Amy Barlow Liberatore… stories of lost years, wild times, mental variety, faith, and lots of jazz

Tag Archives: Bad Boyfriends

LONELY GIRL

Face of oblique glitter hears
Whispers that he done her wrong
Restless spirit, frozen
Hearing again their sad old song

Shine it all on, lonely girl
You know I’m kin in spirit
Face it now, lonely girl
That song, you know I can hear it

Neither of us had no loving since
January, February, or so
Why not climb off that lonely perch
C’mon – ready, steady, go

We’ll speak of days gone wrong
We’ll snicker at misbegotten men
We’ll hide our eyes from strangers til
We do it all over again

Find others to do us wrong
To keep us stuck in one place
But I’ll remember our big time out
Each time I look at your face

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Ha! Betcha didn’t know the subject of my poem. It’s

… and yes, we did trip the light mediocre one night eons ago, back when the world was full of vague regrets but more possibilities.

The subject was the moon, courtesy of Izy at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Catch: We were not to place the moon in the sky, speak of night or starry night, etc. So I took my girlfriend off her perch and we talked it over. Sure, she’s seen same place, same time, every night, but now she does it by choice, because we got so plotzed on Margaritas, she doesn’t want to come down to earth again. My bad.

This is also “visible” at my poetic lunacy rompfest, Poetic Asides.  Amy


Amy blur young

WHEN WE WERE YOUNG THINGS

When we were angels
swimming in the stars,
we were but boy toys
hanging in the bars

When we were divas
dressed in les Diors,
we were with shlumps who
didn’t open doors

(Bridge)
Looking glass, tell me
When did the view change
Why not forever young
Rather than cue change

When we were sirens
singing from the cliffs
we were a jumble of
“whens” and “whys” and “ifs”

(Bridge)
Looking glass, tell me
When did the view change
Why not forever young
Rather than cue change

When we were young things
slinking down the street
we’d ne’er imagine
that ourselves we’d meet

Now we were older
greyer each season
Now we are bolder
We’ve found our reason

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

We were asked, at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, to write a song… a chanson, a lieder, anything that might be set to music. This is a slow waltz with a pause after the bridge (at “cue change”). Songwriting has long been my business, so I guess I’d better pen the tune now! Also “in the margins” at my poetic concert hall, Poets United.  Peace, Amy


Of Love and More

First love lost; ‘twas not worth keeping
(or it’s cheap red wine a-speaking)

Then came city boys who gave
me lessons: How To Misbehave

(Married, briefly
Much grief, chiefly)

Then I found a righteous man
Values, charm; he had a plan

Liked my daughter, and loved me
She saw “dad,” I saw me

Going for another marriage
Diff’rent style; no horse-drawn carriage

Love was true that second time
Faithful, solid, and sublime

Now I know what life has taught:
Love is cheap when cheaply sought

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Kerry O’Connor at Imaginary Garden With Read Toads was celebrating the August birthday of poet Sara Teasdale. Reading Teasdale at first seems dated; but, like many poets, she has wisdom in those couplets and free-form writes. I read some of her poetry, per the prompt, and was inspired to tell the story of my rough-and-tumble path to Lex.

Also in the margins at my poetic love nest, Poets United! Peace (and real love), Amy


Lessons Learned

I used to be approached by men
who were little more than boys
regarding me as made for them
like all their other toys

I used to see the handsome ones
who knew they looked so good
and acted thus; not calling back,
their conduct understood

I used to be a looker, then
when looking was to be done
For all the fun I could’ve had
I’ve had more peace with one

So wait for him, whose gaze rests not
upon your boobs, but your eyes
Who listens and responds in kind
For there your wellspring lies

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Suzy, who stopped by my blog and commented (I rarely reply, but rather visit the blogs as a practice), had a prompt of her own from “Verse First,” and it was to write of a lesson you learned. You can find other links HERE, but this was the best lesson of all for me. It gave me Lex.

