort out the Hard, Soft, and Mediumware that comprises the Metallic Brain! (Sadie’s, not mine…!)
Lots of great prompts this week, so keep writing and I’ll at least be reading you. Peace, Amy
FIRST FROST
Crystal-stained
window pane
shimm’ring in the night
Glimpse of shine
only mine
from the street lamplight
Frigid blast
Squealing past
tightly puttied sills
Stoke the fire
coax the pyre
Pray the chill it kills
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, ManicDdaily (Karin Gustafson) asked us to write about something unexpected. After our long, drought-ridden, hellish summer, imagine my surprise to awaken at 2 am and see frost on the window. There’s something about the first frost, especially when it is backlit. Bring on the flannel! Break out the silk underwear (not the sexy kind – the overalls that keep me warm)!
Also to be posted on Poets United, my poetic pot-bellied stove… Peace and hot cocoa, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 