Zentangled
Doodlers delight in empty margins
Empty spaces need a bit of this and that
My teachers hounded me for scribbling
Riley suffered the same fate in school
Only difference: She became a bone fide artist
while her mom still doodles oodles of oddities
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday is on Z, and I am into Zen tangles just before sleep. Such a calming pursuit, helping me to let go of the day, simply allowing my mind to follow my pencil as it meanders.
I know serious Zen Tanglers work in pen, but you know me… This blog ain’t called Sharp Little Pencil for nothing! Happy New Year and peace, Amy
Scherzo (acrylic poured on canvas) by Suzanne LaFleur, used by permission of artist
Awash
Sprawling surface awaits her first pour
Thirsty for colors to caress
Thick acrylic syrup on parched canvas
Today is a lively melange
Cobalt and crimson, a bit of honey
In her mind, they crackle with life
Red tastes of ripest berries…
That lovely boulangerie last fall
as she lounged by the Seine
Blue, that glass sculpture, sheer perfection
She spent an hour gazing at the world
through its evening light
To be inside her head as she creates…
She is Artiste (Personified)
Effortless, this, while others bend over backwards to
pursue The Image
Her chiffon scarf danced between us
as we glided arm in arm down Julia Street
searching for abstracts, finding
last-minute Basquiats
Too much art, not enough time
New Yorker and European
by taste and by temperament
Awards are nice
but she thrives among others
who, too, hold art as sacred
Glamorous
Glittering
Glorious
Suzanne the Abstract
(c) 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Suzanne LaFleur (yes, do click and see her work!) is another force of nature I met during my stay in New Orleans. She is an award-winning artist specializing in abstract art (like I said, click the link!), a classy-as-hell dame, and possesses that extra oomph one needs to succeed in the arts. I know we will stay in touch, and I look forward to seeing her continue to blossom. I am linking this to ABC Wednesday for X (X-quisite!) and to the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
Folks, I regret not posting this sooner and perusing your blogs, but the Perfect Storm of computer changeover, malware on new computer, and That Old Gray Magic That I Know So Well (winter depression) converged and quite blew me out to sea.
Better days are coming. I look at Suzanne’s art, all your blogs, and know smoother seas are ahead. Peace, Amy
When you’re done, you MUST check out the wacky prompt that Walt gave us at Poetic Bloomings. It made for one heckuva fun Sunday!
Moody Charlotte
Mom, stuck on a cul de sac
with no car. Had she the fare,
she would have fared well
in Paris – a random thought,
reflecting her need for
dramatic change.
“I’ll take up painting!” she
blurted; Leslie and I nodded.
She burst forth with wacky plans
when moody. Lacking supplies
(Les and I were thinking easel,
paints, canvas, a jaunty beret)
she called two friends before
securing a ride to… an art store?
Chances of her following through
were about even with the chance
of an armadillo successfully crossing
a West Texas highway.
Next day after school…
the danger signs: In the open garage,
large paint cans, brushes dripped
blood onto newspaper, and three
Gordon’s gin empties.
Whatever it was, she was done with it.
High as a kite and just as flighty,
she flittered around her creation.
Charlotte had painted the kitchen walls
tomato red
and the ceiling Vincent Price Black.
Her Waterloo with an indignant
bridge club; members refused to
enter our home on Brookside Avenue…
a cry for help that passed
unanswered.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Walt at Poetic Bloomings had some fun at our expense:
Today, you are given random nudges, the replies to which will become the pieces to your poetic puzzle.
1. Your mother’s first name (Charlotte)
2. A wild animal (armadillo)
3. A city you’ve never visited, but would like to (Paris)
4. A hobby (painting)
5. A mode of transportation (car)
6. Your least favorite vegetable (tomato – don’t even get me started)
7. A “lucky” number (2)
8. Your favorite color (red)
9. Three random words (dramatic, moody, random)
10. Historical event (Waterloo – doubles as an ABBA song)
11. A childhood friend (Leslie Frederick, still a friend even though she moved away in FIFTH GRADE!)
12. The street on which you grew up (Brookside Avenue)
You can write in any form, meter and rhyme scheme. Your title will be the answer to #1 + the second random word in #9.
This also appears at Poets United’s Poetry Pantry and on the sidelines at my “pad,” Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
NOTE: The story is essentially true, but I altered the timeline to accommodate the poem. This didn’t happen on my watch, but many years before – when Mom’s moods started pingponging like those of her mom, my Grandma Blanche. Charlotte was never diagnosed, but she did pull off stunts like this while on a self-medicated high. The red kitchen with black ceiling? YES, IT WAS TRUE! She later told me, “I don’t know what I was thinking, because that kitchen made me feel claustrophobic. Bud finally repainted it after three days because he couldn’t stand the colors, and he was really scared by then of my moods.”
