STOCK STILL
stock still
starting off wrong foot hold
a time to answer
ruler gave little to stand in.
storm threatened, exploded cold shadow
mysteries appear at the door
another burn on the sojourn
bury arms.
conduct friendly first year.
side now up to the clouds above.
For dverse, an erasure poem from Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. Dedicated to the Republicans in our U.S. Congress and the way their “not playing well with others” holds us hostage. They know quite well they hold the keys to our security: At home, abroad, and universally… I keep hoping they listen to what Lincoln called “our better angels.” Lincoln would be ashamed at what his party has become: Obstructionists, secessionists, rich men in silk suits who spit on the poor. I call ‘em like I see ‘em, and depression only makes the lines seem deeper and more entrenched.
Also at my bipartisan poetry hangout, Poets United… proud to be a member. Peace, Amy
FIRST FROST
Crystal-stained
window pane
shimm’ring in the night
Glimpse of shine
only mine
from the street lamplight
Frigid blast
Squealing past
tightly puttied sills
Stoke the fire
coax the pyre
Pray the chill it kills
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, ManicDdaily (Karin Gustafson) asked us to write about something unexpected. After our long, drought-ridden, hellish summer, imagine my surprise to awaken at 2 am and see frost on the window. There’s something about the first frost, especially when it is backlit. Bring on the flannel! Break out the silk underwear (not the sexy kind – the overalls that keep me warm)!
Also to be posted on Poets United, my poetic pot-bellied stove… Peace and hot cocoa, Amy
Sunburn
Growing up, we had a pool.
This guaranteed us friends
during dog days, kids diving
for pennies, singing along to
my sister’s transistor radio.
I learned to be graceful there.
Normally prone to clumsiness,
I glided like a siren on her way to
a gig tempting sailors who’d crash
their crafts on the rocks below.
Underwater, the mermaid learned
how to swim a full lap in one breath,
then two laps. But the best part was
dinner hour, when the kids got called
home and I had the pool to myself.
Dad worked hard and drank late,
so we’d eat whenever he drove in.
One afternoon, I lay face-down
on a long raft, hands grazing water
as one bothers timothy grass in the field.
No one called me in for supper.
Result? Even Black Irish, brown-eyed
girls get the occasional sunburn, but
this was a blistering, “degree” burn,
with ointments and aloe and sympathy.
As the burn dried and began to peel,
my sister Jo used her nails to scratch
a perfect heart on my back. This artwork
grossed out the kids, which was, of course,
the point.
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Karin Gustafson, hosting dverse today, wanted memories of summer. This one stuck with me for two reasons; first, my sisters took after my English father, blonde hair and blue eyes, and they burned easily, so my mother’s brown-eyed Irish heritage usually saved me from that fate. Second, the fact that my sister Jo would take so much time creating on my back made me feel special.
Also at my poetic kiddie pool, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Following a three-day “manic panic” and the PTSD (Post-Trampoline Stupid Depression!) that followed, I’m back on an even keel. Even tried a new form today, which is the first poem, and answered a Wednesday prompt within 24 hours! Now that’s what I call progress. Peace, Amy
My Blue Plastic Nurse
Compartments are labeled, one for each day
I’m keeping track of keeping track of me
Pill boxes can be fun if you like play
Varied colors bring mental harmony
Blue, turquoise, tangerine, help color me
Curved, tubular, round; all help shape my days
Some score scarred, others numbered clinically
Count it wrong and I’ll be in stupor gaze
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, the amazing Gemma (an Aussie whose blog is Greyscale Territory)schooled us on the Huitan – basic structure being eight lines of eight or ten syllables, with rhyme scheme A B A B B C B C. A much more instructive post can be found HERE AT DVERSE. My first time with the form, and I must say, it was more fun than I thought! As always, this is also at the blessedly formless, shapeless void of pure poetic love, Poets United. But wait, there’s more!
Greenwich Village, Late 60s
The pulse of Bleecker
measured in bongo bangs
In the Beat poets’ Howls
and comic harangues
That mellow café scene
One coffee took all night
Pressure built over Nam
The Man made a fight
Scene took on substance
as poets and folkies
took on the rhythm
of Guthrie’s Oakies
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday, Beat, Pressure, Substance. Also at my poetic café, Poets United. Coffee’s always on and the conversation is fabulous! Peace, Amy
Broken Angel
(based on “Angel,” my poem for Poetic Bloomings)
Back then
Back when Christmas was fun
And it was Santa’s birthday again
We had a tree
Same one every year,
Balsam fir, short needles,
dressed in pure red
A huge Mrs. Claus,
a “mama tree”
Cherry lights strung to perfection
Middle sis righting every
incorrectly placed bulb ‘til it was
PERRRRRfect
Then the satinsheen red ornaments
(a hand-me-down from Aunt Pris,
the holiday window dresser at Fowler’s)
So fragile, handled like dynamite
lest one explode, one wrong move
revealing shards of thin glossy insides
We had no angel atop our tree, though
we three made many in Sunday school
and in every single grade –
back when Christmas was not a whisper
but a SHOUT ON COMMAND: HE IS BORN!
and to hell with the handful of Jews in the hallways
(some wishing they had trees and stockings too)
But angels? Our folks’d have to pick
one of our three… they’d have no trinity
And white would spoil the symmetry
Our angel, last year’s broken one
when a single slip lopped the top off
Stuck on top of the tree, inverted
Blood rushing to its head
crowned by needly thorns
“Lllight it up, plllug it in, Bud!
