First, continued apology for not answering your comments on recent posts. Doing my best to catch up, so don’t give up on me, OK? This is a dark take on the Sunday Whirl prompt; wordle is listed below. Thanks, and peace, Amy
The Ward and Me
Shadowy business, this
Nestled in the crook of a couch
for another shrink rap
My balance, shaky at best
This ward filled with walking open sores
Memories ooze from their psychic wounds
The runoff seeps up the floorboards
leaving smudgy, evil footprints
Traces of ghosts linger, follow us inmates:
Xeroxed Marleys, hovering phantoms whispering
what happened back when
back then
Grandma Blanche was a frequent flier,
restless for answers to
bizarre questions that made Grandpa cringe
and then commit her
They’d strap her down
They’d scorched her tortured brain
A sick science fair
I know that old game, how they
sucked the fun out of her
so I play along
I’m afraid but don’t let it show
I whistle a happy tune
This will all be over soon
I think
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Straps, Balance, Sores, Ghosts, Smudgy, Bizarre, Scorched, Shadowy, Restless, Nestled, Whistle, Know, Seeps. And, as always, to be found in the right column of my poetic kith and kin, Poets United.
Coming Back to Life
In a busy café,
a couple – hard not to notice
the incision showing through her
clinically shorn hair.
Her husband is her guide
as they clear their table.
“Garbage in there.” In go paper napkins,
delicately, like presents under a Christmas tree.
“Recyclables here. Which ones are those?”
She points to a plastic cup and a Coke can.
Her husband nods in appreciation
of her returning awareness.
“Dishes go in this bin.” She picks up a spoon
and looks to him for reassurance.
Then a coffee mug, and her husband chimes in,
“Don’t forget the fork.”
Suddenly peals of laughter erupt
straight from her gut, and he asks,
“What’s so funny?” She gasps,
“YOU SAID ‘FORK’!!!”
The whole place cracks up, joining her
in her first joke since brain surgery.
And, as tears stream down his cheeks,
he starts chortling too.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for Sunday Scribblings; the prompt was “Wit.” Also posted at my nearest and dearest, Poets United.
Crystalline
The perks of being a backup singer
were the free drugs supplied
by folks who’d tend to linger
after the show, back in the hotel room
Finest weed from finest seed
Took her right back to the womb
Times change, from rage to new rage
Thai to cocaine, then rock in a pipe
First hit flew her to an infinite stage
The saddest moment she’d ever know
was a bright shining synapse pinging
Gogogogogogogogogogo
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore
Bobbi’s Mom
After the weeping wears down,
the fog of loss and regret
After the last interview (because
inquiring minds want to know)
After the blur of has-been celebrities
trading her confidential secrets for
visions of their own names in print
After her life has been ransacked,
laid out in pieces like a tacky
Hollywood lawn sale, as customers
lay claim to a bit of her charms
We will remember the girl who had to
grow up too soon, the bronzed beauty
with the punk-ass husband who put a KICK ME sticker
on her back and showed her his belt
and helped her to addiction she couldn’t kick
We will honor the icon – but let’s not forget
she was a daughter, a mother, and a fragile soul
No one can outrun an Achilles’ heel
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The Sunday Whirl: Belt, Fog, Sticker, Interview, Weeping, Visions, Blur, Ransacked, Confidential, Customer, Charms, Trade.
Rest in Peace, Whitney. You will never be forgotten.
Memories of His Dad
Antique, the shaving brush atop his side of our bathroom counter.
Memories of his father come forth,
back when Dad used soap and an old-fashioned razor,
how the blade grazed his flesh with precision.
Later, his father lost that control
as Lou’s legacy sent him flailing
Hard for a WWII vet, an engineer, a man of science,
to revert to unexpected infancy, utter dependence.
The badger-hair brush reminds his son
of happier times, watching Dad pull up his nose
to stop that mustache from gaining ground.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Razor, Flesh, Control; also at Poets United.
