Dance With Me
Possessed of a prominent nose
Sloe eyes and sensuous smile
Regina, dancing muse
Real-deal belly dancing, repleat
with silver – snaking around
slender arms, on her ankles
shandangling about her svelte,
supple, flexible waist and hips
Her ultimate adornment was
her boa, whose name time has
swallowed, but whose image is
indelible; the trust, the sure
partnership, he lovingly
encircled her neck and arms,
living jewelry and friend
Slow their duet, slithering
in a Roma-tinged tango,
she so proud of her partner
The two cast a potent spell
Regina often allowed me to
help deliver him back to the
safety of his Indian woven
basket, his genie bottle
He graced my arms with
a cuddle. Warm skin, still
damp with her sweat from
his beloved perch, Regina.
Years later, still dancing,
Regina contracted that
slow-eating cancer, yet retained
her smile, her love of life
Now Regina has crossed over
to the side where pain is no more
Snakes in the hereafter are lining up
for the chance of just one dance
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Regina Star was just that – a queen and a celestial being. She worked with us at the fabled Great American Food & Beverage Company. I have combined several instances in her life to create this portrait. Having love snakes all my life, I was humbled by Regina’s trust that I carry Jack’s basket around at the GAFB 30th anniversary. Cancer had ravaged her body, and yet she danced with the same grace and self-assurance, Jack extending his head past her hand to view the audience. A whirling force of nature, our Regina. May she be at peace.
Oh, and one word to the “eeeew, snakes are slimy” crowd: The next time you are near a boa constrictor (preferably one recently fed!), if you aren’t game to have it be on your body, at least caress it. The smooth skin, the warmth, the decidedly non-slimy nature of snakes… trust me, you’ll dig it!
Written for the Poets United prompt for poems in praise of snakes. Peace, Amy
New York Doll
There was a time in her prime
when she’d mime drink orders
to cordial bartenders who always
tended to her needs. Never one
for thinking while drinking.
She’d haul a Hal to the juke
and dance dance dance
A chance to prance from
Latin to limbo to limo to
blow snow, no dough, only
her willingness to be ill-used
(not abused in the classic sense;
her men’s tastes not leaning toward
the waste of a pretty face)
The pace of the chase
was hasty and tiring, and so,
rewiring back at the flat, we
would recount the bounty
that shines brightest at 2 am
The night, our flight, our fight
to be noticed in an
anonymous
bottomless pit
of a city
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is why having a roommate in the larger cities is important. Who else will listen to your triumphs and tragedies ‘til dawn? This one will be at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads on Monday and dverse Poetry Pub’s Open Mic on Tuesday. I’ll add the links in the next two days so you can click and read some soulful stuff from a vast array of poets. Peace, Amy
Lance at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog (yes, there’s a picture of Fight Club on the home page, but it’s all good fun) wanted folks to write poems, 100 wds, to particular songs he’d picked out. On this Mother’s Day, I HAD to write a paean to my own fave dance song by one of the great bands of the 80s. Listen and imagine me and Riley barefoot on the dance floor, with Lex watching us, rolling his eyes…! Can’t think of a better Mother’s Day post for my girl, who made this particular holiday one worth celebrating when she was born in ’88. Love you, Riles.
BOP ‘TIL WE DROP
Punch out the time clock and
pile in the back of the Chrysler, baby
Don’t need GPS, and I don’t mean maybe
Half a mile away you hear the
THUMP THUMP
Pull up SCREECH my God this is a
DUMP DUMP
But the B52s are locked and loaded
and the room sounds like something just exploded it goes
BUMP BUMP
We shimmy the shit off our shoes
We all shimmy sharp at the Shack
If we’re gonna waste our time
we’re gonna waste it well
waste it wildly, hell bent for leather
Gonna bop ’til we drop at the Shack
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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
Sharp Little Pencil 