We were asked to write a poem about ourselves by the wonderful poetic collective, Poets United. I chose the musical facet, because everybody’s been deluged with too much about my mental health and Wisconsin/national politics lately! So consider this an early Hanukkah present…
THE HIGH CHURCH OF JAZZ
Faceless in the realm of True Believers
Nightclubs were my church
Midnight congregations
Not Sunday stewards
Saturday night souls hungry for the words
Holding fast to faith in
languid, lazy Hoagie
self-indulgent Cole
snobby, snappy Noel
Billie and Judy, my fallen risen angels
The smoky cloud of witnesses
for souls such as I
A baby grand, my heaven
our voices, the choir
Music, my religion
controllable, comforting balm
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Life is Good When…
Life is good when children smile, their bellies full.
Life is good when girls play rough-and-tumble
after their tea party.
When boys are allowed to cry without ridicule…
Life is good when all folks have a home, however humble,
with food on the table and friends to share it.
When community clinics offer free health care
to those who need it most: addicts, women facing choices
that men don’t think twice about, prenatal care for those
who choose motherhood, help for those who don’t…
Life is good when handguns are melted to forge plows.
When women can wear hijabs and not encounter
disapproving looks from unveiled Anglos.
When Mom can choose to stay home because Dad
makes enough and has Union protections, or when
Mom decides the kids are all in school and can work
at something that exercises her mind and passion…
Life is good when the Christmas tree has more ornaments
on the tree than overpriced Chinese- made toys under it.
When the family gave more to charity than to Wal-Mart…
Life is good when every couple can hold hands and love
their lives together without condemnation from straights.
Life is good when the National Guard is back on US soil
and enlisted troops are all home, receiving VA care and
using their GI benefits to get an education…
We’re waiting for the day when life is good.
Until then, this dream is brought to you by your sponsor,
the Creator, who reminds us all that life is a gift…
use it wisely and with love.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, an alternate take on “Life is Good.” Also at my poetic heart and hearth, Poets United.
The Balancing Act of Life
Hovering before a feeder full of suet,
the hummingbird’s wings beat so fast,,
she appears motionless. Magic.
Nearby, a birdhouse swivels on its chain
in the autumn breeze, abandoned for
the rapidly approaching winter.
The bees are past “Last Call,” so drunk
they’ll sting anything. They dawdle near
the last bloom of a faded coral rose in
a pointless quest for long-gone nectar.
Geese overheard, perfectly aligned,
their kazoo music a comic horn section.
Yet, behold their strength in numbers,
their impeccable, strategic teamwork.
They know travail; they seek only survival.
The eloquent, full-throated conversation of
lark and sparrow, cuckoo and crow
owl and cricket, long since stifled by
the reality of the season. One misses
their conversation over morning coffee
or evening cabernet. Now we watch the mist
mask and reveal, mask and reveal the Moon,
pee-a-boo in the night sky.
We’ll take in the birdfeeders soon, our fingers
deftly cleaning all crevices before storage for Spring.
We will look for the few creatures of the deep freeze:
Deer, gratefully nibbling apples we left on the
low-hanging branches, rabbits scavenging
what they can, squirrels twirling in the trees.
This balancing act of life serves as show and
as life lesson: Hard work and beauty are equals
in Nature. Symmetry. The dance. The point.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl, with thanks to Brenda for the Wordle: Bees, balance, cleaning, coral, point, strength, finger, motionless, eloquent, rapidly, swivel, safety. Also at my poetic home away from home, Poets United.
Taxed to the Max
After rising on Sunday morning
at the hour of stupid o’clock
to ensure The Pastor gets
to the church on time…
After sifting through music for
two services – one traditional and
sedate, like my childhood church,
the second rowdy and electrified…
After chatting with seniors who
ply me with homemade treats
and holding babies who always
want to play with my glasses…
After worship, when everyone has left,
save the pastor and spouse, I’m
perched by the back door as he
fumbles for keys and outens lights…
After trading our holy attire for
holey jeans and brewing tea, we
collapse on the couch, spent as
post-coital lovers, limp as lox.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday’s Poetic Bloomings, with thanks to Marie and Walt for an interesting prompt. Also at my poetic lifeline, Poets United.
