Gorgeous “Goldfinger” Gal: Shirley Bassey
Ah, the Bond movies!
Yes, I thought, let’s sit back and
drool over the biggest misogynist franchise
ever undertaken (overtaking box offices
worldwide, and a great date movie,
if the woman is passive: He can close his eyes
and pretend she’s Ursula Andress later.)
My “blah” goes gaga when Shirley Bassey
Herself takes the stage, clutching a mic
Her first phrase, tentative,
lacking that signature tremolo of
“Gowld-fin-gaaaaaaaah”
But as the song progressed, we
stopped staring at her stifling corset and
listened to the majestic magic spell
cast by a 76-year-old woman,
an icon in every sense of the word
(and a favorite lip-synch of
drag queens back in my day)
By the song’s crashing climax,
she nailed that note. Crushed it.
Grabbed it by the saddle horn and held onto
the bucking broncho of all classic
movie themes. She was triumphant.
Gracious. Luminescent.
In short, Adele could learn a lot from
the great, grand, gorgeous Shirley Bassey!
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Honest to Pete, I was ready to be embarrassed when Shirley Bassey came onstage at the Oscars. I thought, “Oh no, another golden girl who’s appearing in casino lounges now. This is gonna be bad, friends.” Later on, my BFF John and I were texting (throughout), and we agreed: Adele (although the cutest young woman and quite bubbly) wrote a song almost as bad as her rendering of said tune onstage.
BFF and I felt like calling both Bassey and La Streisand up to say, “If you two are feeling generous, please take that nice little Brit under your golden wings. WE BEG YOU.”
And about Affleck not being nominated for Best Director: Directors make those nominations, and I think they’re simply jealous that Ben looks better than most of them.
For ABC Wednesday, Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and dverse Open Mic Night! Peace, Amy
Trifecta wanted a dialog in exactly 33 words. Not the most pleasant topic, but until we ensure all women have equal access to birth control, this conversation will keep happening, with different outcomes. My hope is birth control for all women who want it, and men who will “man up” and use a condom every time, because the Pill isn’t a 100% guarantee… and there are STDs to consider. This will also be my submission to dverse Open Mic Night. Peace and mindfulness, Amy
About the Unexpected Little Visitor
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Thoughts?”
“It’s your body. Do what you want.”
“Funny, it was OUR bodies that night. I’ll book the appointment and send you the bill from my new place.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Wisconsin Mud
Autumn task
Baskets of weeds
Seeds fall to soil
Toil with the tiller
Clay ground first
Curse of my garden
Hardens like rock
Mocks my feeble shovel
Red, this level
Beveled by tilling machine
Green detritus mixes
Fixes a greyer hue
Potting soil on top
Prop myself with a rake
Stakes then reposted
Toasted from our labors
Add soil meant for pot
Plot now proper brown
Garden set for sleep
Steep some tea and rest
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was simply “mud.” I’m also putting this on a shelf in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United and spilling on the bar at dverse Open Mic Night!
Of course, the damnable ironweed of earlier in the season (CLICK HERE) refused to disclose the center of its evil web of roots, and the pye wede followed suit. Monica planted some spring bulbs in front; a failed daisy plant finally sprang into life in late autumn, surprise! More daisies will be planted, as well as tiger lilies, the bulbs go in now. Next spring, we hope to have a plethora of pots: Herbs, petunias, Sweet William, lobelia, and Johnny Jump-ups (my favorite).
PLEASE NOTE: If you are strictly anti-abortion, you probably won’t want to read this. Better yet, perhaps you should, because it deals with a particular “method of conception,” as one lawmaker so callously put it recently. So that makes me… a walking uterus? And since I’m post-menopausal, that would make me useless… It’s like how they called cigarettes a “nicotine delivery system.” And don’t get me started on “legitimate rape.” It’s violence and power, not sex. Hey, women can see past this malarkey. Remember in November, sisters!
Scroll down a bit for the poem.
Since the Procedure
First appointment since
her miserable abortion.
She’s 18 – nervous, tearful.
The nurse who knows her and
helped with the procedure
is by her side. Part rock, part teddy bear.
Then Doctor steps in.
Without a word, detached,
he flips up the stirrups
like it’s a mechanical bull and
not an exam table. “Slide up,”
are his first words to her.
He invades her with icy hands.
Palpates roughly.
Orders her to relax.
This from the man who
vacuumed her womb
only last week. He performed
the abortion, but you can feel
his disgust toward his patient.
“I said RELAX.” She tenses at the command.
Then, he mumbles, “I can’t do this
if you don’t cooperate.”
Briskly sheds his latex gloves;
brusquely exits the room.
Nurse holds the girl as she shakes and sobs,
“Take the money and run, doc.”
Later, Doctor gripes, “These girls
get in this type of trouble
and I have to take care of it but
they don’t help, not a bit.”
