I haven’t been this unsure of the world and my place in it since the 80s in Manhattan, as I watched my dear ones getting sick and dying in the first pandemic. That sense of hopelessness and fear can cripple us. The best thing I can do for this prompt is post a song I wrote years ago for World AIDS Day, in memory of my dear Jeff French. It’s called “The Day I Saw an Angel Fly,” and I hope the link to the recording opens all right. If not, let me know and I will find another way to get it to you. Guard your hearts, my friends.
In the 80s, on a big iron bed
My friend Jeffery, and a sign that read, “Body Fluid Precautions”
A nurse came in and whispered to me,
“Put on a mask and gloves – it’s for protection, you see”
And in defiance of the rules, I lay the gloves aside and wiped his fever cool
When it was time to leave, Jeffery tugged at my sleeve, and spoke of
Angels flying free
He said, “Angels, they’re waiting for me…
They’ll take away my fever and fear
They’ll give me wings and release me from here
We’re all of us, angels-to-be
I hope you see them when they come for me
When I go, and your missing me soon, turn your face to the sky
And say you saw on angel fly”
So many years, so many goodbyes
Too many breaks in our family ties (sisters, brothers, friends, and lovers)
A little news of research each day, and in the meantime, we pray
We keep on working for the best
But when the battle’s lost and someone’s laid to rest
Jeffery’s words come back to me – I close my eyes and I see
Angels all around
Angels, on holy ground
They see my fears and soothe all my pain
They give me reason to face life again
We’re all of us, angels-to-be
I know I feel them when they comfort me
I’m not sure of too much in this world, but I know I learned to cry
The day I saw on angel fly
I can’t remember when I learned to laugh, but I know I learned to cry
The day I saw an angel fly
(c) 1992 Amy Barlow/Sharp Little Pencil
For What’s Going On, the prompt is “In these uncertain times.”
Grandma Laughlin, gone forever, listens always
I talk to her out loud, loudly and often
Guardian angel of the trolley lines, spirit of the Chicago Public Library, goddess of suffrage and suffering
“Blanche, I’ll bet you thought we saw the last
of that ass Hitler, but Deutchland Uber Alles is on an endless loop
A rancid record spinning crackling – thunk-kathunk-kathunk
Who’d’a thunk it, Grandma, it’s’ happening again.”
And even though she was too classy to swear
Even though she wouldn’t have said SHIT if she had a mouthful of it
I cuss freely when I speak to her
What’s she gonna do about it, anyway?
“Blanche, that miserable fuckwit will get us all blown to kingdom come
Bastard takes everything FDR stood for and
folds it into paper airplanes
sets it on fire
burns it with a spyglass and
feeds it to the pigeons
(strike that – I don’t believe he would ever feed a creature other than himself)
There is a haze on all our hearts, a deep groan of disgust…”
Blanche’s face is in my mind
In her heyday, an irrepressible Socialist, FDR fangirl, chatterbox, survivor
By the time I knew her, she was weary
Made it through the Great Depression but
bound by the other kind, dull and grey and nothing to say
But she blinks slowly and seems to convey,
“I know, Amer. I wish I could say I lived to see the other side of the nightmare,
but this one is so much worse.”
There is no moral to this poem, no twist, no clever upshot
Just remembering her face, the calm after the storm, ready for the next one
© 2025 Sharp Little Pencil/Amy Barlow Liberatore
For What’s Happening Now, the prompt was Grandma. I had a grandpa, too, but Blanche, my mom’s mother, took the cake. One of my favorite human beings ever. Love you, Grandma Laughlin.
Rattling the Cage
(Rollie Triptych, Part III)
Perfect timing for
a horrible outcome
On impulse, we drove
to Binghamton for a visit
Stayed with my folks
Call at 5 am, Mom
jostled me awake
“Rollie’s in the E.R!”
He’d sat up in bed
Said, “I can’t breathe”
and all 300 pounds of him
flopped back, dead
Hospital. “He’s gone, Amer.”
But his son turned 1 last week
Older son only 4
I was so pissed at God
Funeral, Baptist Church
His folks’ choice, wife’s
voice unheard, unheeded
Pastor, on a roll, droned on
“Rollie’s above with Jesus”
(when his true loves were his wife,
a beer, a bong, and a beer bong)
“Blah blah blah Jesus blah blah”
Mid-sermon, a THUD
A big one, stopped preacher
mid-pontification
about the Pearly Gates
Sis whispered, “What was that?”
Couldn’t help my reply
“Rollie turning in his casket”
We cracked up, but good
Shoulders shaking and
folks behind us thought
we were sobbing, patted
support on our shoulders
Which made us laugh harder
Yowza, leave it to Rollie
prankster, stoner, merry-maker
To poke us with one last joke
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The final chapter of The Book Of Roland Newton. Rollie died at 36 of an embolism. Pictured above with older son Matt, around age 2, and younger son Casey on his first birthday, surrounded by the teddy bears that always remind me of their dad. Matt and Casey are young men now, both charting their different courses. I wish they knew their dad from more that just stories told – usually funny ones. Everyone should have a Rollie in their lives.
This is for ABC Wednesday… Y is for Yowza and Young. Peace, Amy
“…to get a drink?!”
Rollie was funny as hell but
in those days, ‘queer’ jokes were
all the rage (except around me)
But Rol never made fun of local queens
or butch girls who beat the pavement
in biker boots back in Bingo
Walking Manhattan with Rollie and Jo
and tomorrow morning’s groom
(later, my ex-husband)
All my fave boys were there
We took my family for
a walk on the sparkly side
Drag show, which bar?
