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

Tag Archives: Beer

An Activist’s Fourth of July Vacation Agenda

Celebrate my reproductive freedom (oops)
Go to an LGBTQ marriage in Wisconsin (oops, no license)
Celebrate “one person, one vote” (oooooops… Citizens United)
Celebrate American Union rights (oops)
Call Edward Snowden, invite him over to relax (is he still at that airport?)
Eat “brats” and drink beer (except I don’t eat pork, oops)
Guess it’s down to beer.

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

As always, Mama Zen at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wants ‘em short and sweet, and she asked for vacation themes. Since activists are NEVER on vacation, this is as close as I’ll come! Peace to all, and prayers for the troops… and I stand by my comment on Edward Snowden. I strongly disagree that he leaked security dox that would “compromise national security.” The American, Iraqi, and Afghan people are suffering national INSECURITY, and any info we can get from the “transparent” Obama administration about this (insert expletive here) war is like gold. We are being taken for the same ride that Bush started, and I don’t appreciate it, not one little bit. If I had my own country, I’d offer Mr. Snowden sanctuary, a free condo, and drinks on the house. Amy


At dverse, Hobgoblin asked us to attempt a poem in a foreign language. While I did spend years in Puerto Rico, my Spanish is a mite rusty; that’s why I buy bilingual volumes of Neruda, to strengthen that connection. Let’s see what you think (the English translation follows).

San Juan por la noche

Noches en la playa
de mi Borrinquen querido

Con mi amor, sin abarcas en la arena
y la aroma del mar

Besos dulces, cervezas frias
Manos entrelazarse

Estrellas bialando
por la cadencia de nos corazones

Muchos anos pasados,
yo recuerdo este amor… suave y eterno

TRANSLATION

San Juan at Night

Nights on the beach
of my beloved Puerto Rico

With my love, barefoot in the sand
and the scent of the sea

Sweet kisses, cold beer
Hands intertwined

The stars dancing
to the rhythm of our hearts

After so many years,
I remember that love… tender and eternal

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Also at “la casa de poecia,” Poets United!


Morey’s Wake

“What a schmuck,” murmured Gordo, swigging from a bottle of Coors. “Still owed me twenty bucks. Now I’ll never see it.”

“Hey, Morey was a nice guy,” countered Amber. “He gave me my Tilda, and she’s great.”

Sasha sniffed. “Didn’t give you a weddin’ ring, though. Shitty deal, you ask me.”

Morey lay stiff and starched in the coffin. The mortician had dolled him up special. Amber wanted the bruises and cuts hidden and four missing front teeth replaced. Morey looked like a million, and Mr. Burry wasn’t making out too bad, either.

Morey was laid out at Sharkey’s Bar. The owner couldn’t refuse. After all, Morey was his muscle at the door for twenty years. Mr. Bury fussed that a bar was hardly a place for a mortician of his stature, but an extra five bills took care of any objections.

By noon, everyone was drunk, and Morey? At least you couldn’t smell him, what with the beer and perfume and Mr. Bury’s scented flower arrangements. Not much high-brow drinking, mostly beer, but they tipped Louie extra. Dino got all homesick for Crete and started in on the ouzo too soon… he fell flat off the barstool. People stepped over him discreetly.

“You know, Amber,” said Louie from behind the bar, “I’m gonna miss that bastard. He shouldn’t oughta got mixed up with that fix at the Downs. Backfired, and now here he is, all dead and shit. Sorry.”

Amber downed a quick lime-tequila-salt slammer and said, “He was in the right place at the right time with the wrong luck and no gun. I told him, ‘Morey, take some protection,’ but then again,” another shot of tequila and a grimace, “I told him to use protection with me, and that’s how I got Tilda.”

Morton “Morey” Kelley, aged 52, eulogized by a chorus of semi-friends and a couple of enemies who sang along with Credence on the jukebox and slipped Amber cash. And the occasional tongue.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta: Third definition of “Observe”: To celebrate or solemnize (as a ceremony or festival) in a customary or accepted way. This is as customary as it gets in my family! As for “Mr. Bury,” there actually is a funeral home in Buffalo named “Bury Funeral Home.” And Sharkey’s is in my hometown, Binghamton, best spiedies going and the whole place smells like old beer and marinated pork.


Poetic Bloomings, scene of my scandalously honest interview with the ever-gracious Marie Elena last week, asked for poems on the theme, “The harvest I reap.”  Enjoy, and peace to all, Amy

SEEDS

Years upon years
of mistakes and teary-eyed
talks over black coffee or
beer from the bottle,
swearing the air blue.

Dancing at Fiesta…
I don’t really dance
but if I smile and
show a little leg, todo esta bien.

Staring blankly out the window
in a small town
rain punishing my petunias
(parched, anyway),
wondering if the library
has any books I haven’t read yet.

Watching the baby emerge
from within Massive Me;
everyone is crying. She
latches on. I call her Little Bee.

Seeing Carnegie Hall for the first time…
from the stage at sound check.

Teaching fellow Psych Ward inmates
how to practice yoga
instead of watching
the big-ass TV all day.

All these memories are stored
in a quiet room within.

Open the door, grab a random handful.
Toss onto the fertile loam and see them sprout.
I gather the ripest fruits and
squeeze ink from their juices.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil