At Sunday Scribblings (glad I’m back on course after a break), we were given a one-word prompt: LIMITS. Click the Scrib link and then on the poets’ names (which are linked to their blogs) to check out other folks! Peace, Amy
HAD IT UP TO HERE
I’ve had it up to here
‘cause my daughter, who is ‘queer’
is not welcome in my sister’s home
I’ve taken all I’ll stand
from all those who would demand
that I discard my kid like a dead battery
I’m telling all the world
she is perfect, she’s my girl
If you don’t love her, please don’t waste your prayers
On Riley or her mom
because we know we are BOMB
and anyone who doesn’t get it can get stuffed
I tried to make this rhyme
to some extent, it is fine
but I couldn’t rhyme “battery” with “flattery” because that concept is entirely absent from some people’s hearts. But at least it’s truthful!
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Story from my days as a single mother in a mostly married city… Amy
WOMEN, WOMAN
In a sea of Marthas
she remained the Magdalene
Neither wanton, nor wayward, still
different, misunderstood
Her gestures of sisterhood
looked upon as threats by
the many married mommies
who kept their men on short leashes, well-heeled
Had they taken time
to listen to her thoughts
How she cared for their town
How she admired their ability to maintain stability
They might have warmed to her
But women are women, and
wives are wives, gathered in hives
And single mothers lead separate lives
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A universal truth, given poetic form by yours truly! Have fun, Amy
NO ONE WANTS TO CLEAN THE TUB
Soap scum, sloughed-off cells and scunge
Hair of questionable origin
The bathtub, basin of family grunge
Gloves and gas mask, I’m going in
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
WHO WILL TAKE CARE OF GREGORY?
It started off like usual, boy and girl meet,
make the trip to City Hall, marry.
Start a family with a beautiful boy.
Then Mom relapses, synapses lost to
crack addiction come back to haunt her
like Jacob Marley, chains and all.
Dad bails, few details known of his whereabouts,
so Mom goes to work and leaves Gregory in the house.
When the State workers came, they found him,
three years old, still in a crib, pillows packing him in
“to keep him safe,” mutters Mom, as she is
taken into custody (so is her son).
A year passes; Gregory waits for foster parents,
but he is no poster child for adoption. First,
they see his bright blue eyes and big smile…
then ask, “Why doesn’t he walk around?”
Workers explain that he just learned to crawl;
crucial development of muscles was delayed by the crib.
All potential parents pass him up like a misfit toy
until one day, the right couple comes along.
They see him as a creation of God, worthy, worth the fight
to take him to therapy, get him walking upright.
Take him to worship – he’s the church’s bright, shiny penny.
Pastor says, “You can’t spell ‘congregation’ without ‘Greg’!”
Finally, the big day, the whole church goes to court
to support the new family, to make it legal. Gregory looks
regal in his little suit and tie, smiling, smiling…
The joy on his face, applause when the papers are signed.
Gregory was put on this earth by a sick mom and a deadbeat dad,
but he knows he can always count on his two moms.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
DON’T FORGET TO TAKE POLAROIDS
Never one to take instruction
well, welcome to
THE EVE OF MY DESTRUCTION.
That’s me, going to hell.
Hand-basket by Longaberger.
So say the Bible thumpers
Because I insist my daughter’s
Divinely made, perfect…
and, yes, she loves women
If all she did daily
was love women,
I’d be worried, but fortunately,
she does other things, too:
art, music, movies;
she has a full life.
“I’ll bet you and Lex
do stuff besides
hanging in bed being straight!”
That’s right, baby, it’s true
We get up
sometimes for breakfast, lunch, dinner…
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thanks to Riley for permission to use her experiences for this poem.
LOVE IS ALIVE
They hold hands in private
They “kiss in a shadow”
They go separate ways for
family functions, from
weddings to Christmas.
They always stay home
each Thanksgiving, sharing
bountiful blessings with
friends, more their real
family than relatives
(except Aunt Sandy and
Uncle Lou, who always bring
sweet potatoes and hugs).
They’ve been beaten bloody
for daring to share a
peck on the cheek in the park.
They can tell you all about
Stonewall because they were
there. They met in Harvey’s
Castro District and clicked.
They are part of a generation
of gay men, closet doors open
only to their neighbors, friends.
To families, pastors, and former
classmates, they’re just two guys
who never found the right girl
and sharing a house saved money
in the long run.
Forty years of keeping a lid
on their love.
(For John and Tony, RIP)
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
SO MUCH MORE
Love is not best expressed
through sex, yet sex sells
on the squawk box. From
VH1 videos to BET, you
can bet our youth are so
deprived of anything more
thank the depravity of the
booty call. Of women as
moving, bump and grinding
blow-up dolls. Of men with
faces only a mother could
love, whether country stars
(ten-gallon disguising their
hair plugs and plaiding their
paunches), Promise Keeping
Brothers who still leer at
the camera, or rappers who
pull teeth in favor of diamond
implants. These images imbed
like a cancer; only one answer:
The parental counter-punch.
Demonstrating healthy, loving
relationships. Turn off the
TV and unplug the modem;
talk about what lies beyond
the birds and the bees. Soul.
Spiritual bonding. Looking
your partner in the eye, not
sneaking peeks at anatomy.
Friendship first; hormones in
harness; self-esteem before
chasing the false, fleeting
dreams of sexy steam.
IN PRAISE OF SLOW COOKING (for De and Justin Jackson)
Lex minces garlic
and chops onion on a small cutting board
We love the sound of the knife
thunking the wood.
I brown the chicken in olive oil,
nudging the cutlets, easing in
a bit of broth after the first turn,
poaching with herbs from my potted garden,
a splurch of wine, a pinch of pepper.
Now we divvy veggie duty:
He, the mushroom expert,
peels, washes, slices thin
with a knife we wish was
up to the quality of our endeavor.
I’m the Carrot Queen, the
Broccoli Barlow Baby.
Rice is already on,
scented with saffron.
Whatever the meal, we cook
together. Slowly.
We need only the kitchen,
time, talk, and the bumping of butts
as we faux-fight over space.
Cooking is only half the fun.
Then comes enjoying
a slow-cooked meal
with family and friends.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 