To my friends,
Just so you’ll understand my absence, my computer has been giving me the Blue Screen of Death (followed by The “Blue” Screams of Amy) and it’s going to have a Time Out at the repair shop.
Thanks to all for their prayers during yesterday’s second, third, fourth, and fifth mammograms, which reveal NOTHING! “Old Leftie” is clean as the proverbial whistle. Amen. Thanks also to Carolyn for her wonderful advice (as expressed in “You’re EEEEK! uh…”) and thank God I didn’t need most of it… this time.
Please say a prayer tonight for all the uninsured, who are unable to breeze into the clinic knowing they have insurance coverage like ours. Pray for a national health plan that covers everyone… and if you have to give up your cosmetic surgery so that some kid doesn’t have to die from whooping cough, think about it… isn’t it worth that much? Health care is a RIGHT, not a privilege. We spend a thousand times more on bombing Afghanistan (and yes, Iran is next) into the Stone Age than we spend on health care. Tea Party, please research, thanks.
See you in a few, and again, thanks for your support. I love you all madly, as The Duke would say. Peace, Amy
Skinny-Dipping
Sixteen, never been sexed
Sipping pilsner pilfered from the basement fridge
Sssssh, out the back door
Stripping down to go skinny-dipping with… Johhhhhn
Time, place, the most potent of opportunities
We slip into steaming midnight summer water
His member more sumptuous than tight jeans ever hinted
My breasts afloat, begging to be bobbed for like juicy ripe apples
My ache, my throb – will he sense it,
and act on this rhythmically pulsing moonlit mystery
I always craved what was not mine for the taking
Swimming naked
with gay boys
© 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Margo Roby’s Wordgathering: Summer Tryouts and my little swimming pool, Poets United!
Today is the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the Gay Rights Movement in New York City. Gay men had finally had enough of being beaten and sodomized by police; one man picked up a cobblestone in from of the Stonewall Bar and threw it, and calamity and justice began with that one brick. (I know some say that riots were technically in the wee hours of June 28, as the bars closed… but get real. Do you wake up from a hangover on a Sunday and say, “Wow, I really drank too much at 2 this morning?” It was very, very late the night before.)
So why this poem today? Because my very proud and OUT Best Friend Forever, John Bickle, with whom I share many skinny dips and much mischief in our early days, also celebrates his birthday today. He said, when he saw the TV reports of the Stonewall Riots, he thought to himself, “It’s an omen.”
No, Stonewall didn’t make him gay. God did.
But anyway, happy birthday to my BFF, and may you continue to play piano bar and wow Philadelphia for many years to come! (His usual gig is at Knock, so you Philly friends, get you butts over to their Piano Room and hear a phenomenal tenor – and great pianist!) Love, Amer
XXOO?
A girl’s first kiss should be
like baby’s breath,
not taken in the dead of
night by theft.
Her youth was stolen by
an old man’s greed.
She grew up certain that
to live is to bleed.
An angry woman from a
heartsick girl:
Her song is echoed
all over the world.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil (who looked a lot like the little girl on the left in the picture)
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “X.” In this case, the saddest kiss of all was my first. Also at my poetic safe room, Poets United.
PLEASE NOTE: To women, men, boys, girls: If this poem rings true for you, seek help, get counseling. If reading this hurts you in a vague, awful way and makes you want to drink or do drugs or seek other solace that’s unhealthy, try therapy – it’s worth the price to get your life back. Peace, Amy
“You’re…” EEEEEK! uh…
Mammograms are the only day
when it doesn’t suck to be moi
I take ‘em out, I flop ‘em on
the glass, and they squish like foi gras
Then came two voice mails
on the same choice day
from the same office.
And suddenly my world morphed
from “as controlled as possible with meds”
to head-spinning dread, fed by
one freakin’ phone call.
All I must do is careen
back to the scene of the crime,
primed sans deodorant and scent,
rank with my own odor and fear.
It may be one mammo;
it may need more ammo.
a big needle thrust
to left of my bust.
“They’ll take the sample
with ample drama, mama,
and a big-ass needle, so
close your eyes and tell them
you have PTSD,” my beloved
survivor friend says.
“Then set phasers on STUN -it sounds
like a staple gun or Pac-Man as it
chomps in search of tissue.
Make them issue enough painkillers
to knock out a horse.”
“Of course,” I reply,
she laughs, knowing I
am immune to OTCs*
thanks to the 70’s…
…during which I imbibed
enough pharmaceuticals to
peel the cuticles off
a gorilla’s thumbnails.
It’s this Wednesday, folks,
please pray it’s a hoax,
and Old Leftie is “clean,”
if you know what I mean.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* OTCs are “over the counter” drugs like Advil, Tylenol, and aspirin. I could take a whole bottle for a headache and it would do nothing for the pain… but the Advil would trash my liver!
Sunday Scribblings asked us to come up with a poem about a “Eureka moment.” This is the down side of that concept, and we’re hoping and praying it has a happy ending! Will keep you posted. Also at the one office where nothing ever hurts… Poets United! Peace, Amy
Sounds easy peasy, right? Trifecta says, “Take your favorite book and tell it in 33 words. No more, no less. So, my friends, here is my Cliff Notes version of the Bible. Peace, and please keep your humor! Amy
THE BIBLE (condensed version)
God creates everything,
pulls Adam’s rib to form Eve.
