ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “J.” True story, but didn’t happen until this past Thursday… and then Lex had two days off, so we frolicked in the temperate Madison sunshine. After the tumult worldwide (and the homegrown union-busting in the US), I thought a little chuckle was in order. Amy
Just One Morning
Joe, the church secretary,
must journey to NYC to
justify his (jeez, I don’t know,
a dissertation or some such jazz)
Jolly ol’ me jumps in; Joe shows me the job.
Piece of cake – I’d jumped these hoops before
as a journey(wo)man administrative assistant
(or as we joked, Admin Ass).
Day of jamboree: paper jam,
juggling jangling phones,
jelly-side down sandwich
on the just-laid carpet.
Jupiter’s rings spin round my jugular
(nerves – blood racing, a Jaguar on the 1-90).
Then seasonal allergies
roll jujube junk out my nose
Jehovah is nonetheless pleased:
I jumped and jimmied
despite the jinx and goop –
but I didn’t invoke Jesus’ name once!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Carry On Tuesday gave us an interesting prompt: Somewhere within our poem, we were supposed to use the phrase, “But that is the beginning of a new story.” I decided to write an account – only the names and genders of kids have been changed – of an actual story, told to Buffalo’s DIVA by DIVA: A Celebration of Women, a group of “gals” who glitz up and tell stories, sing songs, and raise funds for Cornerstone Manor, run by a wonderful woman named in the poem.
Learn more about Cornerstone Manor, and maybe even throw a few bucks their way! Trust me, it’s worth every penny you can spare: CLICK HERE.
Gimme Shelter
Two girls with this man, and he let her bring her boy into the family.
He was so righteous (at first), so good with her son (before the whippings),
and kind to the girls (she caught him, that was the breaking point).
He had been the answer to her every prayer, the man of her dreams.
Now she realized that, with some prayers, the devil tends to
listen in on the party line, get in on the action.
Nowadays he nightly, neatly folded up their clothes, seized their shoes,
and put them under lock and key before going out to party every night.
This ensured his family would be there when he decided to come home.
This night, she could only see with the one eye not swollen shut.
He shut her up real good before slamming the door behind him
and going out to party with who knows who, who knows where.
Her son, still awake, said, “Mom, enough, OK?”
He’d tried to pry them apart; now, blood dripped slowly
down his chin, like a leaky faucet. He’d tried his best.
He was just sprouting his first proud whiskers and
thought he could take on The Big Man, but he found out
it wasn’t gonna happen. Not this year. He hugged his mother.
So they woke up the girls, wrapped themselves in bedsheets,
pried open the side window, and climbed out. Their feet fell
into three inches of Buffalo February, brutal snow and ice.
Mom carried baby Keesha and her son offered Kendra
a piggy back ride, sacrificing his own natural speed
to take on the growing five-year-old as his load.
They made their way to the women’s shelter two miles away.
Mom rang the bell and Dr. Laura (not that woman on the radio, thank God)
hustled them inside and drew the blinds. She called for help.
Soon, they were covered in blankets; their feet were washed
in warm water (Jesus washed his disciples’ feet). Injuries were
tended to (when I was sick…) and clothing found (when I was naked…).
This shelter for battered women and children had no scheduled
“date of departure”; families left when they were ready. In days to come,
the girls let go of some of the trauma and began to play with others.
Her son enrolled in a new middle school, hoping
he could stay under the radar and not be found by his stepdad.
And if found, he vowed not to give up his mom’s location.
Mom chats with her peers – they’ve all been there. Now they
begin classes on computers; they are coached for interviews
and given donated professional clothes for a new start.
These miracles are the blessings of Cornerstone Manor.
She found work downtown. Soon, her survival skills showed
a unique talent for relating to others facing trouble.
“What about social work?” she thought, as she leafed through
pamphlets for local community education programs.
But that is the beginning of a whole new story…
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Last chance for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “I.” Please know that I don’t believe ALL Tea Party members are misinformed racist birther idiots. Just most of them. My only prejudice: bigots! My only problem is with a marked insistence on a refusal to learn throughout one’s lifetime. Amy
Ill-Informed
“If he indeed isn’t Indonesian, we insist he prove it.”
(“Was Hawaii an individual state back then? I wonder…”)
“If you’re an ideal American, display flag insignias,
fly Old Glory in front of your home in sun, in rain, in inky night.”
(Incorrect, incidentally; in fact, improper. But
idiots don’t listen.)