This is also ‘in the margins’ on the sidebars of Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, and hoping you all find your true love, Amy


Shark Smack Redemption

In this corner
we have two junkies
(clutchin their insides,
achin for a fix)

And in this corner
a dealer and his flunkie
(carryin’ with pride
the primo mix)

Gentlemen
Come out bargaining

C’mon, Mister Bang
don’t keep us hangin
Last week was a deal
a downright steal

Yeah, that was last week
Now it’s changed
replies Mr. Silk Suit
Buddy carries the loot

Have mercy, Bang
I need it badder’n bad
Cantcha see I’m dyin
One cringe away from cryin

Tell you what, Jake, says Bang
Remember your girl
That blonde was right rooty
and she sure got the booty

You want her, she’s yours
She’ll do what I ask
Just give us a taste
‘fore we go to waste

(Scans the room in panic
Isn’t it romantic?
He motions for Jill
to join in the thrill)

Mr. Bang offers three
One for him,
one for his co-horse
Third to prime “First Course”

Go on now, Jill
I’ll see you back here
Just give Mr. Bang
a little that thang

But Jill shakes her head
Tells him she’s not for trade.
You can’t redeem this girl
like Green Stamps for a whirl.

Off go Mr. Bang and ass-
istant to find other buyers
No jack, No Jill for Jake
just sweats and a bellyache

No redemption
Smack preemption
Simply two losers
who, tonight, will be boozers

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For dverse Poets, Victoria Slotto wanted a piece that describes our passions. I give you the opposite, in a way. I’m still fascinated by how far people will go to get high, to self-medicate, and that much further away from love, from God, from peace. I have known women who would give their bodies for the sake of a fix for themselves and their old man.  In the Old Daze, I could have witnessed a scene very much like this, when it was LA and everyone thought they were immortal. Then a junkie died in my lap, and I saw things differently indeed. Peace, Amy


Hamlet and Juliet in A Midsummer Twelfth Night’s Sonnet on Shakespeare’s Birthday
(with apologies to Will)

In my salad days, when I was green in judgment,
not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty,
I was a dish fit for the gods.

Now I’m in my prime, set up with a posh little Upper East Side co-op and a hefty trust fund from Daddy… plus a live-in honey who’s fast losing his sweetness. Nothing in his life becomes him, and nothing will come of nothing.

He awoke, rounded with a little sleep. “Ay, me…”

“I have not slept one wink,” I bitched, rubbing my sore bottom. “What a piece of work is man! Do you think I am easier played on than a pipe?”

He leapt from the bed. “That is should come to this! Why, only last night you cried, A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

“True it is,” I countered, “that we have seen better days. Yet brevity is the soul of conscience, and the” (wince) “parting was such sweet sorrow.”

He was pi-i-i-issed. “Tempt not a desperate man, for delays make dangerous ends.”

(Now I’m thinking, “MY end got all the ‘danger’ last night… He hath eaten me out of house and home, and he thinks too much, with a lean and hungry look. There’s daggers in men’s smiles, and… is this a dagger I see before me?”)

I pointed to the door. “Out, damned Snot! Out, I say! Men of few words are the best men, and your tale is told by an idiot.”

“The course of love never did run smooth,” he stammered. “Shall we meet again?”

(Trying to live down the riddle… Q: ‘What do you call a bass player without a girlfriend?’ A: ‘Homeless.’)

He continued, “Don’t forget, dearest, we have a palimony agreement. You’ll pay a great deal too dear,” he grinned, “for what’s been given freely.”

“The game is up.” I stamped my little bare foot and caught a splinter. “This is the worst!”

He tried to rustle up tears as he packed. “There words are razors to my wounded heart. I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for Daws to pick at.”

(I knew that has-been “Mork and Mindy” chick Pamela Daws was after him, ever since the gig at the China Club.)

“In my mind’s eye,” I said, thinking of the money I’d have to pay this jerk, “shall I compare thee to the dogs of war? A borrower with a dull edge? The world is grown so bad, the fool doth think he is wise.”

I escorted him to the door. He shambled out, his bass hanging on his back like a monkey. Then, turning back to me, he whimpered, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s-” SLAM!

Peace at last. “I like this place, and willingly would waste my time in it.” Then, cutting the first of many checks I’d have to pay my new ex, I grumbled, “But first… let’s kill all the lawyers.”

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

It’s the Bard’s birthday! He’d be three days older than water today.  This is also (and this is so tragically Shakespearean) the anniversary of his death, so he deserves something special.   Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us to have our way with him (well, with his writing, anyway), but I gathered so many snippets from so many plays and sonnets, if I tried to do citations, they would run longer than the piece itself. I leave it to you, my oh-so-savvy readers, to separate the Will from the chaff.  This will also be posted to dverse Open Mic Night.

