Silken Softness
My mom, Charlotte,
grew up in Iowa.
Council Bluffs, to be exact.
Recession, then Depression
brought the town to its knees,
at least until corn season.
Mom said Grandma Blanche
could make anything
from corn in a skillet:
Corn cakes, corn pone,
corn bread, but the best was
corn alone.
In the field, the poor were
allowed to glean from
Old Man Jones’ field.
Yanking from stalks,
home to shuck the ears.
Corn silk was, for Charlotte,
a miracle, a treasure. She said,
“I hope someday my wedding dress
will be as soft as this corn silk.”
Blanche marveled at
how her girl could always
make magic from simple things.
It’s a Laughlin tradition,
passed from Blanche to Charlotte,
from Charlotte to lucky me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United, my favorite site, asked for food-inspired, home-grown tales. Can’t get more “down home” than this!
Crucifixion, Texas Style
Gov. Perry had a choice:
Listen to the appeal of experts who proved
the man did not start the fire which took
the lives of his children…
or think about his upcoming re-election.
Most Texans don’t take kindly
to governors who commute death sentences.
The Guv could have looked above.
It appears he chose to look the other way instead.
And now another innocent man
walks down the final hallway to his
sanitary, efficient doom.
Strapped down as the doctors ready the dose
of lethal legality, executing “humane” judgment.
Curtains are yanked open to reveal the scene.
Curious how this drama is presented
like a peep show from Hell.
The needle will pierce his skin
and another soul will be loosed
by the State of Texas.
The view from the chamber ceiling
is that of a man
tethered to a cross.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil for Three Word Wednesday (appear, dose, pierce) and Poets United.
This poem is based on the execution of Cameron Willingham, who spent 12 years on Death Row. Many experts appealed on his behalf as to the pattern of the blaze, but Willingham had a history of abusive behavior and a 10th grade education, which don’t play well in courts, no matter how the facts are presented.
It’s not only Texas – many states have the death penalty; some have prisoners on Death Row, just waiting for the day the penalty goes back into effect. Texas does tend to execute the most people; in fact, when George W. Bush was governor, he “okayed” 152 executions, the most in recent history by any governor. I remain opposed to the death penalty, and the facts are in favor of pacifists: More and more DNA evidence is proving the innocence of people on Death Row across the country.
For Poetic Asides’ prompt, Normal, I opted to tell it like I see it. As on my haven, Poetic Asides. Amy
Normal Is
Normal is the everyday stuff
Normal is eating McDonald’s for breakfast
and Arby’s for lunch and Pizza Hut for dinner
Normal is going to work at a job you hate
Normal is stopping off for a couple-five drinks
to cool off from the job you hate
Normal is shlepping home and sitting in front of
the TV computer IPad video game
Normal is shopping for crap from China
that used to be made by your neighbor whose job
was outsourced, and he’s about to exhaust his unemployment
Normal is watching silk-suited fresh-water sharks
swimming in the the DC pool on Avenue K
as they rape the economy and hold the future ransom to
a whim, a personal profit, a new McMansion
Normal is ignoring homeless Americans begging
Normal is meth-addict soccer moms, the super-achievers
Normal is Asian kids winning spelling bees and science fairs,
but children of Anglos winning legacy admissions to Ivy League schools
Normal is Black kids, Hispanic kids, all those “little brown ones”
sentenced to the street or “would you like fries with that”
or being coerced into developing a taste for Afghanistan sand
Normal is no longer single moms, but two parents
kissing hello/goodbye in the hall as one goes to sleep
and the other goes to work at WalMart with no health benefits
Normal is skipping worship to work a crossword puzzle or to
see your kids’ soccer games or whatever else the school scheduled
for Sunday morning, thank God Blue Laws were repealed
Normal is one appendectomy in a 14-year-old ends up
with the whole family living in a camper or a car
Normal is abnormal.
The American Dream is no longer the norm.
The American Nightmare has taken charge.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Cheesehead
I’m a newly minted Cheesehead.
Wisconsinites call anyone
from the other side of Lake Erie
“an East Coaster.”
They fretted that we would
never make it through a
Madison winter.
I replied with one word: “Buffalo.”
Slowly they realized that, not only is
New York State snowy and cold and
a cheese heaven in itself,
but I have a Midwestern pedigree.
Mom grew up in Iowa.
I’m willing to eat all the ‘pig corn’ they put on my plate!
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “C,” and also on Poets United, my shelter from the storm.
Outstanding WHAT?
Why am I limping around a hospital
in a gown open to show the whole world my ass
with a belly as big as a piñata
screaming “ICE CHIIIIIPS!!”?
Ah yes, the joys of birthing
in 98-degree September.
The baby will be born on Labor Day,
an ironic detail…
That’s what I get for
outstanding ovulation!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(For Sunday Scribblings, variation on “Standing Ovation,” also posted at Poets United.)
Footprints of Peace (haiku)
Dedicated to Sister Karen Klimczak (1943-2006)
Where is holy ground?
Is it only in a church,
a temple, or mosque?
No, it’s to be found
ev’rywhere beneath our feet
if peace is our guide.
Live out of real love
each of us to another,
forsaking greed, hatred
Holy ground is found
anywhere people will trace
the footprints of peace.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I decided that 300 posts is a milestone and wanted not to be my usual snarky self. Here’s the story behind the inspiration for this poem:
Sister Karen began the “Peaceprints” signage campaign in Buffalo, NY. Signs popped up all over town, “I Leave Peace Prints,” signs with doves, putting out a positive message of unconditional love. She worked in a halfway house for drug offenders who had served their time. Sadly, she was murdered by one of the residents when she surprised him as he was going through her room. Although her death was senseless and sadly ironic, the signs proliferated in her memory and still stand today. Rest in peace, Sister Karen, and thanks for the love.
Posted at the poets’ collective, Poets United.
Poetic Bloomings, a new and interesting site, wanted poems about “lost and found.” Then Brenda’s Sunday Whirl gave me words that culminated in the poem below (those prompt words are in bold). Give these new sites a whirl yourselves! And, of course, I’m on the right sidebar at Poets United! Peace, Amy
Lost in the Weeds
She is lost in the weeds.
She’s good wheat, but what sprouts near her
possess voices that pierce and keen.
No matter how strong her fortress,
an unfamiliar, frightening force
rattles the bars of her gate.
She needs an image to cling to,
wholly holy, distinctly divine.
A steadfast vision beyond this
jangling jungle of fear becomes clear.
She shakes off the weeds, uproots them,
and splinters the yoke of despair.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A new friend, Lafemmeroar, who inducted me into The Crazy Chicks Club, needed to see this poem, written back in 2010 but never published on my blog. It’s a serious problem in our society, and, as you all know, I take these issues head on. Also at my haven, Poets United. Amy
The Practice
There’s an old warehouse downtown
where they meet in secret
Sneaking down alleyways alone or in pairs
through the backdoor of an old meat-packing plant
It’s quiet; it’s remote; no one will discover them there
as they open drawers full of potions
creams and lotions and pallored paint
They pull robes and silky clothes from rusty hangers
Readying themselves for the ritual
Preening with great care as giant hooks swing over their heads
remnants of the enterprise this building once housed
Hideously masked, garishly garbed, in hats with small bells
They frolic as they practice their ancient art
Every movement coordinated, they caper and careen
The thought of their doings makes my blood run cold, even now
Grown men in clown suits, rehearsing a new routine
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
GRASS
To legalize or not to legalize pot?
That is the question I was sort of
pondering while preparing a
killer omelette this morning after
imbibing my usual cup of coffee that’s
so strong you can stand a spoon up in it.
Now, the secret of my omelettes
is in the herbs…. when they’ve been dried
you toss them in after the chopped onion
and garlic are just beginning to sizzle and
that opens up their flavor, their savor,
and their real power.
Then the rest, the squash, the whatever is
residing in your crisper and not all
squishy and globbed from the humidity
man it is hot outside and even the A.C.
won’t keep the molecular damp from
seeping through the cracks and crevices and
oh, yeah, the omelette. So last thing, you add your
favorite cheese, but what really turns my creation
into a work of art is not the presentation because
it usually falls apart before it hits the plate, and
I’m like, you’re just gonna chew it up anyway,
what’s the big deal about presentation?
Cheese. Cheeeeeese. Oh yeah. Wisconsin aged
cheddar we get at the co-op, so dry it crumbles.
But if you get off on brie or swiss, like the song says,
Love the One You’re With.
So anyway, I finished my omelette and booted up
the puter and the Poets United prompt was GRASS!
How fortuitous! Coincidence?
I THINK NOT. It was simply the universe
whispering in my ear about
sharing my love of creative cooking!
What a grooved-out day to daydream (too!) about my
lovely brunch (I got up pretty late today) and
the secret of its blissful herbalicious goodness…
Bon appétit. Buen provecho. Happy eating, y’all!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 