Was a Time When…
Was a time when
nothing was shelved for another day
When, lacking A.C., our windows allowed
the cacophony of Manhattan traffic
to ferment with our Streisand on the stereo
into an ethereal, essentially New York brew
When heartaches were daily doings and
lovers’ promises abstract
When Chinatown was
a neon-spangled dragon,
delicious, exhilarating, smelling of
sesame oil and sweet rice wine
When we’d shimmy on the sidewalk
to every lowrider blasting reggae
Now those days in the City
are an exquisite origami swan
swinging from the ceiling on a ribbon,
suspended over my head
over my half-closed eyes
from the drop ceiling
over my hospital bed
as my life reaches the coda of
its jazzy, dizzying blur
Slowly, veil upon veil of blissful,
mystic, magic memories featherfall
upon my last moments…
but not a single regret
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Exquisite, abstract, spangling, ethereal, ferment, dragon, shimmy, origami, cacophony, coda, aches, shelved. FYI, it’s The Sunday Whirl’s first anniversary this week, so click on the link and check out what others have done with Brenda’s weekly “dirty dozen” words. The variety of thoughts, of what springs to mind and splashes on the page of each poet or writer, is quite amazing. Brenda Warren, BRAVA and thanks!
Also at my poetic nest, Poets United! Peace, Amy
Pity Party Marathon
Feels like forever, this situation.
So sure that she is unappreciated.
Confronting the conundrum:
Is it they who take advantage,
or she who is the doormat?
Their insensitivity,
or her need for deeds to be noticed?
Are they stoking the fire,
or has she tied herself to the stake,
begging for matches?
Martyrdom is a foolish pursuit,
one that drag on a lifetime.
Yet she, as fools do, faces it; embraces it,
forgetting Dolly Parton’s immortal words:
“Get off the cross, honey, we need the wood.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Self-esteem is a struggle for so many women, myself included. Hard to know when it’s a valid complaint or too much navel-gazing. For Sunday Scribblings, where the prompt is “Marathon,” as well as at my poetic hangout (where all the outcasts who created the real stuff stuck together in high school), Poets United. Proud to be a member!
Dreadlocks and the Three Rednecks
Shaniqua was only 13, but she took the A train uptown every Saturday to visit her grandmother, an invalid who depended on help from neighbors for everything from groceries to doctor visits. Her grandma loved these visits for the sheer joy of her granddaughter’s sense of humor and her growing knowledge of old jazz records. This was the day Shaniqua would be introduced to “Ma” Rainey on 78s.
Today, the A was hopping with Yankee fans, headed up to watch Steinbrenner’s investment pay off once again as they chugged warm beer and scattered the bleachers with peanut shells. Shaniqua noticed the predominantly white ridership, so she pulled up her hoodie and gazed obliquely out the greasy subway window. Three rednecks were harassing a gay guy when they turned their attention to someone they assumed would be more intimidated by them.
“Hey, little girl, you ain’t related to Rosa Parks, are ya?” drawled an out-of-towner, sitting pretty even though several older women were forced to stand, strap-hanging. His buddy caught on, got up from his seat (a senior widow slipped in fast as a New York minute, smiling smugly about getting off her tired feet). The second guy: “Why’re you wearin’ that hoodie? You a gangsta type? Member of a gang? We hear tell there’s all sorts of you people on these trains, stealing wallets and such.”
Finally, Number Three, cracking his knuckles, bellowed, “ARE YOU DEAF, LITTLE GIRL?” They surrounded her now. Sweat on her brow, dripping into her basket of homemade muffins. (C’mon, Mr. Ellington, make the A Train go faster.)
They ripped down the top of her hoodie to reveal her spectacular dreadlocks, woven by her mother since age five. “Looky here, boys, we got us a real Jamaican girl. Say, why don’t you teach us to dance? Do you know any Bob Marley?”
Her stop was coming. “Well, I can’t dance with you,” she said to the first cracker, “because I don’t like guys in flannel shirts. And you,” she pointed to Number Two, “are racist and just plain mean. I don’t think you like yourself much.” By this time, the grannies had all surrounded the group, ready to take action with purses and canes if the men got too close to Shaniqua. She was somebody’s granddaughter, after all.
“And you,” she said to Knuckle Cracker as the train pulled into her stop at 171 and Fort Washington. “You are so pathetic you’re wearing a Mets cap to Yankee Stadium, you have a mullet, and your pants are hanging so low my pastor would kick you out of the church. You’re a wannabe with bad underwear and a butt-crack.”