Girllls, outen the llllights!” slurred Mom
And there it stood
flooding the living room with
every gimmering shade of red
From the street, our tree was
a blazing hearth streaming
light onto snow that glowed
vaguely pink in its wake
“Oh, look,” said a neighbor
as folks strolled admiring
one another’s holiday handiwork,
“The Red Light District,
the Barlows’ cat house is once again
open for business!”
* * * * * * * * * *
That bulb on top
the bloodied, upside-down talisAngel of
all the other 360-some days of the year
Behind perfect suburban clapboard exterior
the heartbeat of interior fear
of inferiority comples flexing
my first scrawny girlish muscles that were
destined to beat up only myself
We’ve grown
Our kids’ angels, our new objects d’nativite
With grown-up arms, we
beat back the Barlow Bordello curse
But Christmas is still sad for me
Those shimmering red bulbs
Cherry ambulance lights on rescue that never came
A cry for help but
Dad’s hand was clamped over my mouth
A broken angel.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This experience is based solely on my own experience and should not reflect on my siblings in any way other than before the asterisks (but middle sis WAS very meticulous about lighting, and I know she’d admit that, ha ha).
I wrote “Angel,” the part up to the “snowflake” asterisks, for Poetic Bloomings (childhood memories), but Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem about a Talisman, and this version goes deeper into the meaning of that ‘little red angel’ on our tree. Also for dverse Poets Open Mic on Tuesday, and as always, stuck in the stocking at Poets United, my “every day is a holiday” safe space. Peace, Amy
Parking Lot
The Golden Arches aglow tonight
Aglow every night as
teens collect, connect
Giggles, yo mama jokes
A squeal, somebody got tickled
Waitin’ for Bruno to get off shift
Scent of sensamilla
snakes through blades of my fan
I peek out; their shadows pass the joint around
Outside, they pack into someone’s car
squeal out of the lot in a cloud of exhaust
leaving a trickle of oil and a trail of fun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is for dverse, “Meeting the Bar.” Claudia asked us to write as though we were Impressionists, with quick brush strokes and hints of lighting. My inspiration was the early work of Edward Hopper, who is not known as an impressionist but had a brief foray into the style with such works as “Soir Bleu.” He is simply my favorite artist, and the humanity of his work informs my eavesdropping on this group of kids last night. Also at my poetic canvas, Poets United!
Real Women
Real women have curves
nerves of tempered steel
Watching promotions
granted to men of
lesser talent,
their hearts stolen by
lesser loves
until…
Real women revel in truth,
revive opinions stifled
again and again,
say their piece and
back it up with actions.
Some women shape the future
by giving the world
the next wild, willful
generation of humanity,
nurturing and guiding.
Others act as guides,
spiritual doulas,
friends who also nurture
the character of those children.
The Aunties Extraordinaire.
Real women love.
We love to love.
To make love, to share body and soul.
Even when swallowed by self-doubt,
surfacing with the pliable beauty
of sirens,
assured,
assuring,
ascendant.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo from History Central, archival shot of the inimitable Mae West, who once said, “No man ever loved me like I love myself.”
For dverse Open Mic Night, because real women ROCK!
Far Away From Home
She moved as far away as she could
from the parents, the school
her entire, pathetic former life
Reinvented herself on the Left Coast
so her folks wouldn’t be embarrassed
when she turned into a slutty pothead
Lucky she had some talent
and a knack for “right place, right time”
Associated with some up and comers
But all bad things must come to an end
including the sore nose and some shaky
“business” opportunities, best to avoid
The road home seems longer when
your tail is between your legs and you’re
detoxing on the cross-country bus
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse: Exile. Follow the link down the rabbit hole to some amazing poets!
I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good) (click on link to hear the song)
Amy Barlow (vocals) and Stuart Watarz (piano)
Music by Duke Ellington; lyrics by Ned Washington (used by permission of their estates)
SINGING STANDARDS
Those well-known, well-worn songs
of Ellington, Gershwin, Mercer
My primer, my guide from childhood
I wanted to make them my own so
I read the lyrics poetically first
before I sang them; I grew them inside
myself, within the deep chambers
of mystery, of smoky romance
and infectious delight
I never sang a song
the same way twice, but
I tried to get it right
Not trite, this advice to
younger singers: Read the song
first, listen to the lyricist
Don’t imitate, it grates
and you will sound over-rehearsed
and you will be dismissed as a poser
Don’t listen to Ella. Ever.
She embeds in your head and
will be artist-in-residence
Sing it. From the sole of your shoes,
from the fire in your heart,
from the orgasmic desire
Though the song was written
before you were born,
know in your heart that
there’s your version waiting
to be sung from your POV
Blow your horn, baby
and give out like there’s
no turning back,
no way out
cuz there isn’t. Once you’re
lost yourself in a classic…
you’re where you need to be
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night. “Standards” are the jazz tunes every good musician and singer knows before accepting a gig. As Time Goes By, Fly Me To The Moon, Embraceable You, … then there is the second, special tier of songs not on “the list” but that earn a singer points with the band members for knowing them… Lush Life, I Cover the Waterfront, Cottage for Sale.
The song on the media player is a standard; however, this is the complete version with both full verses, so it straddles the two tiers above. This version makes more sense, because it deals with the weekend, THEN “when the weekend’s over.” I cut my teeth on these songs, and I hope you like this version, from my CD, “Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride,” available for download HERE.
Sharp Little Pencil 