Bedside Manners
Sometimes in the fever of my dreams
Mom is alive but dying…
Here she is, going again… an alternate version
conjured in my vulnerable, variable mind
DAD has come to pay his respects to his wife
who is laid up, Frida Kahlo style
Four-postered with guests
He enters to their collective gasp
because he’s brought his girlfriend along
(now I know it’s a dream because he
is asking permission)
She is a short one, tanned midsummer dark, brown hair
Big smile. Would be likeable
if not for the timing and her smarmy date (Dad,
who holds her hand while his
other paw is on her shoulder
like a pull on a bra strap)
Mama smiles, honest to God
She seems happy
Then Dad’s date begins to shrink
Below his shoulder, almost to his elbow, then
shorter still as Mom watches fondly/strangely
Same straight hair, same dark coloring, same
as me
Same brown eyes, same smile, same
as me
And then it hits me, I understand Mom’s smile
She wasn’t happy
She was relieved
Sometimes the best way to
get a bad man out of your bedroom
is to send him across the hall
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Open Link Night, the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads! Love me some gardening, especially on such a beeeeeautiful day here in Wisconsin. Peace, Amy
#abuse #WithRealToads #poetry #freeverse #daughters #night #openlink #death&dying
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in Childhood, Death & Dying Tags: Childhood, CPTSD, Death & Dying, Father, Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Motherhood, Sexual Abuse, Tuesday Platform
Rattling the Cage
(Rollie Triptych, Part III)
Perfect timing for
a horrible outcome
On impulse, we drove
to Binghamton for a visit
Stayed with my folks
Call at 5 am, Mom
jostled me awake
“Rollie’s in the E.R!”
He’d sat up in bed
Said, “I can’t breathe”
and all 300 pounds of him
flopped back, dead
Hospital. “He’s gone, Amer.”
But his son turned 1 last week
Older son only 4
I was so pissed at God
Funeral, Baptist Church
His folks’ choice, wife’s
voice unheard, unheeded
Pastor, on a roll, droned on
“Rollie’s above with Jesus”
(when his true loves were his wife,
a beer, a bong, and a beer bong)
“Blah blah blah Jesus blah blah”
Mid-sermon, a THUD
A big one, stopped preacher
mid-pontification
about the Pearly Gates
Sis whispered, “What was that?”
Couldn’t help my reply
“Rollie turning in his casket”
We cracked up, but good
Shoulders shaking and
folks behind us thought
we were sobbing, patted
support on our shoulders
Which made us laugh harder
Yowza, leave it to Rollie
prankster, stoner, merry-maker
To poke us with one last joke
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The final chapter of The Book Of Roland Newton. Rollie died at 36 of an embolism. Pictured above with older son Matt, around age 2, and younger son Casey on his first birthday, surrounded by the teddy bears that always remind me of their dad. Matt and Casey are young men now, both charting their different courses. I wish they knew their dad from more that just stories told – usually funny ones. Everyone should have a Rollie in their lives.
This is for ABC Wednesday… Y is for Yowza and Young. Peace, Amy
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in Family Tags: ABC Wednesday, Casey, Death & Dying, Family, Funerals, Inappropriate Laughter, Lousy Pastors, Matt, Rollie Triptych
As I’ve been absent once again, I did want to mention a wonderful honor: I have been published! Barking Sycamores (a journal dedicated to autism in its many forms), published my poem in the very first edition. Link to my poem HERE. Thanks to Nicole Nicholson for her outreach and sensitivity.
Now, on to poetry: This Memorial Day, I have chosen a different group of veterans, ignored and consigned to ultimate death when the illness became the subject of gossip and hateful condemnation.
Other Veterans (GMHC, 1983)
Gay community’s response to the crisis
They didn’t know what to do with
the first straight girl who strode into
the waiting room, awaiting instructions
Witnessing wills, filing, odd jobs
Then a delivery, with deliberate orders:
“To Paul Popham. Into his hands only.
Upstairs office at NYC Central PO.”
Paul Popham,* one of six founders of
Gay Men’s Health Crisis, prominent attorney
At the PO, the BS began ASAP
Never forgot their condescension
“His office,” sneered receptionist,
“round back, by the bulk mail”
This prominent attorney with
inconvenient, indelible winestains,**
consigned to makeshift quarters
Breathing delivery trucks’ diesel
contributing to possible PCP***
Far from the “healthy” ones
Greeted me, standing tall
His small frame with grey suit
and suspenders to hold up his
shrinking self, like Daddy’s clothes
Such dignity, as though still possessing
the upper office he once commanded
Our eyes met, our hands grasped
the confidential package together
He shook my hand; he opened his arms
“No shame in crying,” as I bled tears
Total resolve in facing death
even as Reagan ignored the epidemic****
I hope the president’s inaction?
haunted him the rest of his days
and beyond. In the meantime,
Paul Popham carried on his work…
And we still pray
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Paul Popham (1947-1985), whose Wikipedia bio can be found HERE, was one of the first AIDS activists in 1981, when the disease was known as GRID: Gay-Related Immunodeficiency Disease. Paul is portrayed as “Bruce Niles” in Larry Kramer’s Pulitzer-Prizewinning play, “The Normal Heart.” The long-awaited film version will air soon on HBO. SEE IT.
** Winestainss, dark purple lesions, were visible signs of Karposi’s Sarcoma, one of the many autoimmune diseases brought on by HIV/AIDS. If you’ve seen Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington in the groundbreaking film, “Philadelphia,” you will see how Hanks’ character disguised his winestains with makeup for as long as possible.
*** PCP, or pneumocystis pneumonia, was a lung-wrenching, usually quickly fatal infection of the lungs in those days. A depiction of testing for PCP can be seen in the William Hurt film, “The Doctor.”
****President Ronald Reagan was in a position to order funds for research; instead, he did nothing. He would not even utter the word “AIDS.” I am not ashamed to say that I hope this decision haunted his until his death.
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in LGBTQ, POETRY Tags: Activism, Death & Dying, Gay Men, GMHC, HIV/AIDS, Paul Popham, Veterans
The Autopsy
Fluids drained systematically
First cut delicate
Then deeper, probing for
what’s needed to harvest
Skin ravaged
Insides filled to the gills with pills
Pharmaceutical to the cuticle
The heart unusable, broken
The rest is flotsam
yet spoken of reverently
After all, this was once
our planet
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Free write after contemplating how Wisconsin helps the fracking industry by mining and selling off the ‘perfect’ sand for piercing our earth… and collecting shale farts. Between that practice and the damned Pipeline, how do lowly wind/solar advocates stand a chance? We are muted by Big Money. Peace, Amy
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in Environment, POETRY Tags: Advocacy, After Death, Autopsy, Death & Dying, Environment, Free Verse
Mama’s Gone
Still can’t believe
the ‘heart on my sleeve’
gone on heaven’s highway
Mom’s grief now has passed
Since she breathed her last
She’s taken the skyway
Let’s raise glasses now
to the one who knew how
to smile in earthly hell
Tell stories, we will
as bar counts its till
of Charlotte, pre-death knell
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday, which gave us Grief, Bask, and Raise. Sounds like an Irish wake to me! Also for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “M.” I don’t know whether this poem is a form, but it makes some sort of sense!
My mom could tell stories ‘til the cows not only came home, but went back out to pasture. I think she was a undiagnosed manic depressive like me and like her mom, Blanche, and she had that gift of gab. When she was drinking, she was either hilarious or hideously depressing; either way, I heard every story she could spare and committed it to memory and soon to memoir. Momoir?
Her death should have been scored by Puccini – agonizing, the slowest two weeks the world has ever seen, full of drama and angst. Twenty years later, I can still remember having to shoo close friends away from her bedside (“Don’t let them gawk at me, promise, Amer”) and take her home (“Promise me, no nursing homes”) to die in her own bed, another promise. She had not had a drink in 10 years, and after that last breath, I left sister’s side, clutched Charlotte’s hand, and sent her up with, “Mama, you died sober!”
Amen. Amy
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: ABC Weds., Charlotte, Daughters, Death & Dying, Mom, Three Word Weds., Toasting, Wake
Face Down in it When I Die
It’s my last wish
that I shall leave this world
drowning in chocolate cake
The dense layers slashed by
thick, sweet frosting and
dusted with Mexican cocoa
But for now, seeing as
I’m pretty much alive
and kicking, I’ll settle
for a plate, a fork, and
a cup of espresso,
swirling mocha on my tongue
The nearest thing to good sex
is rich, sensual, forbidden…
and sitting in front of me
Excuse me while I
indulge in the bliss of
this final piece of pleasure
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Dessert Devil
For the delightfully named Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, courtesy of Ella, whose blog appears HERE. She challenged us to write about food porn. Also hanging about in the kitchens of Poets United. Peace, and whatever food porn floats YOUR boat, Amy
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: Chocolate, Coffee, Death & Dying, Ella's Edge, Food Porn, Humor, Indulgence, Poets United, Real Toads
Was a Time When…
Was a time when
nothing was shelved for another day
When, lacking A.C., our windows allowed
the cacophony of Manhattan traffic
to ferment with our Streisand on the stereo
into an ethereal, essentially New York brew
When heartaches were daily doings and
lovers’ promises abstract
When Chinatown was
a neon-spangled dragon,
delicious, exhilarating, smelling of
sesame oil and sweet rice wine
When we’d shimmy on the sidewalk
to every lowrider blasting reggae
Now those days in the City
are an exquisite origami swan
swinging from the ceiling on a ribbon,
suspended over my head
over my half-closed eyes
from the drop ceiling
over my hospital bed
as my life reaches the coda of
its jazzy, dizzying blur
Slowly, veil upon veil of blissful,
mystic, magic memories featherfall
upon my last moments…
but not a single regret
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Exquisite, abstract, spangling, ethereal, ferment, dragon, shimmy, origami, cacophony, coda, aches, shelved. FYI, it’s The Sunday Whirl’s first anniversary this week, so click on the link and check out what others have done with Brenda’s weekly “dirty dozen” words. The variety of thoughts, of what springs to mind and splashes on the page of each poet or writer, is quite amazing. Brenda Warren, BRAVA and thanks!
