Artwork © Amy Barlow Liberatore
Wisconsin Winter Weather
Weather winces
Wisconsinites, whether
winkled or wrinkled
Why would we winter
where winds’re
wild, wooly?
Woven, wistful warmth within
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, as well as ABC Wednesday – this week, of course, the letter W! “Amy Bawwo Wiberatowe”
He’s Gone (for George)
He’s a bust-my-buttons hello
A faithful friend; we’ve
weathered some shitstormish eras
when nothing made sense
(save ourselves and
our good opinion of each other)
The kind of friend you can hug
and not let go
and know
it never has to get weird
The one who understands
the digressions of an alcoholic parent
who is like a child – and can
also laugh at some of the confusion
The one with whom you can
watch movies in total silence
or howl and poke each others’
arms, like “yeah!”
He hit the road again
just now
and I wrote this to remember
He’s a quick-before-we-cry
goodbye
An endless paradox
An understandable conundrum
He’s George
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Some friends you keep forever. After forty years of our friendship and many years of knowing my husband too, George will always be a part of our lives. We should all be so lucky to have someone like that in our lives!
Posted at ABC Wednesday (V is for VISIT!) and in the margins at Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
UNDER THE HARSH
Sleeping on a park bench
Living in a Chevy beater
Winter covers each with
an unwanted blanket of snow
Downtown, shoppers
pay them no mind; while
searching for deep discounts,
they discount these folks
Tonight, under starlight that
sets the frost a-twinkle with
thousands of crystals, remember
Jesus is sleeping under cardboard
not too far from here…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Michael Crawford sings this song with heart, with understanding. May we all remember the homeless during this HOHOHO season of frenzied gift giving, as we fatten our credit card balances buying crap made by child slave labor in China.
For ABC Wednesday, the letter U. Pick one: Underfed, Underemployed, Under stress, Under cardboard boxes. Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
The weasly guy from “Mad Men” and
Demi Moore in drag?! Pass the cranberry sauce!
ThanksGIVing?
Here’s to my Mayflower descendants who
enslaved indigenous people.
Here’s to Wrong-Way Columbus, who
first allowed them to show how to grow food.
(Then he enslaved them.)
Here’s to Columbus Day, which
celebrates the schmuck above.
Of course, there’s always
another side of the Judas coin.
It’s a great day to spend with family,
gorging on food and getting tipsy.
It’s a great day to celebrate the
American version of football.
But this year, 2013, we have
a special treat in store:
Retail workers ripped from their
families to work on pre-Black Friday.
Come to think of it, just about
everything Thanksgiving is BS…
especially what they taught us in school,
that “the Pilgrims” (um, the Settlers)
and the “Indians” (who were here first)
dined together and had lots of fun.
Want to see fun? Take a trip to a local
reservation. And I don’t mean the casino…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At this, the 11th hour, I implore you, DON’T GO SHOPPING ON THANKSGIVING! It’s not fair to the employees. Of course, Lex and I will boycott all the Big Box stores putting this hokum over on America… but at least let the stores be empty on a national holiday. How about it?
And take a moment to pray for “American Indians,” whatever the hell that means. Just because they have casinos doesn’t mean squat – the guys at the top make all the money, after they pay off their Malaysian bakers for funding the building. And that takes years!
For ABC Wednesday, “T,” and “in the margins” at Poets United and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. With hope, Amy
The Migraine Speaks (much to my dismay)
Yes, that ball bearing behind your right eye
It is I
Thief of thoughts
Barbed-wire butchery
Trailing tacks and nails and
prickly pins
I’ll stick in your head
‘til you wish you were dead
I strike with little warning
and lots of retching and tears
and pulling of the blinds
I am your migraine
You are my prisoner
(until the meds kick in)
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I have not shared much in the way of my artwork, but lately I’ve taken up drawing as therapy. The picture above was drawn during a migraine, so it was quite a feat for me.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, plus dverse Open Mic, and ABC Wednesday later this week… “M” is for migraine.
FATHER COMPLEX (Complex Father)
It’s tricky, sticky wicked
That piñata over her head
Follows her night and day and
especially late at night
Waking sweatshivering but
carrying HIS shame, unfair…
Quivering over vague memories or
screaming at every fire alarm,
My house is burning down
(as her young kids cower)
Piñata full of poisoned treats
Candied little deaths
One for every time it happened
It’s chockfreakinfull
Been that way for many
yeasty years, its yaw
occasionally pin-pricked
(precision meets sweaty palms)
but never baseball batted
The conundrum:
If she whacks it, will candy
attack her with what it is?
Will she binge on the bittersweets
and purge up the truth?
Or will the piñata float
over her like a raincloud
Rancid, restless, ever
present
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, the letter being F. Also in the margins at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
For all women who have not gotten to the truth of having been molested as a young child: this type of horror is usually perpetrated by a family member or close friend. For me, it was my dad, so I used him. Hell, he used me enough, why not?
If alarms alarm you to the point of screaming, if the surprise of a lover’s gentle touch makes you jump out of the bed… Think about seeing a therapist, NOT a psychiatrist, cause baby, this chigger can’t be chased away by chugging drugs.
A comprehensive article on the signs pointing to both remembering and finding the way to recovery may be read HERE.
You’ll go through hell in therapy, maybe need a temporary anti-anxiety med, but you just might be rewarded with a life worth living, and kids who are not scared of you, nor embarrassed by your public explosions. Call Samaritan Counseling, they have a sliding scale. And your issue may be something totally different, even a more recent event that still sticks to your muscle sheath memory like Elmer’s Glue.
I have a life thanks to therapy. It does work, if you’re ready to dig deep. Blessings to all, and may this never be visited on ar young person you know… Amy
Video by Matt Logan, used by permission. Worship at the Edge
Lake Edge United Church of Christ, 8-11-13
THE ECSTASY OF EXPRESSION
It’s clear we’re here
for PRIDE celebration
To lift up all living –
Jesus’s exhortation
To love without boundaries
and love all we meet
Good news evident, everywhere
we happened to take a seat
For if there’s not love
in each person’s heart,
what good are the Gospels?
Why even start
to work hard for all people’s
true dignity
Extending to all this
expression of glee
I was born this way
That’s what Gaga sings…
We joined in the dance
and our souls sprouted wings
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Lake Edge United Church of Christ has a “Worship at the Edge” service at 11 each Sunday morning here in Madison. Sometimes, it’s worship WITH an edge… as in this PRIDE Sunday, when Chris, Jennie, Hayley, Peter, and a bunch of co-conspirators flashmobbed the church with Lady Gaga on the overhead! Talk about real ecstasy, a true and lively expression of the Holy Spirit amongst us.
Ray, your talk had me in tears, and bless you for speaking the truth in love. Thanks, Matt Logan, for filming and editing so fast! And Lex, you rock. Not just because you’re my husband… because you’re a pastor who presents God’s extravagant welcome with a rainbow ‘round your shoulders!
This is for E at ABC Wednesday, as well as in the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
Attention! I did an OOPS! Forgot to mention that this poem also appeared on the venerable blog, ABC Wednesday. Thanks to Roger Green for pointing it out, and do follow the link over there to read dozens of posts – poetry, photography, family histories… anything about the letter “B.” Thanks, Amy
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What do you say we take a day off from political rhetoric, especially from cracker Jacks packin’ their pistols in compensation (read yesterday’s comments if you doubt me!). Kim Nelson at Poets United said today, “A good poem feels vivid and visceral and close to the source.” She then challenged us to get close to the source, using flourishes of color and other details to help the poem bloom.
She also suggests we offer one another constructive ideas about how to dig even deeper for that detail, so I look forward to your comments! This is also on the borders of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
Garden Bloomers and Bloopers
Hand in grimy glove, the garden game
Where woman meets Underground and
spies Resistance at every turn
On high, Frying Pan in the Sky flew off
(vacationing in Bermuda, warming
pink coral-shell sand, toasting tourists)
My sandals, cool blue cruisers, propel me
out the screen door (Squeak! It begs,
“Oil me, tend to me, love me too!”)
