Words Fail Me
When I look at
the box to check that
asks me if I’m white
(like Apartheid, right?)
Words fail me
When I hear a slur
thrown at his/her
clothing on the street
(too butch or too sweet)
Words fail me
Then I remember what
my ancestry is, and cut
straight to the chase –
Whether it’s race
or “homoqueerdyke” –
Riley sure didn’t like
it, she took them on
Must have gone til dawn
Whatever the abuse
There is no excuse
I find my mind; suddenly
My words do not fail me
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The great Brian Miller at dverse Poets asked for the theme “when words fail you.”
It’s one thing to be stopped in my tracks by utter stupidity, insensitivity, and hate speech. It’s another to let it pass. I will always calmly try to talk them in off the Limbaugh Lemming Ledge… even though we have “concealed carry” in this state. It’s worth the risk, if only to stand for justice and work for peace. And it always ends up with a moment of standoff and an apology. (Caveat: I don’t take on the clearly unmedicated who could do me real harm, because they are speaking out of their own illnesses.) Peace, Amy
New York Doll
There was a time in her prime
when she’d mime drink orders
to cordial bartenders who always
tended to her needs. Never one
for thinking while drinking.
She’d haul a Hal to the juke
and dance dance dance
A chance to prance from
Latin to limbo to limo to
blow snow, no dough, only
her willingness to be ill-used
(not abused in the classic sense;
her men’s tastes not leaning toward
the waste of a pretty face)
The pace of the chase
was hasty and tiring, and so,
rewiring back at the flat, we
would recount the bounty
that shines brightest at 2 am
The night, our flight, our fight
to be noticed in an
anonymous
bottomless pit
of a city
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is why having a roommate in the larger cities is important. Who else will listen to your triumphs and tragedies ‘til dawn? This one will be at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads on Monday and dverse Poetry Pub’s Open Mic on Tuesday. I’ll add the links in the next two days so you can click and read some soulful stuff from a vast array of poets. Peace, Amy
Apalachin
No, it’s not Appalachia
It’s Apalachin
Like apple achin’
In the sticks, with
cows munchin’ grass
over back of Lisa’s house
Kitty caught a mouse
and laid it under
the rear tire of our car
The guts went squishin’
I’m wishin’ Beth was there
She’s one for the messy stuff
There was a mob meeting
years ago, the REAL mob,
the Mafia, on the other side
of town and police raided them
for tax stuff, I dunno, but
Mom says we got a reputation
The Klan was real busy
two towns over, and Mom said
they are fools who wear
dunce caps and I think she’s
right because she’s always right
and you better know that…
Otherwise, you get The Squint
or get called “Sadie” or
worst of all, really, is when
she says, “T’ain’t funny, McGee,”
(some old radio show) and then
you know you’re in trouble, kiddo
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse called for poems that are uniquely ours. This is I, the queen of lofty speech, speaking from the front yard of 55 Brookside Avenue, Apalachin, New York, in 1962. (I was already scared of cameras, afraid they’d flash; early sign of PTSD.) The only thing I couldn’t get in was Mom’s Midwestern way of saying “roots” and “roof” with a short “oo.”
Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
I lost a week in there with oral surgery (no, they didn’t sew my mouth shut, but I know of a few people who wish they had!). But I used last week’s Sunday Whirl words, which I will share with dverse and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday.
My friend Rev. Tisha is working on a program concerning violence against women. Please feel free to forward poems to me by email – either paste the poem in the message or attach. Here is an example, and I can only say that, as a survivor of a different type of violence, these girls huddle in a corner of my soul. Peace, Amy
SECRET TO SURVIVAL
Three girls
torn from the cradle of mothers’ arms
peering past bad circumstances
The secret
to their survival in exile was the stories
Pry open clues with claws forged of need
Pile bits
of memory, tiny green apples
as unripe as they. Their rash hope:
that spirits
would comfort them as they endured
man after man on a filthy mattress
The spirits
were their only treasure, clutching and reciting
concocted tales of their shared princess-like past…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Brian, Abbreviated
He walked into the party like… yacht. Abbreviated man, missing pants, unembarrassed, but bare assed. Cake, PUNCHy punch, kids screaming H.B.D!
Serenaded by open mic readers, feted by muses, celebrated by blogosphere. A party to be remembered; a personality destined to move mountains, if only by click click click on the keyboard and constant commenting.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At dverse, Brian Miller wanted 55-word stories to celebrate his birthday. I even borrowed one of his deVICEs to pay tribute. My comments about his sense of humor and his dedication would be longer than the story so I’ll stop. Happy Birthday, my friend! Peace, Amy
Letter to Blanche
Dear Grandma Blanche,
I know it’s been a long time
since I have written
I was only seven
when you met heaven
But I want you to know
in case you’re not watching
that as I grew
I was more like you
Sure, crossword puzzles and
acrostics and such we share,
but playing by ear?
Piano, my dear!
That gift of gab we were
both born/cursed with
Talking to all
Talking to walls…
Yes, I got that, too
Manic depression, haunting
Sometimes “crazy,”
sometimes “lazy”
in the eyes of others, that is,
bound as they are by convention
They don’t see through
like we do
Thanks for teaching me manners,
That conversation with your hostess is never
better than your words
with servers of hors d’oeuvres
Thank you for the music knack
the restless spirit, the lifelong struggle
And if I learn it
Let me earn it
Love, Amer
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse Poetry Pub wanted us to harken back to the age of writing letters. I’ve been writing more letters lately, if only to help the struggling post office. But writing a letter to someone dear who’s dead is a challenge.
