THIS POST IS FOR ADULTS ONLY. PLEASE BE AWARE, IT’S ROUGH.
Bitter Fruits
Five years old
She fears flashbulbs
Finicky about swallowing medicine
“Let it float, like a boat,” frantic mother
urges. Finally, the girl
chews the bitter aspirin.
Flannel nightgown often found wet at dawn.
Fragile, frail, their final filly.
Til forty, fortunate to forget
she was her father’s favorite pet.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
What can I say? Sometimes I have to tell the truth. Peace, Amy
For ABC Wednesday (letter F) and, as always, Poets United.
Silken Softness
My mom, Charlotte,
grew up in Iowa.
Council Bluffs, to be exact.
Recession, then Depression
brought the town to its knees,
at least until corn season.
Mom said Grandma Blanche
could make anything
from corn in a skillet:
Corn cakes, corn pone,
corn bread, but the best was
corn alone.
In the field, the poor were
allowed to glean from
Old Man Jones’ field.
Yanking from stalks,
home to shuck the ears.
Corn silk was, for Charlotte,
a miracle, a treasure. She said,
“I hope someday my wedding dress
will be as soft as this corn silk.”
Blanche marveled at
how her girl could always
make magic from simple things.
It’s a Laughlin tradition,
passed from Blanche to Charlotte,
from Charlotte to lucky me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United, my favorite site, asked for food-inspired, home-grown tales. Can’t get more “down home” than this!
At Poetic Asides, we’re filling in the blanks: “The Meaning Of _______”
THE MEANINGS OF SUMMERTIME
At three, summertime meant
my sisters stayed home all day
We’d play together, the whole neighborhood
Every mom our mom, watching over us
At five, summertime meant
No more Kindergarten
No more snacks or naptime giggles
I missed my new friends and wondered about first grade
At eight, summertime meant
a nice, long vacation
Swimming in the backyard
Sneaking sips of beer at Mom’s jazz parties
At twelve, summertime meant
the awakening of my body, my first cramps
Denied the pool because I couldn’t navigate tampons
and Mom didn’t want to talk about it
At sixteen, summertime meant
School friends would drive out to see me, the country mouse
I didn’t have to miss them all summer
Backgammon with my best friend John til dawn
At twenty-five, summertime meant
lots of gigs – weddings, bar mitzvahs
Sweating out Village piano bars for extra cash
Saving money because August is dead in the City
At thirty-four, summertime meant
Puerto Rican beaches with my baby girl
Her first swims were off the shore, in my arms
We were always salty, sweating, smiling
At forty-nine, summertime meant
hard times for my girl as she
battled disturbing trends of mindset
She, solitary; me, worried; doctors, experimenting
Now it’s my fifties and summertime means
Hot flashes accentuate the humidity
My days are my own and so is my illness
Tricking myself into getting outside for sunshine
No matter the person, summertime means
different pleasures at different ages
different pressures at different ages
Seasons are like mood swings, summertime having the advantage of sun
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
THE ESSENCE OF DEPRESSION
there was a time, long ago
yesterday
when i thought it was wasn’t worth it
this living thing
so hard to catch my breath
standing in one place slackjawed, staring
forcing, willing myself – one step, then another
finally achieving the second floor
but why did i come up here?
something about cleaning or laundry or
taking a nap instead – then be up all night writing
ceiling fan whirling overhead my only company
But this morning I woke up and was alive all day
Wrote letters, paid some bills
Crafted poems, worked on my blog
Went outside for an actual walk
My neighbor was mowing her lawn
The scent filled me with memories of our yard when I was a kid
Lying in the grass next to the wildflower riot
of the Back Forty, past the carefully mown grass
Queen Anne’s Lace, milkweed, sumac
Timothy grass, pussywillows, wild lilac trees
Black-eyed Susans swaying flirtatiously
As a light rain fell in a rainbow mist
The colors of the yard after the shower let up
Golden light cast stark afternoon shadows
Grass glowed lemon-lime
The indomitable magnolia bush was ablaze
I lay on my belly
Inspecting Indian Paintbrush and
Wild violets, small miracle of
Haphazard, brilliant, fulsome Nature
We could leave our bikes in anybody’s yard
Dogs belonged to all of us, and we belonged to them
Everything seemed possible then
And today, it still does
When the dark days hit
I accept them for what they are
I am familiar by now with the depths
I can see in the dark, dimly
I cannot smell the fresh-cut grass
From that distant place
I can’t roll in wildflowers
Those things are out of reach, cut off
But not forever – it only feels that way
Hang out hang in hang on
It will slough off like snake skin
Scaly, dead, useless
And I will emerge reborn
Senses awakened, songs of life
Reverberating, a chord struck
From deep within
© Amy Barlow Liberatore, 2010, Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 