My dear friend George emailed me a link with recent pictures from The Strand, one of many grand old theatres in our hometown of Binghamton, NY. Those images inspired this poem. Thanks, George!
THE STRAND THEATRE, BINGHAMTON, NY
She was what they used to call A Grande Dame:
Stately, opulent, inspiring awe and delight.
Follow me back in time…
Look up: Tiffany crown.
Look down: Plush carpet.
Look around: Roomy seats, wide stage, velvet curtain, affording itinerant vaudevillians room to slay ‘em with a joke (told 2,380 times from Omaha to Syracuse, but here, heard by fresh ears, rewarded with belly laughs).
Room for dancers to tap sway meringue swing do their thing.
Singers thrived on the Strand’s perfect acoustics.
As with all perfect miracles on earth,
vaudeville died,
and She, the stately Grande Dame,
found her spacious stage usurped by a screen.
Movies drifted from Keaton to Talmadge
Robert Taylor to Rod Taylor
to Johnny Rodd (“Deep Throat played there;
the Art Theatre was deemed too small,
its floor sticky with patrons’ souvenirs)
Eventually, like even the gamest of girls,
she was abandoned.
Now she’s a shell of her former shined and
shimmering self, laid low by scavengers
and an abortive attempt at plastic surgery.
But within, her heart beats in steady memories.
Echoes of Liberace, who packed the house
(winking at fawning old ladies and
joking about his brother George).
Echoes of Ish Kabibble and Hugh Herbert,
leaving ‘em in stitches.
Echoes of the pit band, all local musicians
earning a decent living doing what they loved.
Echoes of singers whose names are remembered
only by a cloud of witnesses floating in
a plaster-dust atmosphere
or written on peeling wallpaper.
A strand of pearls, unstrung, save in our hearts.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is a poem from my first, self-published chapbook, DANCE GROOVE FUNHOUSE, available now! Read details to the right to order one for yourself! (Shameless self-promotion) Amy
THE LARK
SATURDAY MORNING
Lazing after lush, lazy sleep I am
awakened by a lark
perched beneath my bedroom window
serenading me of the day to come
Thank you, God, for this blessing
the wakeup call from heaven
Birdsong on a Saturday morning
LATE SUNDAY NIGHT
Working 9-5
Long into the night, I tossed and turned 3 a.m.
again
The alarm will grant me 6:45
Then it starts
That stinking bird
Sackful of crap that will undoubtedly be dispensed
on my windshield
If only I had
an airgun
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My old friend George is about to embark on a journey most of us would envy… the kind where, when we’re old and sitting in a nursing home with a bib catching our drool, we rasp, “I should’ve done that, taken that trip, dropped it all and gone off to discover why I’m here and what life could have been.”
He stopped off for a last visit with Lex and me before liftoff. I scribbled these lines in hopes that he has a safe voyage and finds what he’s looking for… or it finds him! Godspeed, my courageous brother.
AND SO, HE GOES
Can there be
a better place
than what’s around the bend?
Goodbye once again,
and cramming into
his car, fairly brimming with
all the necessities.
A few luxuries:
DVDs to play once there
Sojourning toward Someday,
Will it end,
this road, this exquisite journey?
Or will he
touch down lightly
where peace and love collide?
Where he feels
alive at last.
At present, tense – but future…
Don’t give up
on these dreams
of belonging in the world.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Story from my days as a single mother in a mostly married city… Amy
WOMEN, WOMAN
In a sea of Marthas
she remained the Magdalene
Neither wanton, nor wayward, still
different, misunderstood
Her gestures of sisterhood
looked upon as threats by
the many married mommies
who kept their men on short leashes, well-heeled
Had they taken time
to listen to her thoughts
How she cared for their town
How she admired their ability to maintain stability
They might have warmed to her
But women are women, and
wives are wives, gathered in hives
And single mothers lead separate lives
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This came from a “wordle,” a group of words you can form into a block of art; to create one yourself, click HERE.
Thanks to whichever poet’s blog contained the block (and I apologize that you remain anonymous, I was all over the place today). I can’t reproduce it here, but all the words from the block are in bold. Enjoy! Amy
FIRST TIME (wordle)
Smoldering like an ash-pit and
lush with promise, but
clunky teenage moves
His one hand, awake, cupped my breast
The other was passed out under my back
then resurfaced to hold my head for
a quick nibble at that well-hung boy
The First Time
The Lune is an American variation on haiku. The form is: Five syllables, three, five. I don’t often delve into forms, so here are a few for your enjoyment. Hope none of you got trampled in the “Black Friday” creation of every big box store known to humankind. Don’t fall for the hype – give to a charity in your family’s name. I guarantee you a merrier Christmas with simply stuffing the stockings! Amy
SOME KELLY LUNES
HOLY SPIRIT
Calming is her voice
Sofia
She, Divine Wisdom
—————————
HAPPY POVERTY
To be rich like some
No, thank you
Angst, grasping worry
—————————
EMBRACE
Softly his calm arms
enclose me
in safe, serene warmth
————————-
IVORY WISDOM
Of eighty-eight keys
Middle C
is the foundation
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Hey, it’s Thanksgiving. Probably no better time to talk about freedoms (and lack of same) in our country. Oh – and if you’re flying this weekend, please, don’t wear Speedos at the security counter! Your country thanks you for your discretion. (LOL) Amy
MENDING OLD GLORY
Our country is bowed, not broken
no matter that Rush and Glenn nay-say
The president erred when he trusted
that Congress believed in fair play
But lobbyists hold all the power
and companies claim their “free speech”
As long as control’s made of dollars
no president can heal the breach
Let’s face it: We all are Americans
regardless what party we choose
So please show this president loyalty
that goes with the reds, whites, and blues
And if you are drawn to militias
just know that you make no sense, just noise
When Bush was in, we didn’t run out of words
So holster your guns, there, cowboys
Our country was founded on precepts
like freedom, rights, and education
If one is in chains, then no one is free
Remember that – you’ll heal our nation
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The shadorma is a Spanish form of poetry, following a specific structure. I have always felt limited by forms because it felt like stuffing sausage – only so many words, syllables, etc., per line. During this semi-sabbatical from daily posting to Poetic Asides, I have allowed myself room to breathe, and some of those breaths have drawn forms into my being. Weird, huh?
To find out more about a variety of forms, visit Poetic Asides and scroll down to Robert’s list. Click on the links and try writing some yourself. Amy
TREASURE (a shadorma)
Her treasured
not measured in jewels
nor by money
but in love
demonstrated by sharing
all she had
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
YESTERDAY TODAY TOMORROW
Last night slumped in an armchair
A barely lucid lump of woman
Juiced up on cough syrup to quell
the oncoming bronchial nasties
This morning, hastily dressing for church
Chipper, ready to play both carols
and hipper tunes for kids as they
pieced together ornaments for the church’s tree
Tomorrow is whatever it will be
Be it fancy free or down in the dumps
Crummy weather or fair smattering of sun, it’s still
the gray matter under my gray hair that gets the final say
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 