Wish Upon a Star
Remember being a kid and
wishing on a star?
I wish I can get a kitten.
I wish my sister wasn’t so mean.
I wish Mike in 7th period English liked me.
I wish my parents would stop fighting.
When I was a child
I wished as a child…
Now I wish for Fukushima
to be cooled, calmed, and collected
I wish for the Middle East to be at peace.
(Hey, I dream big)
I wish Rush Limbaugh would fade
into the obscurity he so richly deserves
I wish young girls would focus on their brains
and that Jon-Benetathons would vanish
I wish racists would grow
hearts… and minds
I wish on the wind for power
and for fracking to cease
I wish for women to be accorded
the rights and respect we deserve
I wish for justice for all, especially kids
For the world to be fed, clothed
This year, Jupiter is larger and
more visible than we’ll ever see it again.
So I focus on Jupiter,
shining bright in the night sky
If you want to heal a planet,
might as well wish on another planet
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Thursday Think Tank at my poetic space station, Poets United, where the prompt was “Wish.”
The Pinkie
The pinkie has a purpose.
Pointing outward at high tea.
Stand proud alongside taller siblings.
Rich people adorn it with rings.
When chopping veggies, it
rarely falls victim to the blade.
No longer than a thumb, yet
pushed to the end of the line, for
Thumb basks in glory of its opposition.
Oh, lowly pinkie, you are my little hero
holding fast at the end of the digits,
keeping the others in line.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “P.” Once in a while, whimsy catches me by the heel, and this is the result! Also at my poetic pinkie ring, Poets United.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, we were asked to choose one of many quotes and write a poem to it. The moment I saw Marley in the mix, I was SO THERE. First the Bob Marley quote; then, the poem. (Also at my poetic hitching post, Poets United!) Peace, Amy
“Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don’t complicate your mind. Don’t bury your thoughts, put your vision to reality. Wake Up And Live!” – Bob Marley
DRIVING LESSON
You learned it all to get your license.
Stop.
Yield.
The colors are:
Red, Gold, and Green.
You’re behind the wheel
all by yourself now, babe.
Take good care.
Mind the signs.
But signs don’t tell it all.
There are potholes:
Anything from a bad grade
to a ruined romance
can throw you for a moment,
head you into a ditch.
Get back on the road,
open all the windows,
crank the radio,
and sing a song.
Cuz around the bend,
something sweet is waiting.
It never fails, never.
Careful on the back roads,
off the beaten path.
You’ll find temptation
is tantalizing.
You may succumb,
but not for long.
You’re not dumb.
And when you’re lost,
no signs to guide you,
that’s the moment of truth.
That’s when you’ll divine
which exit to take.
That’s when you’ll define
who you are, what you’re made of.
Let’s review the lesson:
Stop when you need to.
Yield to NO ONE when you
know your cause is right.
Red. Gold. Green.
Marley’s colors can be
your colors, too.
Your turn at the wheel, darlin.
Make it a sweet ride.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thank you, Bob Marley, for your legacy of love in music and in spirit, promoting peace.
Garden of Weeds
It can start with anything
A feather caught in a curling freefall
That cardinal pecking at my window
The random assemblage of spices
jumbled on the shelf – one tumbles me
awake, ablaze with cardamom coincidence
Mom’s spirit sharing coffee with me
telling stories from where she now resides
in heaven, and thisclose
Even bad memories stir me
dredge, sift, filtering through
my bones, seeping to the nerves
A prophet once told me that
love is everywhere
So is truth
So is pain
So is amazement
So is amusement
So is romance
So is anger…
despair …
relief
So it’s time
to reach for my journal
and sprout another plant
for my garden of weeds
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, better late than never! Marie and Walt called for poems about SEEDS… seeds to plant, to nurture; seeds of poetry and other art… the beginning little “oomph” that pushes one to action.
Photo from Vishwasaha on WordPress. The PROPHET is named Marques Bovre, who also composed a lovely song called “Dandelion.” He’s been through cancer threatment and half the known world is praying for him. He’s on the upswing, but add him to YOUR list if you’re the praying type. Peace, Amy
monday’s forecast
thick, ornery clouds gather
on my mental horizon
chasing my fanciful birds into trees
sending all manner of wild wildlife
into hiding, seeking sanctuary
even the chipmunk on the edge plays
“duck and cover” under the back stoop
it’s coming, the lack of light
of life as I like it
a tunnel, an abyss where
bliss is forbidden
and bright eyes dim to
an absent stare
a slackened jaw, a slacker me
i turn to my bible hoping for answers
“even though i walk in the
valley of the shadow of death
i will fear no… no…”
no words for this condition
no balm in this gilead
no spirit to comfort me
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was “Storm.” This poem started out as a real, physical storm and ended up, as with many of my offerings, with the onset of a bout of depression. Not so much a storm as a sea change, I suppose, but the warning clouds feel the same – and once the faucets open, it might as well be raining. Buckets.
