No prompts today… just some thoughts. Hope they help you find your “safe place.” Amy
Island Dweller
When the dentist’s drill begins shrill keening
in my latest in a series of root canals
When the physical therapist says, “This
might hurt a little”
When the Red Cross phlebotomist
tries to mine my blood, missing the vein
or my legs are in stirrups, awaiting
the pinch of the Pap
I go to my island
The passport is breath
often deeeeeep breath
and I though I am prone
it’s on a bed of warm sand
Relaxed by water lapping my toes
on the shore of an endless beach
Every breath is music
Every moment is relief
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For my third day of National Poetry Writing Month, I decided to follow a prompt, because it called out to me. Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about messengers. This is for my mother, who beat the devil and was sober the final 10 years of her life. She’s been gone 21 years now, but when I need her, just like Blanche (her mom), she is there for me. In her weakness and in her strength, so many lessons. Miss you, Mama. Love, Amer
Message in a Bottle
For the first time in years
(and so welcome, this occasion)
seated across the kitchen table with Mom.
For the first time in years
(since I had headed west for a spell)
she was not drunk – not even tipsy.
There was a message in
the absence of a gin bottle on that table…
Gordon’s had been her steadfast companion
Now we sat and looked each other in the eye
“Amy,” she said kindly, “there’s a scratch in your voice.
You need to stop smoking pot.”
For the first time in years,
we spoke singer to singer, our voices had always been
our beauty, our careers, our all.
“I sobered up,” she said slowly, “cold turkey.”
It was true – too ashamed to go to a clinic,
knowing so many people in town.
Dad had gone to her door several times each day,
listening to the retching, passing in black coffee
and soda crackers for a solid two weeks.
But for me, quitting a joint a day was easy.
And so the message was clear: No more bottle for her,
no more buds in Buglers for me. Saved my life, she did.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My second April “Poem A Day,” which I am posting at Writer’s Island as well as here. Check out more poets at the Island and at Poetic Asides, which offers a prompt a day as well. Sitting in a cafe, trying to balance our checkbook (and only off by a couple thousand dollars right now…), this came to me. And thus, the clicking on the keys stopped and the lovely, organic scritch-scratch of pencil on paper began… Amy
The Revolving Balance
Balancing finances, fell off wire
Landed in mesh, entwined in string
as random numbers bounced about the calculator
Makes no sense, these dollars
Balancing meds, try not to trip
by “missing” highs and skipping dosages
or using other yummies to alter mood
My hold on the pole determines my dynamics
Balancing “mad at government” with happy home
Guilt over our plenty, while others starve
Well, radiation got to the Midwest – we’re sharing that a bit
It snowed yesterday. He said, “Look, honey, nuclear winter.”
I have to laugh at depressing thoughts to keep my balance
despite the fact the Gilbert Gottfried tweets tastelessly
despite our struggle to bolster union and human rights
despite Japan, Katrina, the Gulf, the war, and rumors of more
Balance is a gift from God bestowed through vessels:
Doctors, friends, therapists
my church family, my FAMILY family,
and by patience in the process of breathing… of being
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For April Poem A Day, I have decided to post to Writer’s Island and to go off prompts for the month, for the most part, and delve into poetry I’ve written over the past couple of years that has yet to see the light of day.
The Man Who Became An Island
Withholding his thoughts;
withdrawing day by day, floating away toward the sea
She stood by, calling him back away from shore,
back to this world,
the real world.
But he was “expanding from within,”
convinced that no one else could comprehend
his power, his vision, his wisdom.
“You are all ants,” he proclaimed,
“scurrying around a hill, dragging crumbs,
while I am destined for a higher purpose.”
He pulled in every corner of his being and
drew it around him into a cocoon of bizarre grandeur.
An island.
And later, as psychosis grabbed him by the throat,
a whole ‘nother planet.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Two – count ’em – TWO limericks (R.J. Clarken is rubbing off on me, clearly – and that’s a good thing, as you can tell by my sidebar, I Love These Poets, where she is listed under Light Verse) for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter K. And neither of them mention the Kama Sutra!! Amy
Kow-Tow Boogie (ABC Wednesday, K)
To Madison Tea Party’s credit
They found out Scott Walker “don’t get it”
At first they did guard
this greedy blowhard
And now they admit they regret it!