Except in Genesis 2.
Moses delivers Commandments.
People mess up, drown, turn to salt.
Jesus comes, says “Love,” gets killed.
Revelation still scares kids.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic home, Poets United.
NOTE: In Genesis, Chapter 2, the Bible says that God created Adam from dust and the Spirit blew life into him, completely contradicting the first account. Biblical literalists, please take note!
Blue Babe
Funk-flattened by that man,
the one who stole her whole,
heart, soul… grassy knoll.
Blue, blank, busted,
burnt by a formerly formidable passion
that now passes for bitter brittleness.
Lost love takes the shape of
a long tall martini, in her limp hands,
as she holds up her part of the bar,
awaiting her next mistake.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, use the word “blue” in a 33-333 poem as an adjective meaning melancholy… Been there, done him…
Also at my poetic watering hole, Poets United. Peace, Amy
This is when I realized that I was, indeed, THAT far behind. Here is the Wordle from the current week’s Baker’s Dozen, followed by one from last week’s words. Brenda Warren, you are a creative source and very much loved by this here sharp little blog!! This is also at my poetic meeting place, Poets United.
Ironically, the two poems could be a “before” and “after” sequence. But as it is, I’ll pray for peace. Amy
RECRUITED
Ain’t no draft in this war
‘sides, the rich folks’d
pull strings so their kid’d
be son-of-a-Bush Leaguin
We got through Boot,
crack troops, they say.
Yeah, there’s crack for sure
here, and some good weed
Bad meth got Duffy in
a zombie trance then BOOM! he’s
beatin his chest, temper real high,
hell, he was real high, making a
racket, kickin over the table
beer makin soup outta my
Lucky Strikes. Now Duffy, he’s
locked up, latch like a dog.
Recruiter, he says at the BK,
“Currently (yeah, they talk like that)
we require troops who refrain from
drug use and talk straight, you know?”
Yeah, I can hear him now over the bombs.
Straight, but you know that ain’t about talk,
it’s bout the showers. And somethin bout drugs.
“Hey, I can do that,” I say, “sign me up.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Draft, Crack, Spare, Refrain, Strike, Temper, Chest, Blend, String, Racket, Trance, Latch, Current.
——————————–
DAY 38
Crawlin to another meeting
in my rust-stained Corona.
Dirty jeans and the same shirt
I wore overnight in the back seat.
Parkin in the shadows, near
little bluffs where prairie grasses
brush against the very air,
I swear, it’s a real trip.
Now the willow slaps the roof
of my car, dippin low to whisper:
“Here we are again, my friend.
Remember the first time, you
trembled, decaf in one hand,
12-Step book in the other.
Three days out of the mud then,
not stoned, not wasted? One nerve
short of suicide?”
Damn if the tree ain’t right.
I remember that night,
I was sure enough that scared,
cause the meeting was downstairs
in a church. Only sacred vessels
are in there, not homeless guys.
The willow creaks and sighs,
“Don’t forget the man
with a nail in each hand.
Never a pillow for his head,”
the weeping willow said.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For LAST WEEK’S Whirl: Crawl, Shadows, Nail, Corona, Vessels, Brush, Stain, Bluffs, Trembled, Stones, Willow, Mud.
Well, I’m not one for bragging (and if I am, will someone please let me know so I can stuff some humble pie in my face), but Polly Robinson of Polly: Writings and Witterings posed what may be her first prompt, and I could not resist. After posting, I found out it was one of three favorites! To see her comments, and other winners as well, please see: THIS POST. And now let’s get down to some poeting. Poemizing. Poemization. Er, writing poetry:
Remember Passion
Passion – all-consuming,
glorious blaze of every
sense alive and alight,
every synapse snapping,
a fire for
the belly
the brain
the heart
the hearth that hums beneath
her sheath and his jeans
Passion burns benevolently
for a time, somewhat contained
(but if the team mascot loves the
place-kicker, they head for a
fireproof locker, kissing in shadows
of the homecoming bonfire)
The fire can consume lovers.
The burn doesn’t always hurt.
Passion will wane, but
the reflection will remain
in the rearview mirror of their minds,
glowing on lonely nights,
a long-gone ember of…
Remember?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, a poem about fire, burning passion… and all that follows. Also at my poetic bonfire, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
Far Away From Home
She moved as far away as she could
from the parents, the school
her entire, pathetic former life
Reinvented herself on the Left Coast
so her folks wouldn’t be embarrassed
when she turned into a slutty pothead
Lucky she had some talent
and a knack for “right place, right time”
Associated with some up and comers
But all bad things must come to an end
including the sore nose and some shaky
“business” opportunities, best to avoid
The road home seems longer when
your tail is between your legs and you’re
detoxing on the cross-country bus
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse: Exile. Follow the link down the rabbit hole to some amazing poets!
Vessel
(based on the Prayer of St. Francis)
Make me an instrument of your peace
Make me a vessel of your love
Your walk, my way
Your truth, my life
Your light, my joy
Your breath, my song
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “V.”
The prayer of St. Francis has always intrigued me, because Francis took Jesus’ teachings on giving and acted on them all his life. His is a good example of a life lived in pure love. LOVE is not only for Christians – it’s for all faith paths and for those who don’t believe in a Higher Power… but I wrote this hoping that I, too, will be a vessel of love, at all times and in all places. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 