Horticultural not my forte; rather, my
pianissimo, yet with practice and practical advice,
I’m pure shovel, old wooden rake… and hoe.
A little brown Slimy slithers out to greet me,
kneads dense soil with time-honored intentions,
necessary cog in the nature machine of green
Rousting Brown-Eyed Susans, wilted into
Bruised-Eyed Brown Twigs; they’re sentenced
to the pile “where the worm never dies”
New, preening yellow slim thingamajigs
move into Susan’s former digs. I dig ’em.
Sprinkle ‘em. The rest sinks beneath my control
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Grandma Blanche, Ruth’s mom, and Ruth, “back in the day”
Rasslin’ and Roller Derby with Ruthie
She’s two glasses into
Dad’s homemade saki
and it’s only noon.
“Gettem! Crushem!”
Auntie Ruth, banging on her tray,
rocking her wheelchair with
with fearsome might, and she’s
pretty tight. Saturday Rassling.
“That fight, we shoulda had
money on it, Amer,” she smiles.
I’m 12 and her best companion
since she moved in with the family.
“Where’s the National IN-quirer?”
I wave it and remind her, “First,
Roller Derby, then, the world news.”
Time for Joanie Weston, Amazon.
Old-school roller derby, women
big as fridges scooting, scrapping,
scraped up and bruised. Unlike the
rassling, these girls are out for blood.
“That Joanie must be hell on her husband,”
she snickers, clicking her false teeth.
“One more snort, Amer.” I fill her
punch cup with Dad’s toxic moonshine.
“Ruthie, something tells me Joanie Weston
isn’t married,” I offer. “You remember
Aunt Frank?” Frances, the loner sister in
cowboy boots with a femme friend.
“Yup. You think it’s that way with
Joanie?” I nod assuredly. “Well,” says
Ruthie thoughtfully, “then I hope she has
a nice girlfriend, like Frankie did.” Wink.
Roller Derby ends; Joanie and her team are
victorious once again. “And now,” parking
my sneaks on a table, “The evening news.”
ALIEN MEETS NIXON AT WHITE HOUSE
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Amy’s collection; please do not copy family photos.
Another from Mom’s side of the family, the irrepressible Ruth Stoll, sister of Grandma Blanche Laughlin. Auntie Ruth moved in with us after her 98-year-old mother died. Ruthie would get so potted on saki that all the wooden baseboards were scratched up from bad steering! She was a pistol and kept the whole family hopping, especially on penny-ante poker night (we used the same pennies over and over again and put them back in the cup when we were done).
For ABC Wednesday (R) and my two poetic roller rinks, Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
Before the poem, an announcement: IT’S OFFICIAL! I AM A TOAD! The site where I spent most of April, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, invited me to be one of their circle of 20 poets. I am extremely flattered and thrilled to be included in the Garden with so many wonderful poets. Like Poets United, one must be invited to join, so that’s my BIG ANNOUNCEMENT for, like, the year! Now, on we go…
Queer.
She’s queer and
wants me to
refer to her as
gender queer,
androgynous.
I could do no less
than confess:
My generation has
problems with Queer,
hearing it said in
locker rooms and
school, in sports
and retorts spat at
the skinny boys.
‘Queer’ meant
wrong, bent.
Now it means
the whole LGBT
community.
‘Queer’ has found
immunity.
She told me that
I must embrace change,
dangerous as it seems.
She dreams of
a day when ‘Queer’
simply means
‘Not Straight.’
Apples
to
apples.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday and also to be found on my non-homophobic hangouts, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. It’s a generational thing. I remember gay pride movements in the 70s and 80s, and the cry, “We’re Here! We’re Queer! Get Over It!” Then, the word was still used as a pejorative by straights and closeted LGBTQs. The new generation, those who remember coming home from school on 9/11 like we remember coming home from school the day Pres. Kennedy was shot, have taken that word back, flipped it like a coin, say it with pride.
And I say, “Good on them!” Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 