As they stood slack-mouthed, she hopped off the train. “And you don’t pay attention, because you missed your stop. Go back to 161st Street and catch the B over east.” Then the grandmas smiled knowingly at each other. It was going to be a long trip to the stadium for the non-residents of Harlem.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta: Unlimited words, rewrite “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
Photo courtesy of www.littleafrica.com.
FREE SPIRIT SPEAKS 
You knew this about me before we first met
True, I’m your companion, but nobody’s pet
No leash will I wear, nor “She Is Mine” collar
So what, when I wander, gives you right to holler?
Can’t Alpha Male Tantrum me into submission
Rant all you want to, but it’s my tradition
A part of my birthright – we’re radical women
His water is warmer… and I’m goin’ swimmin’
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Form For All: Framed Couplets (first and last words must rhyme in each couplet!)
Also at my poetic hearth and home, Poets United.
Photo courtesy of Superstock.com, providing free images (for the time being!).
Bud is Bummin’
Bud’s buttressing his building,
same as yesterday and forever.
Paper cup kept jingling:
The classic ask.
I’m boy I’m embarrassingly I’m
so damned late,
I buzz by him without blinking;
must rumble through
the crowded sidewalk,
Almost to the conference door.
My heart screams;
conscience bubbles through my bloodstream,
hits my medulla “obligata.”
Turning tail to the nearest café.
Two large coffees, a cup of milk,
a banana (potassium) and bran muffin.
Sugar, yellow, pink, blue packets.
I don’t take sweet, but he might.
Back at the bastion,
Bud’s taking a break, huddled under a blanket
I offer him the tray;
he looks up and mumbles, “What’s this?”
“All for you, sir, except the second cup.”
I blush, grab my portion, bend to share a hug.
I run off.
Blessings abound.
Angels around.
Dependence is a two-way street.
If we want to connect with them,
let’s show respect for them
Let’s interrupt our previously scheduled lives
for a moment of grace.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dependence, Kept, Rumble; for dverse Open Mic Night; and as always, for Poets United, my poetic hotspot!
L’artiste
Who knew
a silent flick
would capture our hearts so completely?
Mon Dieu!
The French sure click
The characters captivate sweetly
Dog star
Jack Russell bred
who leapt off the screen with this talent
By far
Critics all said
Our Uggie is smart, cute, and gallant
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night and my beloved Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Day 17 of Poem a Day.
This is for Beth, because I know how much she loves Jack Russell terriers.
W.A.S.P. Apology
Dear Tribal Peoples of the Americas,
My English ancestors arrived aboard The Mayflower.
You were enslaved, exposed to smallpox, forced to forfeit your land.
No longer able to hunt. Shot like animals, sent to reservations.
I am profoundly sorry.
Sincerely and in the spirit of repentance,
Amy Barlow Liberatore
Trifecta asked us to write a letter of apology in exactly 33 words, not counting the title, salutation, or signature. The was the best subject I could write about. All my friends know of my pride in the “shanty Irish” side of my family; however, my father’s ancestors can be traced to Richard Warren on the Mayflower. While some view this as a heritage to be proud of, I’ve been trying to live it down, both as an activist and as a woman who educated herself on the facts of the matter. A racist website by some cracker named O. Ned Eddins plays down the torture and displacement Native Americans. History, once again written by the winners… yet, had we stayed with indigenous ways of respecting the land and thinking seven generations ahead, we would not be ruled by oligarchy in a despoiled land. Amy
The Drifter
Maybe this town’ll be different.
Friendlier.
Or leastways not as bad as the last place.
I ain’t felt so low since my draft notice in ‘69
except for the three years in Nam (Hell)
and an awful lotta times since then.
First thing off the bus, I locate an empty bench
so nobody’ll smell my stench. Then out of the blue,
this lady says, “How do you take your coffee?”
Then she brings out two cups of killer Joe
and sits down and talks, tells me where the shelters are
and about an AA meeting two blocks over, it’s tonight.
Didn’t give me them damn Bible papers
or try to drag me to her church, just a nice person.
Hope there’s more like her round here.
Cuz it’s gonna take more than the Serenity Prayer
to keep me on the wagon. Long road.
Lotsa potholes. And a little hope…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday (Draft, Locate, Serenity)
Photo courtesy of http://www.nccca.org, a Christian organization mobilizing to help the homeless, including veterans.
Sharp Little Pencil 