Image courtesy of http://www.tjrakowski.com
WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART
———————————–
Two different views of the same woman – one from across the room, one within. A true story, based on experiences with a multiracial social justice group. Eventually, we came to an understanding… Amy
Dissonance: The Races, We Run
See that white lady
She so smug, so set
Grew up in suburbs
Daddy workin a steady job
Mom at home, waiting for kids from school
See that white lady
She grew up with privilege
No latchkey, no projects, no “free lunch” line
She told me they had a pool out back with sharks in it
What the hell she talkin
See the same white lady, staring in the mirror
See her take all those prescription drugs
to keep it together, 50 years after the fact
After the house on the cul de sac
Watch her heaving sobs in the therapist’s office
‘Cause some nights, the swimming ended and
The Shark grew lungs and feet and
a heavy, stumbling footfall
He’d open her bedroom door
and feast
Peel back the siding of the placid ‘burbs
Tread carefully the manicured lawns
Pick up a spyglass, examine the nasty underbelly
Throw open the drapes at midnight
Breathe deep – the stench of incest and vermouth
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also for ABC Wednesday (brought to you by the letter “D”) and, as always, Poets United.
First off, great news! Fred Weintraub, while promoting his book co-written by David Fields and edited by yours truly, added my blog link to his page! Scroll down to the bottom right and see my picture and link there!
http://www.fredweintraub.com/index.php?page=book
I’m a bit slow at responding to comments because I visit each and every one of you who leave word with me… so be patient! Or to borrow from an old bit, “Be gentle… it’s my 385th time!”
You know it’s getting near Valentine’s Day when I get all sloppy about long-ago unrequited love… old feelings sometimes give birth to new poems. Still happy with the valentine I have, my Lex! Peace, Amy
I’ve Been There
Tell me how you feel
I’m your sounding board
I’ll play devil’s advocate
‘case there’s something you’ve ignored
She was too lovely to be real
And you loved her, yes, it’s true
But the way you looked at her
is the way I look at you
I’ve been there, too many times
Trying to find the rhythm in the rhymes
I’ve been there, tongue hanging out
Heart on my sleeve, and foolish, no doubt
You can’t understand why she
can’t be the one to adore you
I can’t understand why you
can’t see what’s right here before you
Tell me how you feel
I’ll be here forever
But will I tell you
how I feel? Probably never…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my poetic hearth and home, Poets United
Emotional Dyslexic
I cannot read her
She’s too confusing
Now she’s mad at me
and that’s amusing
It’s cat and mouse time
But where’s the trap now?
Oh, that’s the wrong game
I’ll give her crap now
‘Cause she should know me
My way of thinking
She never meets my needs
That’s why I’m drinking
And when I get home
Supper on the stove –
or else I’ll show her
my back hand of love
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: This is one thing that never happened to me, but has happened to a lot of women, and there is no excuse. Men who run out of words use fists… and guns… and other weapons often discussed on my blog. Same goes for some women, but in a much smaller proportion. I am blessed to know so many men of peace, especially after a difficult, abusive childhood.
Will be posted at dverse Tues Open Mic and at my poetic home, Poets United.
Processing Me
I am at the Wisconsin DMV
I am sitting on a plastic chair
I am scolded by a supervisor for
sitting instead of
proceeding directly to Photos
I am told to sit down in another plastic chair and
wait for my number to be called
I am DY72
I am in the process of being processed
Now I know how cheese must feel
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse and Poets United!
Hello all, from our new digs here in Madison, home base for recalling the governor of Wisconsin; protecting the environment of our state and others; protesting the war in Afghanistan (this includes Veterans for Peace); and sheltering the homeless during the bitter cold that comes and goes.
During my vacation from blogging (and while my computer crashed with one of those “phishing” viruses – I never fall for that), I composed a ditty for my good friend, Buddah Moskowitz, of I Hate Poetry and Virtual Poetry Reading. Thought it would be a nice “dipping of the toe in the poetic waters” to post it here. He’s SO worth it!! Peace, Amy
SILK THREAD (for Moskowitz)
There is a long, silken heartstring
Starts in the Midwest
Stretches to the Coast
(The Left Coast, not the other one)
Connects me with my
brother from another mother
in ways gutty, gutteral, giddy
and good
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
As always, posted at my “nest,” Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 