Ignorant, imbued with INSTANT TRUTH
(inscribed illegibly on a chalkboard).
Instilled with self-righteousness by
spiritually insulated evangelists.
Illiterate, or might as well be, when introduced
to a newspaper.
Insisting they already know – don’t confuse them with
intelligently researched facts, in-depth analysis.
Ignorance is bliss. Idyllic idiots.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A last gasp for Three Word Wednesday, here at my computer on Monday morning! This is an “Amy: The Lost Years” SoCal poem. Remember… and learn. Amy
Mellow Times (3WW: Mellow, Breeze, Tickle)
Mellow times, man, those days
that stretched into nights into
breakfast served up by Ruby.
Stoned to a stupor, we’d loop-de-loop our way
into that café at daybreak. The breeze held
a lingering languor of cannibestest ever.
It tickled my throat, but instead of a cough,
it coaxed from me a bawdy chorus of
“Gimme A Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer,”
right there on Brooks Court as we
sidewindedly search for that java and huevos rancheros.
Hash brown mornings, hash pipe nights.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings gave us a simple prompt: Free. Also, Writer’s Island gave us Inseparable. So this is a twofer. Amy
A Mother’s Ferocious Love
Trapped like animals in their jungle village.
Strapped one to another: Young mother, daughter and son.
Shoved into ships, below deck,
so cramped, no room to stand.
The voyage was grueling.
Thin gruel was their mainstay.
These white masters with their whips at the ready
as steadily, her people died of fever and starvation.
The sound of the whippings, the whimpering.
Her son, finally succumbed to the wasting disease.
Now, as she wondered whether this boat would ever find land,
and she herself felt gripping pain in her gut.
Up on deck for the hosing down,
she clutched her baby girl in her arms,
inched her way to the rail and, in an instant,
they were both overboard, taken by the sea.
Her son had already been given to the water
after his death, tossed over like garbage.
At least now she and her baby girl would join the boy,
inseparable forever, engulfed in the endless waters. Free.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This takes some explanation. To begin with, my generation has a problem with the word “queer.” It ranks up there with the “n” word and the 6-letter “f” word in our sense of disparagement of people who have to work much harder in this world, controlled as it is by white, straight men.
Joseph Harker, one of my favorite poets (see his blog on “Poets I Love”), posted to a prompt to “answer” a poet of yore. He chose Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We So Cool” with an interpretation that included the word “queer.” My daughter, Riley/Laura, taught me that I am the first to chide people for “not changing,” and that since she identifies as “gender queer,” I will have to adapt. So my understanding of the queer world (and well as the “Q” word) has indeed expanded. Parents, it’s not always YOU teaching your kids – it goes both ways!
Then someone posted a homophobic rant about “Village People” and damnation, so I replied in a poem, riffing off Joseph. Long explanation – loaded with controversy – I welcome any and all comments on this one.
You Are Queer (with love to Gwendolyn Brooks and Joseph Harker)
You are queer. You
are dear. You
live free. You
please me. You
speak out. You
whisper, shout. You
are loud. You
are proud. You
were dates. You
find mates. You
live longer. You
grow stronger. You
catch hate. You
know fate. You
are shoved. You
are loved.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Three Word Wednesday, we were given the words, Breeze, Mellow, and Tickle. I’m posting two! Amy
Tickle of Spring
Wisconsin weather’s fickle,
so imagine my surprise
when a new-sprung weed did tickle my bare legs below my thighs.
The season’s first red robins
were singing in the trees
as waking wisps of summer
hummed softly in the breeze.
There’s nothing quite so mellow
as an overture to summer…
but lest a blizzard interrupt,
the shovel stays put. Bummer!
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “I.” No better time to remember the victims, both dead and slowly dying, in Sendai and other towns in Japan. No better time to rethink our “commitment” to nuclear power, an option that is doomed to fail us at some point. Remember Oppenheimer: “I am become death.” Remember Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Remember shirt designs tattooed onto human bodies. Remember Karen Silkwood (RIP). Remember GREED.
Most importantly: Remember, no man who owns a nuclear power plant has ever lived anywhere nearby. Amy
Isolation
Island, inland,
isotopes, infrared.
Indelible images on the Internet.
If it implodes
the industry, intended to provide
immense power (ideological and industrial)
will implode as well.
Iodine pills, dispersed like incoming radiation.
Imperious platitudes; empirical attitudes (inferred)
Impossible to end nuclear power?
I intend to work to that end, in spite of industry.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 