VICIOUS CYCLE
First up and around in the house
Brewing coffee for The Beast
who will turn into my mother after her first cup
She stumbles down the hall
First Bel-Air in hand
I make my breakfast and my lunch
Even at seven, I knew this cycle
would never end
Keeping Mom happy enough to live with
In later years, after I had indulged, passively by
breathing others’ smoke in late-night jazz clubs, and
actively by drinking, snorting, and toking
I decided there was another path
and that this merry-go-round of “self-careless”
must have an exit
Today, smoke-free, drug-free, booze-free
I know she was caught on that carousel from Hell
and that choosing otherwise was possible
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
CIRCLES (You know, for kids*)
My sister brought it home
we all fought over it
until Dad wisely bought enough
for all three sisters to have their own
Three grade-schoolers shimmied, did the hula
Pint-sized Balinese dancers
practicing the ancient, seductive art
of the hula hoop
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* Special kudos to whomever can name the movie reference first!
(I’m off to Binghamton to play a gospel coffeehouse at Our Saviour Lutheran Church in Endwell, NY, Sat 9/18 at 6 pm. Please come if you’re in the area. I’ll leave a poem here and see you when I get back on Tuesday! Amy)
POOR LITTLE ORPHAN GIRL
Poor little orphan girl
Daddy went to war
to protect and defend capitalism
on Wall Street
Mommy’s pedicure was 10:45 sharp
Then brunch, pedicures, and bloody marys
In the park under a golden maple
Baby sits on an ample lap
Touches the sweet brown face
of her best friend, Sofia, who’s
undocumented, underpaid
Far from her own Filipino family
Two orphan girls
sit on a Manhattan park bench
legs swinging
tossing bread crumbs to
las palomas
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Dedicated to the GAFB/HiPockets/Poppy Star reunion 2010, with love to all, Amers
WITH ABANDON
Abandon hangups
all ye who enter here
Abandon your present
your what-happened-since-then
Embrace the ever-present past
Pick up a tambourine
Beat it til your hands bruise
Sing til it hurts
Play til your fingers remember
where their callouses were
Laugh til you cry
Live like it’s your last day on earth
Like it’s the end of your shift
Grab a cold beer, flop down here
and tell me all about it
We remain gypsies
no matter what path we chose
The world will never see anything like it again
Time and place
Ribs and space
Perrrrrrfection
Amy Barlow Liberatore
Santa Monica, August 15, 2010 (the morning after)
The prompt at We Write Poems was Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. Bleak but possible. Amy
AND SO IT ENDS
Yesterday
the flash filled the evening sky
blinding us at first
A fireball, unearthly and
something told me to hold my breath as long as I could
Then came strong hot winds from the North
and with it, ash, falling slower than snow
suspended in deathly calm air
the stillness, the dreamlike atmosphere
Today we’re still waiting for Mom and Dad to
come home from work
The generator is working but we’ll need fuel
Tommy said Let’s see what’s up in town
People were stealing stuff from the store
No one was at the checkout so we came away with
cans of fruit and Spaghettios, juice, milk
some eggs that weren’t smashed in the carton
The ice cream melted overnight
We drank it out of the carton
and chugged warm soda trudging back home
through sifting ash in the middle of the street
Tomorrow I pray I wake up
and it will all be a bad dream
But Tommy and Sandy are counting on me
til our folks get home
Sandy cried tonight because SpongeBob wasn’t on TV
(nothing was on TV, I checked)
Tommy hauls out board games we haven’t played
since we got the X-Box
We roll the dice
and wait
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
PalinDrone
I ran for Vice President
while killing a moose with an assault rifle
from a helicopter
during labor for my 28th child!
But my daughter flunked her abstinence class
While not as glamorous as the White House
Fox News gives me lots of air time
I go to lots of Tea Parties
and I finally got rid of Todd
Running for President? I’ll get back to ya!
I like to shop at consignment stores
like Bonwit Teller, you betcha
and Macy’s and Tiffany’s
But my favorite accessory is Trig
I carry him around like a badge
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
written for the Pyramid prompt at Poetic Asides
READY FOR A ROWDY REUNION
Driving for days, crossing America
to see her
Once my baby, now herself
Visiting friends on the road
Taking my time
Knowing at this journey’s end
We will be together again
Hugs so hard
Laughing, crying, ready for anything
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My father could recite whole works of Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling… but oy, when he sang…
REALLY, REALLY BAD SINGER
Dad sang off key
Really off key. Tragically, even.
He dwelt among women who were
descended from sirens
A wife and three daughters
gifted by God with a keen sense of pitch
and an irrepressible desire to sing
Pop couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket
but he sang along anyway
(oblivious to our pinched noses and wincing)
(yeah, we were pretty snobbish, but only where music was concerned)
He also snapped his fingers out of time
as if completely unaware that rhythm had meaning
“You sing like Dad” was a grave insult
tantamount to an accusation of
letting loose a juicy fart in the car
or getting caught picking your nose
But when Dad sang, he did light up
While we suffered for art, mercifully critiquing each other
never satisfied with the result
Dad would burst into “Mule Train” with gusto
or grin as he stumbled through “Ghost Riders in the Sky”
He never knew he couldn’t sing
He just did it anyway
He didn’t care if anybody liked it or not
A life lesson in Q Flat
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It was just a little box made of popsicle sticks, painted with Cotillion Pink nail polish, with a shell glued to the top, lined with cloth. But for Mom, it was a treasure because I made it just for her.
THE PRECIOUS BOX
My mother’s “precious box” held sentimental doodads
The box was left to me when she died
Inside were Grandma’s fake diamond screwback earrings
(“Real ladies” didn’t pierce their ears in those days)
Grandpa’s ring, raw turquoise set in carved silver
Girl Scout leader pins, Dad’s cufflinks
A clip-on box tie from Mom’s singing days
And a skeleton key, antique silver, dim patina
For years I’ve pondered what lock would respond; where the “open sesame” lay
A room in a past apartment, the front door to a secret house?
A desk filled with dusty volumes of Kipling and Whitman
Perhaps a cache of cash?
Somewhere there is a house, a door, a drawer
Whose treasures will remain hidden
Because I hold in my palm
The answer to a question
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 