Red Roses
She answered her front door
The bouquet, ceiling to floor
Roses, red and silky, fragrant
Behind them stood the Count
Whom she soon hoped to mount
(without seeming too flagrant)
But first, dinner at Le Grande
Champagne warming their bond
Holding her hand, caressing her wrist
Then back to her secluded place
Where, in their first embrace
The bond was sealed, her neck kissed
She transformed by the light of the moon
He called it the taste of maroon
He was a man of great resources
Their gory nights, filled with laughter
And they both lived forever, ever after
Until global war killed all their sources
Wooed
Chewed
Screwed
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, the prompt was, of course, vampires.
Wonder, Wander
Young girl lies in tall grass
loves seeing flowers from underneath
Queen Anne’s lace, a parasol in sunshine
Timothy grass swinging above her
She wonders why buttercups shine thing
under her skinny chin
Mother looks out the back window
at her daughter and wonders where
life will take her in ten years
Will she also marry and submerge
in the suburbs, eager for her next drink
Billy finds Ginny in the field
Offers her a bite of his apple
“Ha,” says Ginny, “you’re Eve”
He grins, lies down beside her
innocently, wondering
when he will be attracted to girls
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United Think Tank Thursday, the prompt was “Wonder.”
For Trifecta: Three 33-word stanzas, each describing the thoughts of one person connected to the next. I chose the situation each was in, mirrored against the naivete of youth versus the bitter truth of the suburban housewife. This is me, my Mom, and my best friend, John (who finally figured it out: Never!)
Omaha, Nebraska
Seated in the squalor that was
Council Bluffs in those days,
the big city seemed far away.
Even if she got there, someday
how would she find a job
that could pay? Really pay?
She dug up some money,
got a gown downtown and
she could pass for 21 (at 16).
She knew she could sing, then…
She dipped into Mama’s purse
and cursed herself for doing it, but
Mama wouldn’t miss the compact
as she was currently in the mental ward.
“I’m gonna look older, live bolder.”
And Dad was using his daughter
in ways that would not win him
Father of the Year awards.
So she packed up her pack,
left before Dad got back,
and boarded the ferry one day.
Hotel Blackstone hired her
at first sight and first song,
and yes, they would pay, hooray!
In years to come, she would
travel around, by bus, by car,
by train (not by plane).
She owed her start in large part to
Omaha. And Council Bluffs?
Only if there was a funeral.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “O.” Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United.
Image courtesy of “Heaven’s Gates,” but DAMN! This singer in the photo is an absolute ringer for my mom, Charlotte, in those days, when she sang as Patty Long and later as Jan Long (Binghamton already had one Patty Long!).
Pelo Malo/Pelo Magnifico*
Keesha fiddles with the beads in her hair.
This bugs her mom, who carefully combed
and applied conditioner and spent
quite some time braiding her daughter’s do.
“Mommy, why don’t I have hair like yours,
blonde and straight? Why is mine all kinky
and hard to do stuff with, like the beads?
I want hair like yours, why can’t I have it?”
“Keesha, honey, part of being adopted, the
really cool part, is that we don’t have to look alike
to be family. Just like Maya is from Japan and
has coarse, straight black hair and I’m blonde.”
“But MomMaya says her hair is… well, I heard
her say it’s ‘bloody awful’ to take care of, too.
You’re lucky.” Mom wraps her in a tender hug and
says, “I am, but it’s got nothing to do with my hair.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday, “Bloody, Kinky, Tender”
*PROCESS NOTES: When I lived in Puerto Rico, stylists referred to African hair as “pelo malo,” literally “bad hair.” I asked them why; they replied it is difficult to work with, especially with extensions. I was embarrassed to consider the notion of “bad hair.” I cannot look at a picture of Angela Davis or Billy Preston, with their tremendous Afros, and see anything but beauty. Beaded, natural, extended, even straightened (hey, it’s all about personal choice)… it’s all “pelo magnifico” to me, because it’s the hair our worldwide population started with, deep in the valleys of the Tigris-Euphrates.
Longing Becomes Art (also for Riley)
Longing becomes art.
Art becomes enjoyment.
Enjoyment becomes shows.
Shows become employment.
Employment because aaaargh!
Aaaargh becomes strain.
Strain becomes I Need A Vacation
For My Addled Brain.
Brain senses loss.
Loss becomes lack.
Lack of inspiration.
Inspiration slack.
Slacking, she wonders,
where did it start?
Time gives her longing.
Longing becomes art.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Bloomings asked us to take the last line from one of our old poems and use it as a springboard for a new work. The first line is from “Artistic,” about my daughter, Riley. The final line was, “Longing becomes art.” To see the original poem, head to this link, https://sharplittlepencil.com/2011/11/10/artistic-for-riley/
Sharp Little Pencil 