Charlotte. Mama. Never a dull moment! Peace, Amy
Parking Lot
The Golden Arches aglow tonight
Aglow every night as
teens collect, connect
Giggles, yo mama jokes
A squeal, somebody got tickled
Waitin’ for Bruno to get off shift
Scent of sensamilla
snakes through blades of my fan
I peek out; their shadows pass the joint around
Outside, they pack into someone’s car
squeal out of the lot in a cloud of exhaust
leaving a trickle of oil and a trail of fun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is for dverse, “Meeting the Bar.” Claudia asked us to write as though we were Impressionists, with quick brush strokes and hints of lighting. My inspiration was the early work of Edward Hopper, who is not known as an impressionist but had a brief foray into the style with such works as “Soir Bleu.” He is simply my favorite artist, and the humanity of his work informs my eavesdropping on this group of kids last night. Also at my poetic canvas, Poets United!
Memories of Neisse (for Hanna)
Traditional Seder plate
Looking back, it began slowly.
Happy memories of sacred Friday rituals
Mama lighting the Shabbat candle
Everyone singing songs in Hebrew
Relatives visiting on significant holidays
Passover in Neisse, their little town
Up and down streets, the strings of
small shops owned by proud families
Wandering Jews who’d settled so long
they felt like indigenous Germans
Then, change in the air, a foul stench
as demons plotted in biergartens
with one who had a Master Plan
First is was spittle on Father’s shoes
as they walked to temple
Elaboration: Book burning
Brecht, Freud, Dos Passos, Proust
Einstein, Kafka, Joyce, Helen Keller
Genius flashes turned to ashes
Artwork was destroyed, replaced by
white marble gods and goddesses:
The. Ideal. German. Is. Not. A. Jew.
Young Hanna was told to leave school
and never come back. She glanced
over her shoulder fighting back
bitter, Jewish, no-longer-real-German tears
as a swastika flag was affixed above
the entrance to her (no-longer-her) school
Their summit was yet to be reached
The nadir of Hanna’s life as they
boarded the train for…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Goddess, String, Elaborated, Flags, Sacred, Visit, Demons, Summit, Rituals, Significant, Intentions, Indigenous. Also for dverse Open Link Night.
Dedicated to Riley’s Oma (“grandma” in German), Hanna Weinberger, who escaped Auschwitz two weeks before the Liberation, emigrated to America, married, and had two sons. Also dedicated to the man she married, Leonard Weinberger, and their sons, Rob and Roy.
Longing Becomes Art (also for Riley)
Longing becomes art.
Art becomes enjoyment.
Enjoyment becomes shows.
Shows become employment.
Employment because aaaargh!
Aaaargh becomes strain.
Strain becomes I Need A Vacation
For My Addled Brain.
Brain senses loss.
Loss becomes lack.
Lack of inspiration.
Inspiration slack.
Slacking, she wonders,
where did it start?
Time gives her longing.
Longing becomes art.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Bloomings asked us to take the last line from one of our old poems and use it as a springboard for a new work. The first line is from “Artistic,” about my daughter, Riley. The final line was, “Longing becomes art.” To see the original poem, head to this link, https://sharplittlepencil.com/2011/11/10/artistic-for-riley/
Artistic
(For Riley)
She was a quiet, hidden way about her.
She may seem strident to some
but her shell protects her from
the piercing lens of the world.
Girl. Canvas. In the perfect light of a
beachside studio, her energy
is reignited. Perhaps warm, salty
air emits creative power.
She pitches in: Cerulean and Sand,
Viridian, a hint of Ivory, a
swish of vivid Magenta, a few
Ebony-dappled accents. No one can
imagine the sublime delirium,
this torrid tango of perfect partners.
Part duel, part puzzling rendezvous.
Her brow furrowing into a pleat
as she is lost in the swirl of brushstrokes.
She’s found a new way to express
what she feels, her profound nature.
Longing becomes art.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl and my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
The Wordle included: Reignite, emit, delirium, air, piercing, swish, dappled, pleat, seem, strident, pitch, shell.
Poets United asked us to meditate on the word, “She.”
THREE IMAGES OF WOMEN GRACE MY WALL
A dog-eared poster hovers near my desk, rebellious wallpaper
Detailed manifesto of the Women’s Liberation Movement
“Because woman’s work is never done and is underpaid…”
Words from a bubbling wellspring of hope and burned lycra
Demand for an equal stake in this country, still unmet
A postcard: Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein
keep me honest in all pursuits, artful and activist
as they stare me down in a loving way, like sisters
heart of depression beside the mother of us all
reminding me that women are worthy of everything
Klimt portrait, foil-embroidered woman
She stands alone, in no man’s embrace
yet framed by flowers, wearing a come-hither robe
Full black hat, ebony halo, distant gaze
Essence of loveliness, an equal part of my soul
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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