I write about Blanche, my maternal grandmother, a lot. Gone for some 50 years, I still feel her presence in my life. She had that knack of talking to people where they were, no matter what race, gender orientation… she spoke truth to power and often ending up in a cruel sanitarium for doing so. She is my HERO. God rest your soul, Blanche. Love, Amy
This is also “in the margins” at my poetic lily pad, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
SLIM’S SONG
Sky so black it shines
Stars dance and glimmer
Souls surely are up there
Swimmin and lookin down
We’re keepin warm by
Smoky’s campfire, we
call him that cause he
could make a fire outta rain
For once Lance brings ME
coffee, like an equal pardner
Took me years of provin myself
to get to this place at the fire
Not huddlin by the chuck wagon
Not hangin back like a shy kid
But ridin and wrangling with em
Sharin dirty jokes and talkin bout
women we had in Laramie, and
I had me a few; they were better off
for knowin me. Glad I cut off
my hair and bound my breasts
to assume this identity
They think I’m a him and
that’s fine with me, I was born
to be a he, Little Slim Lantree
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Woke up this morning not knowing I’d be a transgender cowboy by afternoon, but here I am, thanks to dverse. This gal had upchucked the chuck wagon, born to ride, probably had all brothers on her father’s ranch and wasn’t going to be left behind to his devices. And the prostitutes, used to slam-bam-thanky-ma’am, were obviously pleased with her prowess… wink. Also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
This gender bender also appears at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
Image Source: Wikimedia Commons
Flat-out Flustered Philanderer
Long ago, singing days, swinging and swaying to standards
Regulars down with the drill: no dating Amy
This old guy approaches, asking for “anything Gershwin”
His ancient, rheumy eyes focus on my rack like radar
Customers see the sad, familiar scenario
And if they could they’d counsel him to cool it
He’s nearer; breath reeks of bourbon and Bel-Airs
Tells me he’d love to lavish me with luncheon
My friend snickers: Here comes the hard-ass handslap
Old codger grins at thoughts of snowing on my green young grass
“Just ’cause I go crazy getting on my Gershwin
doesn’t mean I canoodle and cavort with his contemporaries.”
With that, he toddles off, tipping me a ten.
Poor old guy, chasing the chastising chick.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trying my hand at dverse’s call for accentual alliteration. It’s complicated stuff, and I’m not sure I have all the rules down, but it was a fun write, and my BFF John will tell you, the story is absolutely true! Also “on the sidelines” at my two poetic piano bars, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
Peace, Amy
Ginger and the Need
She shambles by in vin-
tage thrift store pin-
stripe threadbare and win-
some smile, rootless, adrift
She spots me, grin-
ning at me with an in-
the-know winkish bin-
there-dived that, too. We kin-
dle fragile friendship, cin-
namon stick in cocoa, fin-
ishing each other’s thought, in-
tuitive, this girl, and worth more.
I have meds, in-
temse therapy; she sin-
cerely deserves same. I win-
ce at her need because din-
ner, doctor, care are in-
trinsic parts of my day. Fin-
ish this sentence: “Homeless Gin-
ger deserves less because ______.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We know that many homeless Americans are in dire need of solid therapy and usually some psychiatric care as well. This girl is detached in an odd way – she smells, but not for lack of a bathtub; she’s comfortable in her own aroma soup. She’s off the wall, but no more than I used to be before I got help. She’s homeless and does the dumpster dive; we have that in common from my Bad Old Days. She is a fascinating human being who deserves better. The missing piece of this puzzle? Health care for all Americans.
Hats off to De Jackson, AKA Whimsy Gizmo, for the hyphenated fractious quality. De’s freedom with punctuation and wordplay astonishes me, and I know she will not mind my “borrowing” a device from her toolbox. Check her out – click on her name.
Written for the puzzle prompt at dverse, and thank goodness Mr. Linky is still open! Also in the margins at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
Please join with me in engaging the homeless when you have a spare hour. You’ll know whether or not there is a threatening vibe, trust me. There is no sin in stopping the relationship at taking them to lunch and simply listening for an hour… sometimes, that hour is their diamond in an otherwise suck week, and you will be doing a mitzvah.
Peace, Amy
Shark Smack Redemption
In this corner
we have two junkies
(clutchin their insides,
achin for a fix)
And in this corner
a dealer and his flunkie
(carryin’ with pride
the primo mix)
Gentlemen
Come out bargaining
C’mon, Mister Bang
don’t keep us hangin
Last week was a deal
a downright steal
Yeah, that was last week
Now it’s changed
replies Mr. Silk Suit
Buddy carries the loot
Have mercy, Bang
I need it badder’n bad
Cantcha see I’m dyin
One cringe away from cryin
Tell you what, Jake, says Bang
Remember your girl
That blonde was right rooty
and she sure got the booty
You want her, she’s yours
She’ll do what I ask
Just give us a taste
‘fore we go to waste
(Scans the room in panic
Isn’t it romantic?
He motions for Jill
to join in the thrill)
Mr. Bang offers three
One for him,
one for his co-horse
Third to prime “First Course”
Go on now, Jill
I’ll see you back here
Just give Mr. Bang
a little that thang
But Jill shakes her head
Tells him she’s not for trade.
You can’t redeem this girl
like Green Stamps for a whirl.
Off go Mr. Bang and ass-
istant to find other buyers
No jack, No Jill for Jake
just sweats and a bellyache
No redemption
Smack preemption
Simply two losers
who, tonight, will be boozers
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Poets, Victoria Slotto wanted a piece that describes our passions. I give you the opposite, in a way. I’m still fascinated by how far people will go to get high, to self-medicate, and that much further away from love, from God, from peace. I have known women who would give their bodies for the sake of a fix for themselves and their old man. In the Old Daze, I could have witnessed a scene very much like this, when it was LA and everyone thought they were immortal. Then a junkie died in my lap, and I saw things differently indeed. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 