Also at my poetic nest, Poets United! Peace, Amy
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: Barbra Streisand, Death & Dying, Jazz, Manhattan, NYC, Reminiscence, Sunday Whirl
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.
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in Ceremony, Prompts, Wakes Tags: Bars, Beer, Ceremony, Death & Dying, Drinking, Prose, Tequila, Trifecta, Wakes
Smart Online Purchase
Old sir, I’ll tie your shoes for you
Sit here; it’s best for me to do
And see, there’s breakfast on the stove;
hot tea, your favorite, hint of clove
When your dear wife passed suddenly
they programmed and delivered me
I cook, I clean, I’m good with tools
Our factory doesn’t turn out fools
And if you need, well, something more
I’ve placed some porn mags in your drawer
Your butler, friend, and poker shark
(You bought that program on a lark)
When CryTon manufactured me
they thought of your needs, A to Z
Embedding chips, all to your taste:
Gin rummy, shopping, how to baste
a perfect bird, just like your wife
And sympathy for her lost life
An early model at the wheel
when Mrs. crossed at Main at Keel
They’ve fixed us now, we’re better drivers
And waterproof, superb pearl divers
So what’s your wish? I’ll gladly fill it
That fly? Of course, I’ll gladly kill it
Life. That concept eludes me
I’ll live for all eternity
You said that you will, too, someplace
beyond the walls of time and space
Your fear not death, but don’t want pain
I promise, suffering will not reign
A lovely day, let’s troll the park
I’ll keep you out ‘til after dark
And it would be so tragic if
we wandered too close to a cliff
You’ll fly and fall, angels will sing
Don’t fret – I’ve thought of everything
A rash of deaths this chosen day
For Wii have our own games to play
The funerals, already planned
From church to grave, it’s all in hand
Then I’ll move in two friends – or four
‘Cause we don’t need you anymore
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, even though I didn’t make the deadline. A poem about the brain (3rd definition in dictionary: something that acts like a brain, ex. a computer). Also posted, of course, at Poets United!
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY, Uncategorized Tags: A.I., Computers, Death & Dying, Friendship, Plots, Robots, Trifecta
Billie Holiday
Her story, stuff of legend
Hard to believe a girl
who scrubbed the whorehouse steps
was a child of destiny
Louis and Bessie’s songs, a balm
wafting through the brothel windows
(masking commercial commotion upstairs)
That jazz summoned magic buried in her very marrow
At seventeen, at dusk, she entered a club
The audience, the first witnesses
to a staggering talent, unbroken by
the sorrows of her childhood
Finding her soulmate in sax man Lester Young
Coursing through their veins and blended history,
their addictions: Jazz and heroin
First gave life; second led to early death
Too young, a deathbed. Money taped to her thigh?
A filthy lie, as befits urban legend
The collective force of Lady Day and Pres?
The real deal – raw truth pressed on vinyl
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Destiny, Dusk, Mate, Marrow, Staggering, Buried, Songs, Blood, Addiction, Story, Sorrows, Broken. These words began singing choruses of “Lover Man” to me before I knew what I was going to do with them. Also posted at the Poets United Poetry Pantry.
Image courtesy of www.jacklawrencesongwriter.com, in his photo files. Thanks, Jack!
Although the rumor of money taped to her thigh was false, police did arrest her on her deathbed for possession. Lester “Pres” Young, who nicknamed Billie “Lady Day,” was in fact nicknamed by Billie as the President of Sax Players. Wish I could have included the video on YouTube of her TV session in her later years on “Fine and Mellow,” but the cut was too long. Look it up; you’ll spot Gerry Mulligan, Coleman Hawkins, Pres on the second sax solo, Mal Waldron on piano, and more. When Pres Young died of self-abuse (alcohol and heroin), Billie was not allowed by Young’s wife to sing at the funeral. Billie said bitterly, “I’ll be next,” and she was, four months later.
Posted by Sharp Little Pencil in Music, POETRY Tags: Addictions, Billie Holiday, Death & Dying, Drugs, Heroes, Jazz, Lester Young, Musicians, Poets United, Sunday Whirl