NaPoWriMo #23 and still ticking! This form, which employs lines from other writer(s) re-ordered to create a new poem, is called something or other, but dang, I can’t remember. Paging Viv!! Peace, Amy


Bad Boyfriends

She has a chain
Each link is a loser

A long line of operators
Each with a rose
a bottle of perfume
or a bottle of tequila in hand
Whatever recipe would pique her interest

Showing up at dusk and
never leaving the apartment til dawn
Leaving her behind
in an bed littered with condom wrappers
and empty bottles
and a stinky bong

She decided to build a hedge fence
to protect herself against
this parade of clowns
But in the end, she clawed her way out

Forgiving, yet forgetting the essential lesson:
Trace first the path to your own happiness
and if you find another who walks the same path
there you will find love

She has a chain
Each link is a loser

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For The Sunday Whirl: Link, Recipe, Operator, Fence, Essentials, Chain, Rose, Forgiven, Dusk, Pencil, Empty, Trace.

Also at two favorite sites: Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.


Hello, friends. I have two pieces of good news. First, my entry for the Trifecta “Week 35 Challenge,” which ran an entire month, was cited as the second-place winner – check out all three Trifecta winning entries at THIS LINK, including my friend Misky (Da winner and still champeen!!), and a new friend, Lucy Robinson Miller in third place.

Also, another great friend, Lady Nimue, edited the latest edition of the ezine, Fried Eye, and one of my poems is in there as well! So a big week, and truthfully, I needed the lift, so thanks, Nimue, for asking… and thanks to the folks at Trifecta for always having a wonderful challenge.

Detour Ahead? (an etheree)

Where
he leads
she follows
Whether he’s right
she dares not question
If she does, usual
answer, the back of his hand
Unfortunate girl, brought up by
a mother whose own questions were rare
Mirrors mock them both: Their “normal,” scarred, scared

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For Poets United (Follow/Lead and Usual/Rare).

NOTES: An etheree is ten lines with the first line having one syllable, the second two, and so on until you have ten lines with then syllables. There are variations. I only use form when it comes easily to my theme, and I hope Viv is proud of me! (She’s seen me struggle.)

The song “Detour Ahead” was (in my opinion) best sung by Billie Holiday, and best played instrumentally by pianist Bill Evans. Just in case you were wondering where the title of the poem came from. One of my favorite songs when I was in jazz clubs.


Loathsome Lothario

Lordy! Ladies loooooove Lenny,
lackadaisical, lame-ass loser.

Looks: Lethal.
Leaver? Likely.

Lovelorn, leftover lasses
lament losing Lenny:

lemmings
leaping
l
e
d
g
e
s.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “L.” Also at my poetic café where the chairs are really comfy, Poets United! Check out both sites for contributors and you’ll find some groovin’ work, including photographers and storytellers.

PAD April #7, and all while getting ready for Easter Sunday worship tomorrow.  Peace, Amy


Still under the weather – and yet, there’s that dizzy, “you ain’t goin’ nowhere” feeling of the flu that still gives rise to interesting thoughts.

First off, you MUST check out this link if you interested in (and, like me, vociferously object to) the Nazi/Fascist/Far-Right phenomenon of banning and/or burning books.  Some might not like it (not because of subject, but because the title is something about “booksluts” and they use the “vee-jay-jay” word (yes, I have one, too.  What’s the big deal?).  There are some useful links.  I BOUGHT my daughter a copy of The Jungle by Upton Sinclair when she was a teen.  BANNED!  SOCIALIST LEANINGS! Click HERE.

Please do check it out, but NOT until you have read this poem, for ABC Wednesday, and, of course, my poetic heartbeat, Poets United.  Amy

I Never Lost Faith in Love

For all the sorry-ass excuses for men
who double-crossed my path,
through every mischievous menace who
left me drained and feeling inadequate,

I never lost faith in love.

Through many mistakes whose lips met mine
with divinely inspired kisses
(but the Devil’s own heart), plus
all the power of commitment God gave an ashtray,

I never lost faith in love.

For every hairy-dick tomcat
who yowled ‘til I let him in,
through every door that slammed in my face
once he got his share of the kitty,

I never lost faith in love.

On this earth, once I found the one
who is plush to my blush,
ever-after to my laughter,
I thank God every day,

I never lost faith in love.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil