Pastor Hellevangelist
Sunday morning funnies aren’t in
the newspaper but on
TV, toupeed and pancaked
Those televangelists put on
quite a show, preachin’ ‘bout
all the horrible sins they know
will send YOU straight to Hell
Then the preacher’s healings they show
Miss “Mah sinuses ache” WHAM!
The Holy Spirit is there in his hand
She’s on the floor, flailing, flattened
Now he’s singin’ solo with the band
Amazing, grace has graced this man
with abundance straight from God:
Mansion, limo, trophy wife
Teleparishioners are awed
and send him money to keep up
his cathedral lifestyle
A few bucks to Darfur, but most
keeps up his shiny white smile
He’s quick on the drawl, sending
other folks all to Hell
‘til he’s caught with this mistress
at the local No-Tell Motel
or taking young boys under his wing
and under the covers
under cover of righteousness
Then his wife discovers
So Sunday, tune in, turn on to
the big show: The Satanic versus
the squeaky-clean teleGod man
He knows all the curses
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter P. Also at my cornerstone, Poets United.
Catching the last breath of Sunday Scribblings, laid low with flu that comes and goes. If I hear, “it’s going around” one more time, I’ll… cough unproductively!
Sunday Scribblings asked for a sensation (in this case, I borrowed that of another), and Three Word Wednesday used Backward, Ease, and Omission. Seemed to go together… Peace to all, Amy
Tightwire With Glass Shards and No Net
Her uncomplicated memories of growing up
The ease with which she blocks out
who dad was and what he did…
Insisting he hung the moon and stars
Not a sin, but a shame, this omission.
She remains his prisoner, unbalanced,
dreams filled with violence,
legs kicking away at something,
she can’t quite see its face…
Look backward, angel.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic collective home, Poets United.
As the New Year approaches, I felt the time was right to post this, based on a person (whose name has been changed) who hung around Court Street in Binghamton, NY, back in the 70s. I didn’t know her personally… but she was different. And she was persecuted for it. This year, let’s be kind to everyone – especially “The Others,” those whom we may not understand, but who are just as worthy of respect as the next person. Let’s make this the year we put an end to homophobia and prejudice against all who buck the stereotypes.
Here’s the story of a fighter. Peace, Amy
FRANCES BY NIGHT
Frances took a lot of shit
back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood
On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines
Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps
The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her
Sometimes she’d get bounced early for
flouncing around the married guys too much
(They were undercover, like the CIA)
This was back in the day of “those bars”
When you came in the back door and showed ID
Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances
who had to show her license with her real name, Frank
It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her
A few cocktails would set her right
She’d be fine ‘til closing time
If no prime escort took the bait
she’d wait as long as she could
before leaving for good (or for worse)
Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat
Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”
Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!”
No cops were ever around that part of town
despite the shouts of the frantic rumble
She put up a good fight, that little queen
for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper
Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles
of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her
but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies
“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”
“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!
You need it more than I do”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic hearth and home, Poets United, for their Poetry Pantry.
Escape Can Be Forever
Authentic, unapologetic
Manic-depressive, chose Meth over meds
Yowling cat-scratch vocals
Wound-up top
Inviting us for a spin
Next to none, under your skin
Energetic, enigmatic
House-high beehive
Outrageous, bawdy “bad girl”
Undulating at the mic
Soul singer to the end
Everlasting, never built to last… Amy Winehouse
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: For ABC Wednesday, took longer to complete than I imagined, but wanted to get it right. Amy Winehouse’s legacy is not just her incredible music. She serves as a symbol of the confusion between addiction and mental illness. It’s true that many times, as with my own mother, people who need other help self-medicate… the difference is, Amy was DIAGNOSED as manic-depressive (bipolar) and refused to take prescribed medicine or stick with therapists.
To say she was an addict and post “Just say no” on FaceBook does a great disservice to many people who might see themselves in Amy’s downward spiral and possibly seek medical help. As a person living with manic depression and PTSD, I wanted this message to go out to as many folks as possible.
Also posted at Poets United. RIP, Amy Winehouse, and peace to her family and fans, Amy Barlow Liberatore
I Heard The News Today, Oh Boy
I note, fascinated, that
TV prophets cheerfully tender
the day’s torments,
as though yesterday left no scars,
no rusty bloodstains on the streets
of Kabul.
The sun has been swept under
a cement cloud.
Why chance a morning walk
when crawling will do?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Whirl words are in BOLD. Try Brenda’s Wordles – they are fascinating!
Also on Poets United, my poetic collective home.
The Sunday Whirl gave us words that appear in bold. All I could think of was parents scouring the Norwegian countryside in search of their children.
Also posted at Poets United, my home away from home. Peace, Amy
Twisted Youth
(In Memory of Victims and Honor of Survivors of the Massacre in Norway)
How does a young man’s mind twist this
marvel of humankind
into reprehensible ideologies?
Not in the blink of an IPod spewing neo-Nazi music.
More likely, scattered, parentally unsupervised viewings
of YouTube videos, which cast people into castes:
Good and Evil.
It clouds his judgment…
and soon the blast of a bomb and
whirr of bullets rain down on Norway.
Desperate residents search for the living,
but first, they must scan the dead.
Americans pull their curtains closed
and say it can’t happen here.
But it already has:
Racial violence, rendered legal by racist politicians.
Hatred of immigrants, shots flying at the southern border.
Brutalized or murdered gays, lesbians, transgender people,
some hanging from trees, some trailing from bumpers of trucks.
Timothy McVeigh, the coward who chose death over apology.
Columbine.
Young minds raised in racist, ignorant homes.
It’s here, not just in Norway or the Middle East.
Can’t gild this fetid ditch lily:
Face the shame of homegrown terror.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 