ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter, “Z”! (Do we start on the Cyrillic alphabet now?) Also at the poetic collective, Poets United.
This poem is based on the phenomenon that effectively destroyed my piano-bar career… Amy
Zithromax (Think Before Lighting Up Indoors)
A smoky club, the trapped wait staff
take your orders and get the shaft.
While you puff a cig or two,
others do just as you do.
You can leave and breathe fresh air;
singers, barkeeps, stuck in there
Low-wage job with no insurance;
Z-pac samples help endurance.
When you blithely light that match
think of what the workers catch.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The Poets United prompt was Loneliness. This was my take on it. Peace, Amy
In My Solitude
He’s gone out the door for yet another
long, dour weekend with his mother
I am left to my own devices
TV never quite suffices
Hating the quiet, the isolation
I head out for café consolation
Alone in a crowd, it’s win, win again
Just me and my journal, my mind and my pen
Could call up some friends and do a flick
Then toast and get toasted until I’m sick
But I decide not to pick up the phone
The comfort: Control is mine alone
I hear music vaguely beguiling my mind
See dancing figures upon the blind
Phrases now pop up from deep recesses
These help assuage any “home alone” stresses
And with synesthesia, quick movement of eyes
Creates haunting noises that always surprise
I pray, I eat takeout, and sure, I do miss him
But sometimes a girl needs a break on a whim
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Synesthesia affects me this way: When I move my eyes side to side, there follows a tracking, sort of metallic noise, not unlike the Six Million Dollar Man jumping sound. Sorry, it’s a US TV reference, my out of country friends!
Poetic Asides had an interesting prompt: Sound.
I don’t often indulge in haiku, but Sensational Haiku Weds. on You Know… that Blog? posed a single word: Wish.
So it’s one cynical and one hopeful. Both are also at the poetic collective, Poets United, where I think my interview is still posted as well! Peace, Amy
FOR POETIC ASIDES (also posted on their blog)
Snap, Crackle, Plop
The sizzle of a full-pound burger hitting the grill
The crackle of a Snickers bar just dropped in a deep prayer
The burble of Mountain Dew as it glugs from a 2-liter bottle
The pop of an opened Pringles can
The crunch of hot, salted french fries.
The hiss of whole milk foaming for a macchiato,
another hiss for the extra whipped cream
The snap of a third or fourth Twix bar.
The plop of millions of butts onto sofas
for “Dancing With The Stars,”
plus whatever else will fill a full four hours
of family television viewing.
The click of the computer mouse
as Facebook meets Farmville.
The thumbpunch on a keypad, texting
from a comfy chair at the Internet café.
The huff-puff of labored breathing
and murmured swears as the businessman
struggles to climb a single flight of stairs
(elevator out of order).
These are the sounds of obesity.
The sounds of Americans feeding not only their addiction,
but the corporate coffers of people so rich, they
laugh all the way to their next liposuction appointment.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY
Wishing and Doing
Wishing on a star
mimics prayer, save but one thing:
Invoking God’s name
Praying for world peace
Will not ever be enough
We must work for it
We must all cry, Stop!
Take it to the streets, until
real peace is world-waged
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl, a Wordle that gave us: World, poem, thought, logic, whim, river, resist, twisted, buzz, instinct, galloping, and fluttered. Thanks, Brenda, for another great challenge. This, as with all my poems, is present at Poets United. Peace, Amy
…where I found a poem
On a whim, bereft of logic,
in a world of twisted thought,
a poem fluttered by.
I could not resist its bee-buzz:
Following my twisted instinct,
I went galloping after, alongside that
river of rhythm and bliss and memories
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It may be the wee hours of Monday, but it’s never to late to answer ABC Wednesday‘s prompt for poems using the letter “Y.” This goes out especially to my high school buddy and still great friend Michael Weil, who visited from Potsdam, NY (think colder than Madison!) with super wife (and also old friend) Amy Jo and verrrrry cool son Alex today, along with new friends Paul and his partner Dean. Mike and I reminisced about the ever-abundant supply of Yuengling beer at our house, and how he just “converted” to their Black and Tan variety. I had actually written this “snowball” poem days ago, but now I HAVE to post it, right? Safe travels, you “Weil things!” Amer
Also at the poetic collective, Poets United.