Artistic
(For Riley)
She was a quiet, hidden way about her.
She may seem strident to some
but her shell protects her from
the piercing lens of the world.
Girl. Canvas. In the perfect light of a
beachside studio, her energy
is reignited. Perhaps warm, salty
air emits creative power.
She pitches in: Cerulean and Sand,
Viridian, a hint of Ivory, a
swish of vivid Magenta, a few
Ebony-dappled accents. No one can
imagine the sublime delirium,
this torrid tango of perfect partners.
Part duel, part puzzling rendezvous.
Her brow furrowing into a pleat
as she is lost in the swirl of brushstrokes.
She’s found a new way to express
what she feels, her profound nature.
Longing becomes art.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl and my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
The Wordle included: Reignite, emit, delirium, air, piercing, swish, dappled, pleat, seem, strident, pitch, shell.
O, Men!
O, singers of songs
O, strummers of strings
O, penniless artists
O, bearers of rings
O, givers of gifts
O, takers of souls
O, promising poets
in watering holes
O, hot high school boys
we pined for in lunchlines
O, struggling comics
who later were punchlines
O, lovers of mirrors
O, football fanatics
O, sexy-ass hippies
O, hunky mechanics
O, what would we do
without mem’ries of men
as we nestle in Now
…remembering When
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Scribblings prompt, Omen, with certain liberties taken!
Also at my poetic Magnetic North, Poets United.
Pastor Hellevangelist
Sunday morning funnies aren’t in
the newspaper but on
TV, toupeed and pancaked
Those televangelists put on
quite a show, preachin’ ‘bout
all the horrible sins they know
will send YOU straight to Hell
Then the preacher’s healings they show
Miss “Mah sinuses ache” WHAM!
The Holy Spirit is there in his hand
She’s on the floor, flailing, flattened
Now he’s singin’ solo with the band
Amazing, grace has graced this man
with abundance straight from God:
Mansion, limo, trophy wife
Teleparishioners are awed
and send him money to keep up
his cathedral lifestyle
A few bucks to Darfur, but most
keeps up his shiny white smile
He’s quick on the drawl, sending
other folks all to Hell
‘til he’s caught with this mistress
at the local No-Tell Motel
or taking young boys under his wing
and under the covers
under cover of righteousness
Then his wife discovers
So Sunday, tune in, turn on to
the big show: The Satanic versus
the squeaky-clean teleGod man
He knows all the curses
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter P. Also at my cornerstone, Poets United.
Skin Like a Cloak
“The truth is,” said the professor,
“we wear our skin, each one of us,
like a cloak. Some feel fervently
that the color of the cover matters
greatly; others see only history.
“The residue of the bad old days,
‘black’ and ‘white.’ Vessels swept
into the harbor, offloading human
cargo. For these battered souls,
no breeze could refresh their sad
brokenness. Scores of years later,
for the Confederate flagged and
South Will Rise Againers, these stories
are muted, revised, considered
best stored in a trunk, hidden away.
“But we,” she continued, “can get to
the heart of injustice by unlocking
that attic door, dusting off the trunk,
prying loose its locks, and delving into
its heart of shame, of inhuman cruelty.
“Whites start by remembering.”
“By humbling ourselves to the truth.”
“By understanding the depths to which
‘entitled’ Anglos can sink when led by
minds filled with ignorance, greed, and
cruelty.”
“Only by recognizing the signs of such
wretchedness taking root in the American
mainstream and fighting it… only then
can we ensure it won’t happen again.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for dverse Poets’ Pub and posted to my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Lost Soul
He shuffled by, jeans grazing the sidewalk
I caught a whiff of
part bottle of cheap wine,
part bloody confrontation from
last night, carved on his cheek
As his garbage-bag suitcase thumped behind,
he spat in the gutter.
DTs setting in, he twitched
in a crooked gait, a gurgle
singing from deep in his gut.
Before I could stop him to offer a breakfast,
he vanished through a paint-shredded doorway.
My mom would’ve said,
“His porch light’s flickering.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (with thanks to Brenda Warren for assembling the Wordle and Mike Patrick for the words): Gutter, flickering, twitched, vanished, crooked, bottle, bloody, gurgle, sidewalk, thump, carved, caught. Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 