It was just a little box made of popsicle sticks, painted with Cotillion Pink nail polish, with a shell glued to the top, lined with cloth. But for Mom, it was a treasure because I made it just for her.
THE PRECIOUS BOX
My mother’s “precious box” held sentimental doodads
The box was left to me when she died
Inside were Grandma’s fake diamond screwback earrings
(“Real ladies” didn’t pierce their ears in those days)
Grandpa’s ring, raw turquoise set in carved silver
Girl Scout leader pins, Dad’s cufflinks
A clip-on box tie from Mom’s singing days
And a skeleton key, antique silver, dim patina
For years I’ve pondered what lock would respond; where the “open sesame” lay
A room in a past apartment, the front door to a secret house?
A desk filled with dusty volumes of Kipling and Whitman
Perhaps a cache of cash?
Somewhere there is a house, a door, a drawer
Whose treasures will remain hidden
Because I hold in my palm
The answer to a question
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We were prompted to write about a fork in the road; a change in direction; a crossroads, and the path taken – or not taken.
As usual, I took a different path… on the prompt! Enjoy a bit of whimsy. Amy
SILVER WHERE (Writer’s Island, Imagine)
Humid sultry unbearable walking-through-hot-water August midday
Trying to catch even the echo of a slight breeze
Wandering in the shade trees of Topanga Canyon
A glint
A glimmer of shiny something
half-hidden under leaves blown to the side of the road
during yesterday’s languidly moving air
A fork
Did someone toss it out the window with their takeout Chinese
forgetting that it came from a drawer in their home
(the ants feast on leftover Boiled Tripe and Things in a nearby discard0
Was there a fight and it was flung in a rage? From a moving car?
Or was it Julia Butterfly Hill, who takes environmentalism so seriously
she packs knife, fork, spoon, napkin, cup, and plate in her handbag
lest she be served on styrofoam with plastic utensils
Did her legendary self wander this road? Did the fork get tired of wandering?
Did it share tearful, tarnish-inducing goodbyes
with her fellow knife and spoon
before skinnying out a hole in the bottom of Julia’s bag?
The fork is with me today; I shine it often and smile at happenstance
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
We were asked to conduct an interview… here is one conversation I would love to have. Amy
A SEEKER SPEAKS TO THE MAGDALENE (Interview, Big Tent)
(Seeker) To witness your Lord
hanging on that cross
Bloodied, his voice parched
Can you see it, even now?
(Mary Magdalene) Waving crows off his face
lest they peck out his eyes
That vision is burned into my mind
My heart is crushed again and again
(S) They called you crazy
A whore and more
So afraid of you, the men
threw out your Gospel
(MM) Over the years, I was
discredited, my story edited
Details tacked on me
like cheap jewels, it’s true
(S) You used your wealth
to finance the ministry
You learned to heal
Trained, same as the men
(MM) But men had the power
Freer to travel alone in the world
I tried to teach, but without the Rabbi
they berated me
(S) We know your strength, sister
You risked your life to find his grave
He revealed his risen self to you first
You never ran away to hide
(MM) Women are the bearers and keepers
Women understand risk
We bleed; we heal; we wait
We love; we are patient, like the Spirit
(S) Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
The Epistles of Paul
The Revelation of John
But no Gospel of the Magdelene
(MM) I was left out of the Bible
But I don’t need that validation
The Divine Sofia, the Spirit of Wisdom spoke
Her voice is true… I am content with love
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Another Sunday Scribblings prompt on the “life swap” theme. I’ve always marveled at women who really had it together. I’m of the frazzled variety, and coming from a show business family, I wondered about those amazing corporate women who make their way in “a man’s world.” So this is a composite of several women I know – not quite Joan Crawford, not quite Eve Arden, but somewhere in between…
