Worries tether the gut
crowd the diaphragm
from the great I am
We “feel in in our gut”
A gut feeling to avoid
that thug, that drug,
that way of lesser angels
The gut guides and
cautions us when we
need unspoken advice
God guides our gut
“The Gut Is a Lonely Hunter”
would not have sold many copies
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Prelude to a Nightmare (a nocturne)
I remember bedtime prayers to Him
Resting in peace until
lifted on devil’s wings
by another Him and hidden
No cry in darkness,
only strangled fear
stifled invasion of trust
Today, I still pray
He rests in peace now
No longer do I fear
his dry hands, betrayal
Lifted on angel’s wings
Cry of forgiveness
in the blessed peace
of moonlit prayer
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image through Wikimedia Commons: This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
PTSD isn’t just for veterans, people who survived 9/11, or Katrina and Oklahoma victims. Night terrors and phobias often plague adults who were sexually abused as children. Years of therapy led me to the path of forgiveness. Dad no longer controls me, and my prayers at night always include him, for all the good things he taught me, including a love of words and poetry.
The rest is out there in a bubble, outside my body and my psyche, yet available for inspection, now that I’m stronger.
This was written for Kim’s prompt at Poets United (I remember…) and also for Kerry’s “Nocturne” prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
Is there anything sweeter
than baby Cale at the baptismal font?
Mama hands him off to the pastor;
this child makes no fuss.
Once, twice, thrice
crossed on the forehead with water;
even as it drips down his nose to his chin,
he takes it all in stride.
And when the congregation applauds
this new member of our church,
Cale doesn’t cry. Doesn’t even blink.
He looks as though he expected the ovation!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At We Write Poems, we were asked to write about a guardian angel. I have always known mine, but in this particular circumstance, I do believe she nearly saved my life. Filed under “Amy: The Lost Years.”
Who Did I Hear?
We’re hangin’ out back
in a converted garage
that is tacky but serves
as a home, for now.
Rafters overhead hold
mic stands that belong to
The New Riders of the Purple Sage
(I can’t make this stuff up).
I’m comfy on a couch but
suddenly extremely thirsty.
Someone offers me a beer
from the lukewarm coffin,
but I need something cold.
RIGHT AWAY. Can’t say
what’s in my brain, but I
jump up and go out the door.
Two seconds later, CRASH!
And looking at the couch
where I was sitting moments before,
a mic stand had fallen, base first.
If you ever lifted one of those suckers,
you know they’re damned heavy,
plus it shattered a framed picture
on its way to my former nest.
Something, someone told me,
YOU NEED TO MOVE NOW.
Must have been my grandma Blanche,
who knew all about brain trauma…
…and the need for a really cold beer.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil