One of my favorite prompting sites, dverse poets, put Brian Miller in charge (look out! Backs to the wall… wink). He asked us to write a history poem, and it reminded me of that question we always ask one another: “Where were you when…?” Excellent prompt, and I’m looking forward to reading everyone else’s work at dverse. This is also posted at my favorite time machine, Poets United. Peace, Amy
ELEMENTARY SCHOOL LESSON
I knew a lot by the second grade
The alphabet, counting to one hundred and beyond
How to write my name in cursive, and quite perfectly
What not to flush down the toilet
(all my broccoli smuggled in via dinner napkin)
How kittens are born, because I watched
Even how to make a dry martini
(kids learn a lot from alcoholic parents)
How to spit water between my front teeth and
how to get real distance spitting watermelon seeds
One thing I didn’t know
and never expected to
was something the whole class
learned at the same time
The grownups were outside our classroom
mumbling something about
President Kennedy
A grownup was sobbing in the hall
and Mrs. Darrow almost fainted
Until second grade
I didn’t know teachers were allowed to cry
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of http://www.scootutopia.com
Please be sure to read the explanation at the bottom of this post; otherwise, I’ll have every single stay-at-home mom mad at me, and that’s not my intention!! Peace and an Oreo dipped in milk, Amy
Housewife Envy*
I have always envied housewives.
Each morning, pulling crisp aprons
from drawers under counters crowded
with kids’ art awaiting a place on the fridge.
Willing the bacon to crisp, flipping
hotcakes on a Revere-ware skillet.
Had I but known that it only took
one drunken prom night spree in
the back of his souped-up Chevrolet,
just blooming at the shotgun wedding…
I, too, could include myself in the
year-round bliss of Tupperware parties;
Bloody-Mary-and-Bridge afternoons;
summer months spent gazing out the
window watching our neighborhood’s
rowdy, mud-caked munchkins until
Fall. Then, one by one, my own brood
would thrill to new lunchboxes and
come home smelling of crayons and
some other kid’s egg salad sandwich…
I wish I’d realized that to spurn those
high-school advances of Jimmy Parker
was like shredding my ticket to ride;
I would not feel so darned ignorant now.
Housewives get all the real news from
their husbands, entertainment from TV.
They subtract their own little extras from
the shopping list to stick to the budget,
and the only balls they need are made of
cotton, to wipe off Noxzema each night.
But here in this smoke-filled piano bar,
as another twenty drops in my tip jar, I
abandon the sting of this jealousy and
face reality: I’m stuck traveling to cities
like Hamilton, Bermuda, wearing a daring
cut-down-to-there number, making my
way in the world. Always on the move,
waiting for the crowd to feed me their
electricity through our mutual umbilical
cord of jazz, wisecracks, and dry martinis.
If I were a housewife, I would be pampered,
cared for, and I’d only have to spread my legs
once in a while and put up with the sting of
unschooled sex. I might wonder about the
uncertain lives of girls like me, who constantly
have to update their passports, who buy their
own jewelry from this year’s collection, who
hustle their way through airports to catch a
plane to the next destination, the next show…
If only I were a housewife, I’d be lucky.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*IMPORTANT NOTE: I hold the greatest respect for mothers who are able to stay at home with their children; in fact, I consider it the most noble of pursuits. The “housewives” moniker is insulting to me as a feminist, because I believe staying at home is a viable CHOICE among many choices. But a prompt is a prompt, and since the poem presumes that all stay-at-home moms do is sit on their asses eating bonbons, sucking up booze, and watching soaps, I will accept all criticism. Please know that, after my years as a single working mother, I was indeed envious of moms who could be with their kids after school.
For Trifecta, “tongue in cheek,” and The Sunday Whirl: Housewives, Months, Year, Ignorant, Subtracting, Sting, Rind, Balls, Fall, Drawers, Spurn, Electricity.
If you are not prepared to read about sexual abuse of a child, please skip this poem. If you have nightmares of being “invaded,” this poem may help you to seek therapy. Your call. Scroll down for the poem. Peace, Amy
My Turn Tonight
Door opens, cringe-creaking
Covers pulled over my head
Keep still, stay quiet
Someone else’s turn instead?
No, I’ve drawn the unlucky card
Trembling as he turns my face
to face the unfaceable and
endure this sick disgrace
Morning, choking back chalk
Sheets dampened by sweat and the sinner
I’m pretty quiet at breakfast
But he grins like a Derby winner
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dampen, Keep, Tremble
Also at my poetic haven, Poets United.
NOTES: Through therapy, I made the journey from remembering to understanding it wasn’t my fault to shrieking truth at the long-dead man in the empty chair to acceptance, and ultimately, forgiveness. Once I forgave, the whole thing became a bubble over in a corner of my mind, where I could examine it on my own terms. The journey took 15 years, and I write about these events to help others connect. May incest, child abuse, child pornography… all die away, and love prevail.
If you suspect a child you know and love is being sexually abused, whether by their father, uncle, brother, teacher… be it a boy or a girl, let that child know they can talk to you about anything at all. Tell them that no matter what, grown-ups should never make a kid keep secrets, especially secrets that scare them. You could save a young person from suicide. Trust me. I was almost there. Peace, Amy
TO ALL READERS: Not for the squeamish. I have used another John Rainsford photo (credits below) because one was not enough. Thanks, dverse, for turning us on to an amazingly talented photographer, web designer, and all-around artist.
THE LOOK
He enters my bedroom; 
I raise my eyes slowly
The unspoken message
unsettling, unholy.
Dad went and filled
his Viagra again.
What am I in for?
And how bad? And when?
No use attempting
to pull up the cover.
I wonder if Sue’d mind
another sleepover?
Cause I’m in the crosshairs
and he’s got the gun.
The battle is lost –
I am Dad’s “little one.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo © John Rainsford, courtesy of dverse poetry.
For dverse Open Mic Night.
Today I give you a link to another blog. Sherry Blue Sky and I have become friends over the years; both poets, both mothers, both environmentally conscious. She is a Wild Woman who communes with wolves. I am an Old Hippie who communes with the mentally ill. We are mothers first, and she used a recent poem of mind (reprinted at her blog, with my permission) to springboard into the subject of her own family’s experience with mental disorders.
Please, please, just click the link and discover how two women who have never met face to face, who live in different countries, can communicate in the language of the mother’s heart. Peace, Amy
Season’s Grumblings
With each passing year, diminishing cheer:
I feel less festive at Christmastime.
Perhaps it’s the sprawl of malls,
gaudy displays of “Holiday Cheer,”
a politically correct wink,
as though I’m supposed to know they
really mean “Merry Christmas,” but
corporate beliefs leave them no choice.
No voices ringing with carols, but a veritable
barrel of secular songs: Motown, Nashville, or worse still,
Burl Ives (that rumpled fool who sang like a choir boy
during the Red Scare) offering “Yuletide cheer.”
Or Maurice “I’m an entertainer, even when the audience
is all Nazis” Chevalier pretending he’s fun and nice.
Santa’s real elves are exploited Chinese child labor.
Neighbor, don’t listen to me. I’ve little glee.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday challenged us with Belief, Festive, and Rumple. Ha! I took up the challenge and delivered this exquisite poetic case of heartburn. What a Grinch! For those who are believers, have yourselves a Merry Christmas, and remember whose birthday it is, teach your children. And if you’re a secular Christmas person, hey, pay no neve-rmind to me, except for the part about the Chinese kids. Peace, Amy
Abusive Remains
Siblings.
Each has their own version of What happened and How,
but most importantly, Why.
Emptied of shame, I still wonder.
Am I sure in my memories?
Have I scratched theme enough to bleed,
to tear a hole deep through to
the beating heart that still skips a beat
when HIS name is mentioned?
Did HE really hang the moon?
Was HE blameless,
spotless?
HE was, after all,
remorseless.
Should I feel guilty? Was I mistaken?
Perhaps I was demon-possessed after all.
One good exorcism and I’d be like new.
One dip in the blood of the Lamb and I’d be reborn… or so she says.
Except, as I drift off to sleep on some nights,
my head still tilts back slooooowly and
my mouth opens and
I am choked in that brutal rhythm.
It was real.
It happened.
It remains.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides asked for poems on the word “Empty,” and ABC Wednesday, rather than reverting to another alphabet, started over with “A.” Also posted at the STELLAR blog, Poets United. Come to all these sites. Meet my genius friends!! Amy
True story. Again, using the “snowball” form… Amy
Who Really Needs the Shrink?
Here
in the
waiting room
a little boy
frantically pushes
buttons on a hand-held
video game and says, “Shit!”
Mom smacks him upside the head and
looks around, daring anyone to
say anything. She gets his script. They leave.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at Poets United
Amending this post because I was a week ahead on the prompt… “spontaneity” got the best of me, ironic, no? The actual prompt was “Addiction.”
Stageheights
Living in limelight
Not fueled by ego, rather
talent to amuse
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
————————
Whoops
Precious sucking babe
Never will she know, born of
Spontaneity
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
Written for Sensational Haiku Wednesday for the prompt… Spontaneity! Also posted at my heart, my home – Poets United.
Brenda’s Wordle at Beyond The Bozone including silver, phrase, forever, scars, crescendo, crude, recount, perfume, message, and bottle; also, this works with Poetic Asides’ “Message in a Bottle.”
Cobalt Blue Bottle
Auntie Ruth’s perfume in a cobalt blue bottle
embossed with the phrase, “April in Paris.”
Twirling open the fluted silver cap,
I’d sneak a sniff.
Stronger than a crescendo of crude
on a Texas Tuesday,
the scent still held a message
of forbidden romance (one that might leave scars).
Recounting those afternoons
I used to while away
in Ruthie’s room…
Memories I’ll treasure forever.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You can also see this poem at my NaPoWriMo site, Writer’s Island, and, as always, at Poets United. Check out these poets!
Sharp Little Pencil 