A Woman of Distinction
The woman is serenely composed
as she glides through the office
Her confidence, no disguise
No butterflies occupy her stomach
as she presents the new marketing plan
She’s well turned out, head to toe
Tastefully dressed, impeccably accessorized
The uniform of the sincerely driven
She’s punctual, tactful, precise
Respected by all in every way
She fears neither boss nor client
Her work ethic exceeds that of the CEO
One day, she will occupy his corner office
He told her as much over scotch and water
in the Executive Dining Room last week
Never had to sleep her way to the top
Worked hard to climb the corporate ladder
Started as an associate in Accounts
She knows the names of everyone
from the elevator guy to the whole cleaning crew
Raised by a single mother on the Lower East Side
They were always reading, writing, creating, talking
Mama showed her daughter how to get along with anyone
and now the little girl, grown up, repays the debt
as her mother basks in the Florida sun, a phone call away
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
We were challenged at Sunday Scribblings to write about swapping lives with someone. I thought about my childhood hero… and what happened along the way! Key of E-flat, if you please…
Barbra Streisand, Only Protestant
I knew I wanted to be
just like Barbara Streisand
when I was six, watching TV
Her voice, her style, her smile, and
her larger-than-life persona
completely captured me
I declare to Mom, “I’m gonna
sing like that, you wait and see”
To grow a Cleopatra nose
a neo-classic profile
To sing in high-class Broadway shows
with quirky, campy style
As Barbra aged, my interest waned
Her voice too perfect, shrill
Her long nails screamed “I’m awfully vain”
I lost the Barbra thrill
We girls have our heroes, true
And mine was quite outrageous
But I became a writer, too
Accessible, contagious
No beefy bodyguards on call
No need to lock my door
Without that fame, I’ve found my all
and still have work in store
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Another take on that lovely word, Imagine. Most of us fly in our dreams – sometimes it seems quite real…
FREE FLIGHT (Writer’s Island, Imagine)
Wandering into the enchanted field
petting daisies, grazing the tips of
grasses grown wild and tall
She centers herself
gripping damp ground with her toes
Eyes close and her face turns skyward
Arms rise from her sides and she
wills her body to follow
Heels peel off the earth, then her toes
Opening her eyes, she is just off the ground
hovering, delighted, a featherweight being
Now comes the real work
She launches into a vertical breaststroke
slowly, loving the feel of her fingers moving through
humid air as though along a pond
The field is far below her now; her house is
a Lego-sized block. She levels off her ascent
and pushes farther into the atmosphere
Over hills, touching the tops of Douglas firs
Swooping down over the river, she waves to
kids swimming on the lakeshore
Look, they whisper, Why don’t our parents
believe us? She doesn’t wait for night
She take flight when we can watch her
But the grownups are too busy, away from the
places in nature where she can be spied
so only children are inspired to try and fly
Someday, she muses, I will have a daughter
and we will take a night flight, hand in hand, close to
the harvest moon, as fireflies light the way
And when we’ve had enough of airborne travel
we’ll come to rest on our own roof
feet dangling over the eaves. Wondering, laughing
How many are blessed with the power of flight?
She doesn’t know, but thinks it must be very few
for she’s never seen another in all her travels
Her mother taught her the secret: Let go of the world
let the air fill you up past your lungs, so deeply
that you are the air. Let go and be free
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
We were asked to think about the word Imagine in all its guises. This is the first of two.