YUENGLING
Sun,
summer,
cold Yuengling.
Man, our basement
fridge was full of it.
Easy access for teens
to grab a brew, hit the pool,
and bask in alcoholic bliss.
Mom never kept inventory, so
we drank, swam, laughed, and tanned all summer long.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Just a quick one. Sorry I am so terribly behind in responding to your comments… the Poets United article generated a lot of interest. I promise I’ll get back “on par” soon. (Groan – you’ll see why when you read my response to Sunday Scribblings‘ prompt, “Woods.”) Amy
Woodsman Lost
Tiger, Tiger, what the hell?
‘Twas a time you cast a spell.
Now you ache from stress and strain;
credibility down the drain.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday prompted us with: Cease, Heat, and Nasty. A million ways you can go with that, but I was reminded of those punishing Manhattan summers. Thom G, thinking of you and my other NYC friends now.
This is also at our poetry collective, Poets United, which (if you scroll down to the second article) has an interview with… MOI! I was so honored. Thanks again, Sherry Blue Sky, for tapping into my brain. A brave chore, that! Amy
City Summer
City sidewalks
drink in summer heat
absorbing as through pores and
releasing a scalded, nasty smell:
Part spilled lattes
Parts updraft of subway tracks, their litter and rats
Part dog who missed the tree
Part dog owner who didn’t bring a plastic bag
Part bare feet of the homeless,
never to cease their quest for
the shelter of a bit of shade
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday is on (puff, puff) the letter “Y,” and even though I wrote this song a while back, thought it would be a nice addition. This one has never been recorded, or I’d give you a link, sorry!
Also posted at the poets’ collective, Poets United. Give that link a try and scan down the right sidebar for some incredible poets. And now (drumroll, please, Riley)…
I’d Say Yes (bossa nova)
We share a noontime table
There’s curry and coffee and a lump in my throat
I tell him all I’m able
But stop short at the popular vote:
‘Cause my girlfriends say, “Just tell him”
But caution tells me, “Don’t”
Now I’m nervous that the truth will come out
And twice as scared it won’t
He treats me like a sister
We have a long history of talking things out
He says he couldn’t resist her
But now that she’s left him, she’s left him in doubt
Now my instinct is to comfort
And my arms say, “Cradle him”
But I’d hate to blow a friendship
on an odd, romantic whim
He asked me once, can’t remember when
But if I had to do it over again, I’d say yes
Yes, it’s true
Yes, I am
Yes, I will
Yes, I do
It’s funny, how a friendship
can turn into love if you lower your guard
But if the love’s a secret
it’s such an unnatural state of the heart
‘Cause half of me’s talking logic
While the other’s lost her sense
And I’d hate to miss the fireworks
Straddling the fence
I said “no” once, can’t remember when
But if I had to do it over again, I’d say yes
Yes, it’s true
Yes, I am
Yes, I will
Yes, I do
He asked me once, long ago
But if he asks me in a hour or so, I’ll say yes
Yes, it’s true
Yes, I am
Yes, I will
Yes, I do
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is for Sunday Scribblings, which gave the prompt word, “Hitch.” Also at Poets United, my poetic home-away-from-home. Enjoy, movie buffs! Amy
HITCH
Close-up, sloooowly, Grace leans in
and Jimmy Stewart wakes to a kiss.
Raymond Buff commits a sin,
but Grace and James still find their bliss.
Tippi Hendren, without words,
the schoolkids must deliver:
Running from the pecking birds
to a house where they all shiver.
Wartime Cummings, Saboteur?
Joel McCrea, war correspondent.
Ingrid, a provocateur,
leaves Claude Raines despondent.
And how can we forget the sight
of Janet Leigh’s ill-fated shower:
Black and white blood, one stark fright.
Tony Perkins’ finest hour.
When the planes swooped o’er the grain
Hitch made Cary Grant look tough.
We won’t see Hitchcock’s like again…
but Tarantino steals his stuff.
Alfred Hitchcock, Lord of Thrills,
his wife an aide in everything,
he still brings us stellar chills.
Screw “no Oscar,” Hitch is king.
Sharp Little Pencil 