We walked in to claim our
Night Before Wedding toast
(most men have bachelor parties;
I’ll give my ex credit for that)
Drag star, Connie Lee Francis
Finished “Where the Boys Are”
Stood at bar, waving glove at
bartender, then a flirty falsetto,
“What does a girl have to do…”
Thirsty girl, she dropped to baritone
“BOURBON ON THE ROCKS!”
We didn’t have a proper laugh
until later – the whole thing
The setting, the show
Her range of voice; she had
no choice. Like I said…
Thirsty girl
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The second of three consecutive poem/stories about my late brother-in-law, Rollie Newton.
Matt and Casey, this one’s for you. Bet you didn’t know your dad rolled this cool. Love you guys. I will link this up with an Open Post this week as well. Peace, Amy
Rollie, Amy, and Bob, July 1984
Pre-Wedding Surprise (Rollie, Part I)
What a night
Jo and Rollie drove down
from our hometown to NYC
We chowed Chinese, then
scrabbled cross Canal
A little Italian style
La Bella Ferrara
Sinatra-stacked juke
“Summer Wind” as we
strolled in for cannoli
Surprise! Down the block
in full swing was
the San Genaro Festival
Smiling street vendors
Splendy Christmas lights
Rides, rides, rides
Rollie, Bob and I fly
spinning on the Twirl N Puke
Bob’s brother Roy
brought his camera and
just for fun, with arms
stretched above his head,
snapped photos – but didn’t
know what would develop
Who would know he’d
hit the jackpot shot
Four years later,
Rollie was gone gone gone
This happenstance photo
is how he lives on
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is the first of a TRIPTYCH about Rollie. If you want to read more, I just posted #2m and the third will probably go up Tuesday or Wednesday. Check back then if you wish!
dverse Poets asked for poems with repeated words or phrases. This was written yesterday, so I suppose it was meant to be! Also submitting to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday.
Bob (now Rob) was my first husband, father of Riley. His brother Roy has the most incredible luck – timing – he’s a drummer! Rollie was my sister Jo’s husband; more about him as we go through a three-day reflection on a sweet man who died suddenly – and far too soon. Check out the pic again and see the big man with the big heart. Peace, Amy
Artwork © Amy Barlow Liberatore
Wisconsin Winter Weather
Weather winces
Wisconsinites, whether
winkled or wrinkled
Why would we winter
where winds’re
wild, wooly?
Woven, wistful warmth within
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, as well as ABC Wednesday – this week, of course, the letter W! “Amy Bawwo Wiberatowe”
Halloween for Black Kitty (Six Sentence Stories)
Image Courtesy of WikiCommons
I don’t understand my peoples today. Kids runnin round in scary cloths and bloody faces like movies. Mommy stackin lots and lots of candy by front door that I always try to get out of. Daddy stabbin a bit orange ball and takin out guts those smell worse than the litter box. Mommy say peoples crool to black cats on Hell Or Ween but not Calico Stripums or Siamese Diva. Now I gotta sit alone in back room watchin Animal Planet but they showin lions makin babies so that OK.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Josie Two Shoes has a new Thursday challenge, Six Sentence Stories. Thanks, Josie, for the invite to participate.
This post is dedicated to the memory of our late black cat, Missy. She was a hoot and always told great stories, this being one I had to write from memory… I should have transcribed all her narratives!
Also “in the margins” at my poetic House of Horrors, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace and Happy dia de los muertes, Amy
Don’t Forget The Mesquite
(musings on Hell and Oscar Wilde)
Lots of folks
Some in my family
say I’m gonna burn in hell
‘cause we love
our daughter, gender queer
We ring her praise like a bell
Hell must be
fun, funny, musical
Gershwin, Gertrude, Oscar Wilde
I’d rather
burn in hell with those folks
than live in sanitized Mild
But please don’t
forget to put mesquite
in with me, to smell my best
when I descend
to see Blanche and Charlotte
and our cat Gable at rest
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yes, it’s true, our cat Gable was gay. The only one who could pick him up was our landlord, and they would plotz over each other like two preening queens. My mom Charlotte and her mom Blanche were not lesbians, but they knew and loved the whole gay community, including “Auntie Frank,” she of the cowboys boots and best friend (a femme who “never found the right man either.”). So, yeah, I’m going in a handbasket, whatever.
I actually don’t believe in Hell (there’s enough on Earth), but they still want me to go there. Whatever.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Marian asked us for poems about, influenced by, or concerning Oscar Wilde. She posted a BRILL YouTube clip of countertenor David Daniels, whose voice you would swear is alto – he’s a countertenor, higher than a tenor – but he seems pretty chill for an opera singer. Click HERE to witness his magnificent voice, as he prepares to premiere an opera about Oscar Wilde, starring as the man himself.
And oh, you homophobes, I hope you enjoy this piece. It is absolutely true, every single word! Peace and solidarity with my LGBTQ bros and sisses, Amy
Diva (little cat feet)
Cats change the landscape of plans.
When orphaned Diva poked her head
out of hiding, a loving thread
filtered from her heart to ours.
She sniffs shoes, jumps at
her own shadow, eats bread crumbs
off the kitchen floor. She defies
gravity, leaping from carpet
to couch back with ease at 11 years.
She salts us with the reality that
we are parents again.
Her soft breath, her purr,
sends me into blissout mode.
We all sense the sea change
and we love it.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (see Wordle HERE); also in the margins at Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. We adopted Diva this week, and she’s a vocal little old girl whose “daddy” died suddenly… she’s grieving, plus she was scared by two of the man’s daughter’s more aggressive cats. Still a bit hand shy, she will climb up on my lap (when she’s ready) and purr… sounds of the heart. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 