Whose Side Are They on Now?
When things go right…
when her friend’s surgery is successful;
when his kid scores a goal;
when the baby is born with ten and ten
and Mom’s epidural was spot-on;
when a football player executes a game-saving touchdown,
when an old guy, down to his last buck at the bar,
hits the TV gambling jackpot,
it’s “Praise Jesus!”
They crow, “Thank God!”
When war rips a relentless dagger with
no healing in store,
and “smart bombs” hit the
“actionable intelligence” targets
(and only kill a few kids and other civilians),
when a dictator who was funded by the US but
falls out of favor ends up on the wrong side of a noose,
it’s, “God is on our side!”
When Katrina hit New Orleans,
when earthquakes hit Los Angeles,
Bible Belters shouted, “It’s because of all the sin
that is tolerated there! It was God’s will!”
(Sure, there’s that racist tinge to the condemnation…
never mind that the majority of Katrina victims
were people of color who worked hard to maintain
their neighborhoods, while the vast majority of “sinners”
are white college girls who get stinking drunk and
flash their boobs to get Mardi Gras beads…)
“Praise Jesus, who looks after the righteous,”
says the preacher, passing the collection plate.
(It’s all in the timing.)
But when a neighbor is laid off or gets
screwed out of a pension,
when someone on your block develops cancer and
it’s already Stage Four,
or it’s your kid who’s hit by a drunk driver
or knocked up by her own uncle…
Whose side is God on now?
Does Jesus hate your neighbor? Is that why he’s
slumping his shoulders in the unemployment line?
Does God think it was the 13-year-old girl’s fault
for “tempting” her pedophile uncle?
Do God and Jesus sit on high and zap people
with cancer when they are bored?
Think about these things
the next time you presume
to speak for God.
And feel free to give a copy of this to your pastor.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Me, Not Me (am etheree)
She
is me
is not me
Ebullient to the point
where even strangers point fingers
at her dancing in the rain
How she sings along with grocery karaoke
Her ass sways as she pushes the cat
grabbing junk food, beer, and tofu with equal enthusiasm
This jitterbug dervish, drug-free hippiehead, the part I keep hidden.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
She is, in fact, me on an old manic high in my manic-depressive cycle. I feel that, once in a while, I have to remind myself as much as my readers what it’s like to be caught in that bubble, flying overhead where all can see you. It’s so eacy to make run of someone in this state on the street – but I was once one of them. I’m managing through my psychiatrist and therapist – but once upon a time, I thought this was simply a facet of normal life, not understanding the embarrassment and possible damage to self I could inflict… did I mention that, when walking about town on a manic high, I never noticed traffic lights?
Posted, as always, at my poetic haven, Poets United, and I remembered to post to dverse poets, a new site with some extraordinary talent, plus open forums. Peace and clear thinking, Amy
Our Navy SEALS and other Special Ops units pay a terrible price for their extreme talent. They are exposed to sights and sounds the normal American citizen never considers. After hearing about a large number of SEALS being killed this week, and knowing a couple of former Special Ops folks myself, these are my thoughts about what they go through, and at what cost to their own mental health as they become vital cogs within the war machine. Peace, Amy
FORWARD MARCH, SPECIAL OPS
He pledges to hold sacred even the most seditious plans of the military.
His head is shaved ‘til every blond tuft falls to the floor.
He will tread the nether worlds to hinder whichever enemy is targeted.
His missions sporadic, vital;
he is enmeshed in that zone of adrenalin and HOO-AH!
Tonight, he’ll get plastered with his buddies to ward off the sting.
Years later, waking in tremor, he is haunted by
horrors executed at the bidding of men
who felt no stigma about
stirring the global pot to suit their needs
and those of their investors.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle words in bold), Sunday Scribblings (Forward), and, as always, the poetic collective, Poets United.
Poets United asked us to meditate on the word, “She.”
THREE IMAGES OF WOMEN GRACE MY WALL
A dog-eared poster hovers near my desk, rebellious wallpaper
Detailed manifesto of the Women’s Liberation Movement
“Because woman’s work is never done and is underpaid…”
Words from a bubbling wellspring of hope and burned lycra
Demand for an equal stake in this country, still unmet
A postcard: Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein
keep me honest in all pursuits, artful and activist
as they stare me down in a loving way, like sisters
heart of depression beside the mother of us all
reminding me that women are worthy of everything
Klimt portrait, foil-embroidered woman
She stands alone, in no man’s embrace
yet framed by flowers, wearing a come-hither robe
Full black hat, ebony halo, distant gaze
Essence of loveliness, an equal part of my soul
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hay(na)kus are a curious little form I found at Poetic Asides. It’s a variation of the haiku: Three lines; one word, two words, three words. No other rules. My kind of form! Also at Poets United, our poetry collective. Amy
As Seen On TV
Drug
It’s new!
Ask your doctor
Squandered
Money
is wasted
on the rich
Like a Mighty Stream
Justice
is ensured
only through action
Jesus, Gandhi, King
Peace
cannot flourish
without unconditional love
Mel Gibson’s Passion
Jesus
was not
an action figure
America
Hatred
is not
the new Normal
All poems © 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I Heard The News Today, Oh Boy
I note, fascinated, that
TV prophets cheerfully tender
the day’s torments,
as though yesterday left no scars,
no rusty bloodstains on the streets
of Kabul.
The sun has been swept under
a cement cloud.
Why chance a morning walk
when crawling will do?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Whirl words are in BOLD. Try Brenda’s Wordles – they are fascinating!
Also on Poets United, my poetic collective home.
This came out of two conversations: One with Nimue, and another with Leif. Both are “outside the box” poets, each with a dark and a light side. I want to acknowledge them both for conversations we have had that resulted in this poem. Please check out their sites! Also at Poets United, naturally! Amy
Tree Of My Soul
for Nimue and Leif
Half oak
Half willow
Bark soft as leather
or tough as truth
Fruit hangs from its branches
Mangoes, apples, peaches
but no olives
nor any fruit that requires
pickling or processing
Only fruits that are
picked from the twigs
devoured warm in the sun
juice running down my chin
like good sex
Watch for the spring sprout
see it birthed into a bud
wait, wait until
the time is right
the fruit is ripe
Only then is my soul
content
calm
fed
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 