Knowledge = Power
G.E. pays no corporate tax
Yes, these are the cold and hard facts
But lawyers finessed
to have G.E. blessed
with two billion in gov’ment kickbacks
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Well, a poet named honey haiku started a new (not exclusively haiku) prompt, The Eyelet Review, so I decided to try it out. It seems to be “any forms, anything” for now, at least, but I used the lovely portrait she employed for her poem, “Dalliance,” and tried a different twist. Hope honey likes it!
It's all about role-playing!
Masquerade
Here we are again
Frolicking with no end in sight
This week, we decided to go Bodice-Ripper
and recline here in the woodland
posing as for a portrait
I’ll bet no one would guess
my wicker basket is filled with
chocolates and brandy
crackers and cheese
and several edible condoms!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Carry On Tuesday, they got us started with a line from an ABBA song: “I saw it in the mirror/I saw it in my face…”
A different take, probably, but the up side of depression is that you see yourself in different ways on different days. This morning, my mirror offered me what follows. Tomorrow I’ll be 23 at heart again, I hope! Amy
In The Mirror
I saw it
In the mirror, I saw it
In my face, the lines
small nicks around my lips
the ditch between my brows
just south of silver streaks
I saw it
In the mirror, I saw it
In my face, the years I
have traveled struggled ached limped through
now etched and spray painted
in my face, on my head
I saw it
In the mirror, I saw it
On my body, the sags
the planes once firm
the skin once smooth
now giving way to time
I saw it
In the mirror, I saw it
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This poem is an erasure. I leafed through the Madison Chronicle’s front section, chose four stories (hence the four stanzas), and picked words out in order but at random to form a prose poem (free form). There is another site, Erasures, which offers many paragraphs from famous authors, inviting you to click around and erase (or replace) words to create your own poem. I felt the topics in this particular paper calling to me. Peace, Amy
Monday, March 28 News
Man dumped still bleeding from car
at hospital died, believe stabbed at intersection.
Officials put two plus two together,
the fight nearby minutes before.
Gov. Walker’s budget would cripple network,
force police to close connections,
connect the dots.
“It would be like, you got a horse,
next week a mule,” said the chief. “It
could hurt the network Google.”
Japan’s nuclear plant dismissed,
an associated show. Confidence prompted
overly optimistic Earth,
the level of fury pushing to multiple meltdowns.
Ample waves before and again, clear
important network plates strongly coupled,
storing extra stress.
Weakened minor still around her apartment
but sometimes on her own fell to emergency.
The organ couldn’t matter; that can be
common among the residents,
a service to spring through.
Suffer in silence, afraid, falsely advancing, inevitable.
“It’s fun to hit a waitress as she lay on the floor.”
Help her. Step right up.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings posted a new prompt today: Nearly. Gov. Scott Walker, can you feel fate breathing down your neck? We are a peaceful group of protesters, no matter how FOX spins it… no matter how many of your cronies plant bullets on the lawn of the Capitol Dome… no matter how long you hide in your office (except when you weasel out to address groups of white businessmen in black silk suits). We are here. We are NEAR. Get over it. Your time in office is almost up!
Nearly There (Madison, WI)
So close I can sense it
So strong, its pulse
So long, its road
So loud, its roar
Freedom is near
Freedom from overbearing robber barons
Freedom from locked and chained Capitol doors
Freedom from the stifling of public discourse
He’s in power for now
He’s almost gone
He knows his hour has come
He hears the word “impeachment” ring, a clarion call
The people of Wisconsin will not be silenced
The people of Wisconsin will not be trampled
The people of Wisconsin will not abandon unions
The people of Wisconsin have only begun to fight
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides wanted “spring” poems; Sunday Scribblings asked for “free.” A twofer! Amy
FREE AS A BOUNCING BIRD
Up – flying free
Down – springing back
Up by my toes
Down – springing back
Up, heaven knows
Down – springing
Up but not so well
Down – splat! on my fanny
Up a little
Down, Up, Down, spring, sprang, sproing – whew!
Trampoline
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/ Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 