Nurse blurts, “Yeah, don’t you hate it when
girls go out and get themselves raped?
Honest to God, you have no idea, do you?”
Her indignant outburst is lost on him as he
flips through a Bermuda Vacation catalog.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday (yes, it’s Sunday, I’m well aware!) asked for a poem including the words Miserable, Brisk, and Detached. I knew a doctor like this… one of my friends was raped and he had ZERO pity, zero compassion. There are plenty of wonderful doctors, but this guy wasn’t one of them. That nurse (Catholic by faith, dedication to social justice gospel) quit the practice and opened a counseling center for girls and women recovering from abortion. “It has to be legal, clean, and safe,” she said, “but it doesn’t have to be even more traumatic than what some of them went through to need the procedure in the first place.”
I will also challenge readers at dverse Open Mic… perhaps I’ll get some flack. In fact, I hope I do, if only to open the door for mutually understanding and conversation. May every child be a wanted child, Amy
First Time, No Charm
Fifteen
and the only girl in her class
who hadn’t “done it” yet
Sharp gossipy tongues
of her peers rendered her
brittle, an underachiever
Sure, she had the fever, but
no boy had the charm, the
romance she longed for
Fearing she would develop
a discernible crust beneath which
no one would wish to explore
she began to wear shorter skirts,
willowy legs bending, swaying
as a breeze blew through her branches
She spied one guy, gave him the eye
that said, “I want,” and he knew he’d be
Her First, and thus accoladed by his buds
That night, they threw down a blanket
Some pot he’d rustled up for the occasion
dilated their pupils, lazy balloon eyes
A few harsh kisses, some fumbling
some mumbling, but not calling her name
He opened the packet of the sheik sheath
Almost exploding as she put it on him
(like the banana in health class) and then he
crushed her with his weight, piercing her
It was all of ten minutes, leaving her with
the wound that never needs mending
And an unbearable feeling that there must be
more than sex than this, a barbarian invasion
Otherwise, why would musicians bother to write
love songs?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Sheaths, Explode, Unbearable, Fever, Willows, Crust, Mending, Breeze, Piercing, Brittle, and Rustle. Click on the blog name and see what everyone else got from this interesting group on the Wordle! I am glad to say this is NOT autobiographical.
I’ve chosen this poem for dverse Open Mic Night. Also at my home base for all things poetic, Poets United.
Thanks to all who sent notes of support during my recent “computer Blue Screen Of Death” crisis. Took a day or so to read the work of others before starting to post again.
To followers of this blog, THANK YOU for your patience. If Sadie doesn’t Blue Screen again, I’ll be happy and she won’t be carted back to the shop sniffling. (OK, I was the one sniffling…)
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about creativity. Seems like a good starting point for getting my groove back, also to post at dverse Open Mic Night, as well as the site that never BSODs me, Poets United (become a member, y’all!) and the whimsical Imaginary Garden with Read Toads for Open Link Monday. The seed for this poem was in a note to my dear friend Sidnie, with whom I share certain parts of the bozosphere.
Creative Juices
In the game of Poetry*
there are no winners, nor losers
Our creative juices flow
sometimes in rhythm and rhyme
or perhaps in chaotic streams of
consciousness
One man’s Keats
is another women’s drivel
So please accept
these dribblings
from the
howling bloodhound slobberjaws
of my
creatively juicy life
(or not)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Shout-out to Buddah Moskowitz, who disdains “Capital P” poetry!! You’re my bruddah from anudda mudda! Ameleh
Comes the Revolution…
(For Riley)
Comes the revolution,
I want you in my trench.
Comes the day we say “No more!”
I want you at my side.
I schooled you on our rights;
you’re steeped in the shameful history
of slavery, of suffrage, of civil rights denied,
of how it’s always someone else’s turn
to be not white enough, not male enough,
not straight enough, not American enough;
to be trod upon, to be spat upon
especially via metaphor and the airwaves.
You, a Jew raised in the U.C.C.
(Upfront, Confrontational Christians!)
In your blood, remnants of the Holocaust;
in your training, social justice for all.
That pedigree makes for speaking truth to power,
for passion, for radical, unconditional love.
This revolution will be
one of words, not weapons
Only the undereducated run out of words,
falling back on hate speech and violence.
Though their sound bytes nip at our heels,
we will not run. We will turn and debate.
Comes the revolution, our trench will be
filled with books, journals, and understanding.
So keep sharp your mind, daughter mine
because the revolution is at our door:
The War on Women – our rights,
our bodies, our station, our future.
What we do now is “not for ourselves alone,”
but for all females in generations to come.
We claim our right as citizens of the world
to be who we are, love who we may, and
figure out for our selves what is best
when put to the test of The Pink Stick Follies.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, Revolution – and for dverse Open Mic Night. Also “in the margin” on Poets United. Also for Trifecta: Radical.
The quote “Not For Ourselves Alone” is usually attributed to Elizabeth Cady Stanton, but its first usage came from a man, Marcus Tullius Cicero: “Non nobis solum nati sumus. (Not for ourselves alone are we born.)”
NOTE: When Riley was a senior in high school, I wrote a piece for her yearbook, as did many parents. Mine included the phrase, “Comes the revolution, I want you in my trench.” Since then, she has come out, moved West, entered an art institute, and continues to blossom. Happy birthday, beba.
It seems quite ironic that we are indeed on the verge of an actual revolution, and the stakes could not be higher. We are lucky to have so many enlightened men alongside us in the fight. Let’s hope that the “White is Right and Women Should Shut the Hell Up” militias disband… due to pressure from their mothers!
I’m finally back from vacation. We are well but tired… I watched most of the Republican Convention and am in the midst of reviewing the Democratic Convention. I wish more people would watch BOTH sides of the damned “aisle”!
Couldn’t stop thinking about the troops as I watched those foolish delegates in their funny hats, all having fun during what should be a defining moment in politics. So here is my tribute to one selfless servant. Peace, Amy
Nurse in the Field (Afghanistan)
Nine hours into her shift
she steals a moment to smooth
errant hairs, captured and secured by
mock tortoise side combs.
The last wave was
a mind-numbing parade of
the barely living
and the too-soon dead.
Checking the morphine drip on
an amputee, she wonders why
nurses dress in pastel scrubs.
Cruel joke, the blood spatter,
carrying iodine-splattered lost limbs
across to the bins.
She used to count the number
of fingers and toes per shift; something
to divert her mind from the horror.
Now she breathes in madness, exhales exhaustion.
In WWI, they were gassed and blinded.
In the Second, shot or blown to pieces by grenades.
In Nam (where her mom served), they bathed our boys
in the finest toxins Dow and co. could manufacture.
Agent Orange could kick 007’s ass easily, if slowly.
Now men and women are hit by drones, as
stateside geeks “do battle” like a game of Pac-Man.
They cannot be sure of their target other than from
“actionable (questionable) intelligence.” Tonight
it might be a grandmother and her family, or the
piece de resistance of warspeak: “Friendly fire.”
The nurse strips fatigues from a screaming airman.
His legs lie still but arms are flailing like a meth-head.
Restraints: cruel but necessary as she injects morphine.
Evidence of spinal damage, extensive brain trauma…
She croons, “Slooooow down, we’ve gotcha.” Her
honeyed voice seems to sooth him, “You’re gonna
be all ri-” Then the flat line no greased paddles will stir.
She’ll hear five final, strangled exhalations before
her break comes up. A few hours of sleep, and
she’ll emerge looking refreshed, gearing up for
the second-roughest game in Kabul:
Patching up the pawns, gurneyed pieces
from the chess board of battle.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle is shown below), dverse Open Mic Night, and Sunday Scribblings (the prompt was Soothe). Also at the site where I am always soothed: Poets United.
The amazing Joseph Harker of Naming Constellations asked for a personal hymn (or hymns), starting with something we have never heard a hymn written about… it’s a long prompt, so check it out HERE. These are the fruits of my labors, my three hymns in the heart of a Sunday night. I will also post this on Tuesday at dverse Open Mic Night and at Poets United. Thanks again, Joseph. Peace, Amy
Hymn to Her
Trapped in the overgrown patch
called my garden. Titan prairie grasses
tickle the screens, engulf potted plants.
I, the prairie avenger, armed with
scissors, hacksaw, kneepads, and gloves
shape, tame, make symmetry of chaos
forgetting that grasses once ran wild here
long before my aim of a forced, polite posyland.
Blessed are those who walk in Her overgrown path.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Shrine
This is my shrine
It’s wholly mine
A framed reproduction of Kinkaide’s kitschy two-story clapboard
in muted tones, Photoshopped with images of prostitutes. The
ice cream truck parked out front says “Gone Fishing”;
silhouetted against a shade, Mr. Softee is obviously hard.
This is my shrine
It’s wholly mine
This may seem odd for inclusion in my confusion of a
work space, but, with other talisman… a rainbow glass fish,
pads and pencils, Riley at seven – little hippie in Lennon glasses,
all these stir my imagination, invite the spirit in to dwell within
this sinner.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Give Me But One Chance
Give me but one chance
to teach another to dance
To look upon others
not as “them” but as brothers
Give me a servant’s hands
fulfilling needs, not commands
Help me to hold close those
whose ribs I can feel ‘neath clothes
Keep me awake, aware
to go where others never dare
Keep me just off kilter
so I possess no societal filter
And thus remind all humankind
our common threads are the ties that bind
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 