Amy Barlow Liberatore… stories of lost years, wild times, mental variety, faith, and lots of jazz

Tag Archives: Dreams

At Poetic Asides, we’re writing about the future. This is my dream:

Bandaids will heal
Surgeons won’t harm
Counselors will hear
taking to heart
all the hurt
hidden in the heads
of those whose health
depends on wholeness


© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil


I caught a glimpse of it, once
That shining “city on a hill”
Neither city nor hill
but neverending beauty the color of
champagne, equally intoxicating
but with neither hangover nor regret

I caught a glimpse of where we’re going
It shines, it glistens, it listens
Neither here nor there
but everywhere there is love
given freely and without precondition
and neither bought nor sold

I caught a glimpse when I needed faith
I cried out and was answered
Not with words nor with angels
but the feeling of arms about me
cherishing me for myself alone
and me with nothing to give but thanks

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil


And she said, “Let there be no more war.”

She challenged leaders who had disagreements
to meet at round tables, with mediators

In the event of violence
the leaders themselves were escorted to a boxing ring
where they could keep their fight personal
and not send the young to die over what was essentially
hubris and hurt feelings

She was a wise leader who set the stage
for a new age of peace

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Another take on that lovely word, Imagine. Most of us fly in our dreams – sometimes it seems quite real…

FREE FLIGHT (Writer’s Island, Imagine)

Wandering into the enchanted field
petting daisies, grazing the tips of
grasses grown wild and tall

She centers herself
gripping damp ground with her toes
Eyes close and her face turns skyward

Arms rise from her sides and she
wills her body to follow
Heels peel off the earth, then her toes

Opening her eyes, she is just off the ground
hovering, delighted, a featherweight being
Now comes the real work

She launches into a vertical breaststroke
slowly, loving the feel of her fingers moving through
humid air as though along a pond

The field is far below her now; her house is
a Lego-sized block. She levels off her ascent
and pushes farther into the atmosphere

Over hills, touching the tops of Douglas firs
Swooping down over the river, she waves to
kids swimming on the lakeshore

Look, they whisper, Why don’t our parents
believe us? She doesn’t wait for night
She take flight when we can watch her

But the grownups are too busy, away from the
places in nature where she can be spied
so only children are inspired to try and fly

Someday, she muses, I will have a daughter
and we will take a night flight, hand in hand, close to
the harvest moon, as fireflies light the way

And when we’ve had enough of airborne travel
we’ll come to rest on our own roof
feet dangling over the eaves. Wondering, laughing

How many are blessed with the power of flight?
She doesn’t know, but thinks it must be very few
for she’s never seen another in all her travels

Her mother taught her the secret: Let go of the world
let the air fill you up past your lungs, so deeply
that you are the air. Let go and be free

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil