THE DRINKING YEARS
The drinking years poured on
in various degrees of fizzfriction
My dream manifested: 18 at last
My tribute, a friend bought
the first round and round we went
Soon, my lonely heart found itself
nestled in the arms of some shlump
I met the night before… score
I had envisioned losing IT
over Chateauneuf du Pape
Not snotlockered over boilermakers
Finally I was a space cadet in
launch mode: “If I am to…
stay here for a… p-period of time,
will someone pleeeeeease
persuade the floor to pleeeeease…
stop spinning?”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
The Sunday Whirl gave us a Baker’s Dozen of words. Click the link to see what others have done with this unique prompt, and, as always, thanks to Brenda Warren for her sharing the list!
This is also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
Suffice it to say, after watching my mother die from a combination of 50 years of smoking and 40 of drinking (she was in recovery toward the end), I gave up partying. Besides, I’d much rather enjoy the occasional microbrew beer than depend on Gordon’s for a lifeline. Thanks, Mama, for showing me the better path. Peace, Amy
Shot Glasses and Shop Classes
Hammerin down bourbon like it’s
five minutes before Prohibition.
He only looks up when a
been-there blonde rasps,
“Don’t mean to chisel, but
can you screwdriver me?”
He knows she’s talkin OJ and a shot
but his gaze is stapled on her form.
Still staring, he scrapes up a sawbuck
and plunks it down on the bar.
They carve conversation
out of thin air til closing time.
They file out, arm in arm… maybe he
nailed her, but she ain’t tellin.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, asking us to pick a profession and use the “tools of the trade” (in this case, woodworking) and make the nouns into verbs. Wordworking?
Also at my poetic workshop (sawdust and all), Poets United! Peace, Amy
I love the blog, “Imaginary Garden with Real Toads,” several writers who toss out different prompts. I saw Kerry’s challenge to write from the oral tradition, a story one would tell a small audience seated on the rug all around. Instantly I heard my grandma Blanche and imagined how she might tell of her long-ago relatives in the old country. I don’t do prose very often, but I do hope you enjoy this, offered with all my Shanty Irish heart. Peace, Amy
Long Ago and Far Away (the soil from which I spring)
Long ago, our ancestors dwelt far away, in a harsh land. Soil so rocky, for every shovel that dug in, two stones came out, and the walls and cottages were built with these. What was a hindrance became a treasure.
Men and tall enough boys tilled the landlords’ fields or worked the mines. Hardship was their way of life; the flintiest labor therefore must be rewarded in a friendly, communal atmosphere. Those who had pushed a plow or descended into the pitch black nether to dig for coal gathered nightly at the public meeting house, which was meant for all meetings pertaining to village life, but mostly beloved for its bar. Every village had a “pub,” as well as a church or two (the second being Anglican, depending on how England’s will held sway in town).
Soon, a tankard was banged on the bar and silence would come over them like a fog. A singer – Lord, you cannot toss a pebble in all of Eire without hitting a fine tenor! Someone offered a song. The verse was his to sing, and all voices joined in on the chorus. Some were mournful, in minor key, recalling a death or the loss of a plot of land, such as “Four Fields.” Others were rollicking, bawdy reels sung so loud they’d bring on the need for “just one more drink, and then I’ll see the missus.”
Meanwhile, the lady of the house, having milked the cow, drawn water from the well for washing faces of little ones, cleaning clothes, and scrubbing floors on her knees; having beaten blankets, spanked a naughty one or cupped another’s face in her palm, chopped wood for the fireplace to keep the house warm and roast the meat, stoked the stove for baking and invited the widow over to gossip over a cup of tea; having worked miracles with the potatoes yet again, fed the children, told them a story before prayers and kisses… After all this, she’d sit in her rocking chair, waiting for her man to stumble in, doff his hat, and eat his portion.
Then it was up the stairs together and, should the drink not have deprived him of his manhood, they would have a go at making another baby. As for how that happens, my dears, well, that would be a story for another day…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic pub, Poets United, for their Poetry Pantry!
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, ancestry, oral tradition
WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART
———————————–
Two different views of the same woman – one from across the room, one within. A true story, based on experiences with a multiracial social justice group. Eventually, we came to an understanding… Amy
Dissonance: The Races, We Run
See that white lady
She so smug, so set
Grew up in suburbs
Daddy workin a steady job
Mom at home, waiting for kids from school
See that white lady
She grew up with privilege
No latchkey, no projects, no “free lunch” line
She told me they had a pool out back with sharks in it
What the hell she talkin
See the same white lady, staring in the mirror
See her take all those prescription drugs
to keep it together, 50 years after the fact
After the house on the cul de sac
Watch her heaving sobs in the therapist’s office
‘Cause some nights, the swimming ended and
The Shark grew lungs and feet and
a heavy, stumbling footfall
He’d open her bedroom door
and feast
Peel back the siding of the placid ‘burbs
Tread carefully the manicured lawns
Pick up a spyglass, examine the nasty underbelly
Throw open the drapes at midnight
Breathe deep – the stench of incest and vermouth
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also for ABC Wednesday (brought to you by the letter “D”) and, as always, Poets United.
Emotional Dyslexic
I cannot read her
She’s too confusing
Now she’s mad at me
and that’s amusing
It’s cat and mouse time
But where’s the trap now?
Oh, that’s the wrong game
I’ll give her crap now
‘Cause she should know me
My way of thinking
She never meets my needs
That’s why I’m drinking
And when I get home
Supper on the stove –
or else I’ll show her
my back hand of love
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: This is one thing that never happened to me, but has happened to a lot of women, and there is no excuse. Men who run out of words use fists… and guns… and other weapons often discussed on my blog. Same goes for some women, but in a much smaller proportion. I am blessed to know so many men of peace, especially after a difficult, abusive childhood.
Will be posted at dverse Tues Open Mic and at my poetic home, Poets United.
The Door to Deceitful Delights
The door to deceitful delights
she discovered within as she was
plied with that first fizzy fun punch
Pried open wider by a toke of particularly prime pot
Finally flung open with the abandon possessed by
twenty-something Immortals
This same door had dwelt
in her mother and others long passed
Smothering, smoldering smoke and
various places to place opium
by hookah or
by whodahthunkit
Twenty-something was wise
She grew tired of wasting time
Time to grow up
We can’t all be Peter Pan
or Tinkerbell, even
She shoved her full weight against the door
Forced it shut and with it all the shit, shove-stored
She knows she could open it again
on a whim or over a heartbreak
But she willingly tossed the key
into a pool of other bad memories
where she chooses not to swim
knowing she’d only sink like a stone
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mike Night (check out the links!) and my poetic hearth and home, Poets United.
Lost Soul
He shuffled by, jeans grazing the sidewalk
I caught a whiff of
part bottle of cheap wine,
part bloody confrontation from
last night, carved on his cheek
As his garbage-bag suitcase thumped behind,
he spat in the gutter.
DTs setting in, he twitched
in a crooked gait, a gurgle
singing from deep in his gut.
Before I could stop him to offer a breakfast,
he vanished through a paint-shredded doorway.
My mom would’ve said,
“His porch light’s flickering.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (with thanks to Brenda Warren for assembling the Wordle and Mike Patrick for the words): Gutter, flickering, twitched, vanished, crooked, bottle, bloody, gurgle, sidewalk, thump, carved, caught. Also at my poetic touchstone, 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.
Sharp Little Pencil 