DAY OF SILENCE (Writer’s Island, Imagine)
If a single day
could be set aside
for silence
For contemplations
No TV, no radio
no voices
Expressing ourselves only
with our faces and eyes
Opening our souls
Experiencing neighbors, friends
without the burden of words
Our eyes alone would speak
A day for books
for walks, to listen as Nature
had her say
A true Sabbath
One day set aside to remember
who we are to one another
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
At Poetic Asides, we’re filling in the blanks: “The Meaning Of _______”
THE MEANINGS OF SUMMERTIME
At three, summertime meant
my sisters stayed home all day
We’d play together, the whole neighborhood
Every mom our mom, watching over us
At five, summertime meant
No more Kindergarten
No more snacks or naptime giggles
I missed my new friends and wondered about first grade
At eight, summertime meant
a nice, long vacation
Swimming in the backyard
Sneaking sips of beer at Mom’s jazz parties
At twelve, summertime meant
the awakening of my body, my first cramps
Denied the pool because I couldn’t navigate tampons
and Mom didn’t want to talk about it
At sixteen, summertime meant
School friends would drive out to see me, the country mouse
I didn’t have to miss them all summer
Backgammon with my best friend John til dawn
At twenty-five, summertime meant
lots of gigs – weddings, bar mitzvahs
Sweating out Village piano bars for extra cash
Saving money because August is dead in the City
At thirty-four, summertime meant
Puerto Rican beaches with my baby girl
Her first swims were off the shore, in my arms
We were always salty, sweating, smiling
At forty-nine, summertime meant
hard times for my girl as she
battled disturbing trends of mindset
She, solitary; me, worried; doctors, experimenting
Now it’s my fifties and summertime means
Hot flashes accentuate the humidity
My days are my own and so is my illness
Tricking myself into getting outside for sunshine
No matter the person, summertime means
different pleasures at different ages
different pressures at different ages
Seasons are like mood swings, summertime having the advantage of sun
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
THE ESSENCE OF DEPRESSION
there was a time, long ago
yesterday
when i thought it was wasn’t worth it
this living thing
so hard to catch my breath
standing in one place slackjawed, staring
forcing, willing myself – one step, then another
finally achieving the second floor
but why did i come up here?
something about cleaning or laundry or
taking a nap instead – then be up all night writing
ceiling fan whirling overhead my only company
But this morning I woke up and was alive all day
Wrote letters, paid some bills
Crafted poems, worked on my blog
Went outside for an actual walk
My neighbor was mowing her lawn
The scent filled me with memories of our yard when I was a kid
Lying in the grass next to the wildflower riot
of the Back Forty, past the carefully mown grass
Queen Anne’s Lace, milkweed, sumac
Timothy grass, pussywillows, wild lilac trees
Black-eyed Susans swaying flirtatiously
As a light rain fell in a rainbow mist
The colors of the yard after the shower let up
Golden light cast stark afternoon shadows
Grass glowed lemon-lime
The indomitable magnolia bush was ablaze
I lay on my belly
Inspecting Indian Paintbrush and
Wild violets, small miracle of
Haphazard, brilliant, fulsome Nature
We could leave our bikes in anybody’s yard
Dogs belonged to all of us, and we belonged to them
Everything seemed possible then
And today, it still does
When the dark days hit
I accept them for what they are
I am familiar by now with the depths
I can see in the dark, dimly
I cannot smell the fresh-cut grass
From that distant place
I can’t roll in wildflowers
Those things are out of reach, cut off
But not forever – it only feels that way
Hang out hang in hang on
It will slough off like snake skin
Scaly, dead, useless
And I will emerge reborn
Senses awakened, songs of life
Reverberating, a chord struck
From deep within
© Amy Barlow Liberatore, 2010, Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides prompt. This is what happens when you spend three hours at Barnes and Noble, sipping cappuccino and reading Pablo Neruda love poems!
THE MEANING OF SILK STOCKINGS
Shiny satin garter belts with buttons and clasps
The sexiest, most alluring of fashion details
Stockings that slack a bit during the day
reminding her of their silky selves undercover
Tantalizing tug of war under her skirt
She never knew sensuality until she abandoned L’eggs
and smoothed sheer silk over
sturdy, smoothly shaved legs
Rolling the first carefully over calf and thigh
Easing the hem over the button
latching it securely, then
the other leg, this time more slowly
Later, on the dance floor, he hand on her hip
His eyes flash and she knows that he knows
What’s in store for the rest of the evening
It makes the wait agonizing bliss
He carefully eases the dress off, purring
with the subtle confidence of a true lover
His delight in the details of her undergarments
His appreciation of her shape, her way
Finding the treasure beneath
first teasing, pleasuring, then
slowly, cautiously unwrapping her
an undulating, whispering bundle of lace and linen
No awkward peeling back of pantyhose
She is old-school, The Book of Betty (Grable, Page, and Boop)
He leafs tenderly through the endless pages of her body
The journal of her journey to this timeless moment
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
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