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.”
“Peace through strength”?
Bullshit.
How about
peace through compassion
peace through commitment
peace through diplomacy, through communication
peace through a meeting of minds, however small they are
peace through common goals
peace through disarmament
peace through understanding
No one person can solve this, because
No one person caused it
It just feels that way
No, that man is propped up by millions of smaller weasels
with smaller minds, smaller thoughts, smaller world views
There is only one way we can have peace right now in our country
and it ain’t just through politicians (although the geezers could step aside, which would help)
It’s through determination and clear-headedness
through organization and strong mutual support
through harnessing and sharing radical love
but also, when needed, an abundance of WTF energy
Because what the actual fuck in going on here?
© 2025 Sharp Little Pencil/Amy Barlow Liberatore
For What’s Going On? The prompt is peace. That subject is so fraught at this moment. It’s easy to grab a beer (or a joint) and reach for the remote. Watch those bizarre shows where grown people put themselves through hell in hopes of winning fame. Or the ubiquitous talking heads on the news – whatever the issue, whichever side… maddening and biased. And how late-night comics keep trying to make this funny is beyond me. I can’t laugh. This shit is as serious as a heart attack and about as funny as a crutch, as my mom used to say.
Politicians may be useless, but pick up the phone anyway. Then, get in touch with your senior neighbors, your single-parent neighbors, your Queer friends, your Latino neighbors. They need your full-throated support.
Because doing something is way better than what most people are doing right about now. And keep praying, but match it with action. Amy
I Stand My Ground With My Words
Why was the life of a black youth
walking through his “white” neighborhood
snuffed out by an old man’s bullet?
Fear. Racism. Because Zim had a gun.
When did “standing your ground”
mean wielding not words,
but a weapon?
Bad laws. NRA lobby $$.
When will we decide to
engage in conversation and reject
vigilante injustice?
When we resume being human.
We’ve been in collective PTSD
since 9-11, and brown and black folks
have lost ground since then.
Don’t tell me it’s not racism.
Hearts have hardened by war
and lies and this horrid Congress,
divided and divorced from reality.
They have armed guards.
Try this on for size: If you cannot
stand your ground with words, you’re
not mature enough to own a pistol.
Your possessions are not worth a life.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
‘Nuff said. For Poets United’s Poetry Pantry, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and dverse Open Mic Night.
BITTER HOPES (The Tsunami, Sendai)
When ground beneath her desk rolled like
a carpet shaken of its dust, a terrifying
rollercoaster, Yuki screamed at
something unnamed and horrible
She thought, “This is IT…
The final moment, or the beginning of many
final moments”
Crawling out of her cubicle,
scenes burned their way into her memory
Ten minutes before, she and Hayashi had shared a cigarette
and a kiss in the stairwell
Now, he was pinned under a desk, eyes glazed;
a picture of their trip to Kanagawa
where they regarded the roses
had settling on his chest
Was this the last thing he saw? His last good memory?
She prayed it was so
Then came a blur of
walking nightmare people
bottled water
pictures posted with notes
questions without answers
Earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster
And of course, government downplayed the severity of radiation
She and Kenji commuted inland daily from their home in Sendai;
Father enjoyed the view of surf.
Why had Kenji taken the day off?
She knew now her brother was gone, as well as their parents,
swept from earth as waves wiped the chalkboard clean
Alone Safe Not safe Scared
A butterfly chose her at random to grace her
with a dizzying dance of color and life
“If only I had the mind of an insect,” she thought,
as bile rose in her throat
“At least butterflies hold the key to hope:
Live free for a season, surrender peacefully to death”
Her only hope was that the world see, and learn, what her grandmother
had told her, as she revealed flowered tattoos of her Nagasaki childhood:
Men’s greed and technology will never defeat the ferocity of nature
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Fireblossom at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted stories of loss. I took the loss of others and, in so doing, resurrected an old poem, because the last line haunts me. This was originally written (and much wordier) in 2011, before Fukushima. Turns out technology doles out terror in equal quantities… that also includes the effects of global warming. And humankind’s terror is reversible, but that is not in sight right now…
Peace, Amy
FUNNY BUSINESS
Your hair has such flair
A bounce in your step and
a plop in your pratfalls
When you’re happy, we
all know it, it’s all over
your face
same as when you’re sad
Your car is so cool and
seats thirteen if some of them
hang out the windows
And your makeup?
To die for. Drag queens everywhere
could take some tips from
your brow technique
High brow, low brow
Take a bow, o clever clown
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Mary wanted a Valentine to someone or something we cannot stand. I don’t mind telling you, it’s not just a vague dislike… clowns scare the crap out of me, always have. I once wrote a horror poem about them. Grown men in grotesque makeup, falling on their butts and getting WAY too close to little kids for my comfort… The balloon animals that always managed to explode near me… Bozo? Yikes! Amy
“You’re…” EEEEEK! uh…
Mammograms are the only day
when it doesn’t suck to be moi
I take ‘em out, I flop ‘em on
the glass, and they squish like foi gras
Then came two voice mails
on the same choice day
from the same office.
And suddenly my world morphed
from “as controlled as possible with meds”
to head-spinning dread, fed by
one freakin’ phone call.
All I must do is careen
back to the scene of the crime,
primed sans deodorant and scent,
rank with my own odor and fear.
It may be one mammo;
it may need more ammo.
a big needle thrust
to left of my bust.
“They’ll take the sample
with ample drama, mama,
and a big-ass needle, so
close your eyes and tell them
you have PTSD,” my beloved
survivor friend says.
“Then set phasers on STUN -it sounds
like a staple gun or Pac-Man as it
chomps in search of tissue.
Make them issue enough painkillers
to knock out a horse.”
“Of course,” I reply,
she laughs, knowing I
am immune to OTCs*
thanks to the 70’s…
…during which I imbibed
enough pharmaceuticals to
peel the cuticles off
a gorilla’s thumbnails.
It’s this Wednesday, folks,
please pray it’s a hoax,
and Old Leftie is “clean,”
if you know what I mean.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* OTCs are “over the counter” drugs like Advil, Tylenol, and aspirin. I could take a whole bottle for a headache and it would do nothing for the pain… but the Advil would trash my liver!
Sunday Scribblings asked us to come up with a poem about a “Eureka moment.” This is the down side of that concept, and we’re hoping and praying it has a happy ending! Will keep you posted. Also at the one office where nothing ever hurts… Poets United! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 