Journalism and the Bush Years
Misinformation was the most potent weapon
of the Bush Regime. How soon we forget.
Remember him clowning at the Press Club?
Journalists laughed with him, not at him.
(The new crop of undereducated – but
photogenic – media types are a sorry lot.
Unlike Morrow, they’re not hired for their brains;
unlike Cronkite, they’re not to be trusted.)
“No WMDs under here!” he bozoed, to
wave upon wave of pandering giggles.
While I, the Christian,
and my Riley, the Jew,
and our friend Muna, the Muslim,
used to sit on her porch and drink “ka-hway”
(which is Arabic coffee powered by something
stronger than nuclear fission could EVER produce;
this bunker-buster brew with thick black syrup on the bottom
is the stuff of dreams except you never go to sleep
until two days later and even then
you are still talking VERY fast).
On 9/11 we sat in her kitchen and cried.
Later on Muna’s porch
(all too soon snarled at by passersby)
we sipped her coffee
and cried some more.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at the poetic oasis, Poets United.
Last Stop on the Erie-Lackawanna
She sits on the train and stares at the passing hillsides.
Animated visions of towns she long since left
are whizzing by, their whispered plea, “Come back,
you are still thirsty for that bottle of mistakes,
come partake and we will sustain you.”
Bad memories, resilient buggers.
Aching for revenge that will never be hers,
she stands on the platform of the caboose
and, hearing the thrumming of the engine, wheels at full-tilt pace,
she decides this may be her stop after all.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
Many thanks to Brenda Warren at Beyond the Bozone for the Wordle. As usual, a cheerful offering from yours truly…!
The words were: revenge, aching, train, thirst, thrumming, visions, resilient, sustain, animated, hillsides, whispered.
At We Write Poems, a prompt went out: Write a poem about writing a poem. You never know when or where the inspiration will strike. I’ve long since given up on sitting down and deciding to produce something… and yet, the more I write, the more I want to write!
This poem is also posted at Writer’s Island, where I’m posting daily for National Poetry Writing Month. Amy
Prelude to a Poem
Teapot screams meeeeeEEEEEEEE
demanding attention
Drip of the French Press into the mug
Pressing grounds through as
ground falls from under my feet
taking me back to that cafe in the Village where…
Drifting with the breeze down State Street
Lots of UW students hang and hacky-sack here
Whole lives ahead of them
One potent whiff of a fattie gives me
a contact high and suddenly I’m on Venice Beach…
We march in solidarity with unions at
Madison’s Capitol Dome
The golden statue atop is called Miss Forward
The governor inside is called Mister Backward
My anger at injustice boils inside my gut
I plop down on the pavement and start to
scribble on the back of my sign…
Startled awake, sweating, full-body tremble
recalling those nights when
a little girl was tucked in tight until
HE decided it was her turn
I switch on the light – it’s NOW, dammit, not THEN!
I pick up a pen…
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings gave us a simple prompt: Free. Also, Writer’s Island gave us Inseparable. So this is a twofer. Amy
A Mother’s Ferocious Love
Trapped like animals in their jungle village.
Strapped one to another: Young mother, daughter and son.
Shoved into ships, below deck,
so cramped, no room to stand.
The voyage was grueling.
Thin gruel was their mainstay.
These white masters with their whips at the ready
as steadily, her people died of fever and starvation.
The sound of the whippings, the whimpering.
Her son, finally succumbed to the wasting disease.
Now, as she wondered whether this boat would ever find land,
and she herself felt gripping pain in her gut.
Up on deck for the hosing down,
she clutched her baby girl in her arms,
inched her way to the rail and, in an instant,
they were both overboard, taken by the sea.
Her son had already been given to the water
after his death, tossed over like garbage.
At least now she and her baby girl would join the boy,
inseparable forever, engulfed in the endless waters. Free.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Here in Madison, we are fighting for unions and for fairness – PEACEFULLY. Don’t believe the FOX BS. There have been no laws broken, except by the Governor and the Legislature. Please read and remember – I have been there, on site. I tell you the truth: There are no marauding throngs of thugs (unless the Gov. decides to plant them, as he has admitted on tape to considering); there have been NO windows broken at the Capitol Dome (that report was retracted.) In fact, the Gov. ordered the window jambs sawed off to prevent them from being opened, patently illegal and a safety risk – this is why the “cleanup” of the Dome is up to $7M.
Yes, I’m an activist, and proud of it. So sue me. Make a lawyer rich with another frivolous lawsuit! For ABC Wednesday. Amy
Here, Heroes
Have you heard?
Hope is heralded here in Madison.
Hands up if you heed the Constitution.
Hands up if you’ve heard about Mother Jones,
Headlining the cause of unions
with the heart of a lioness.
Heading to the Capitol Dome,
heeding our call as citizens
to have our grievances heard.
Head of Wisconsin, the poster boy
for hubris, hedonism, and dishonesty.
Have you heard? Do you care?
Heads up: Greed is heading for
your hometown next.
Wisconsin is ground zero:
It will halo out from here.
Jesus said, Help the hungry, the homeless…
or are Hannity, Beck, and Hagee your only heroes?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
… at least I hope I won’t! Voices are for pleading the cause of justice. And for singing! Thanks to Three Word Wednesday for the prompt: Abrasive, Loss, Handful
I’LL NEVER LOSE MY ABRASIVENESS
She’s always been a handful, that Barlow girl
Opinions up the wazoo
and a mouth on her, too
Not the type you’d ever want to curl
up next to for quiet talk
She’s one to squawk
about injustice, poverty, and greed
She never stops
She never drops
the subject, will never heed
warnings from friends
that this stuff ends
with FBI files, a permanent docket
She says what they can bite
if they have the appetite
Her heart is a silver locket
filled with blood and heaven
Film at eleven
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday asked us to create a poem using Educate, Object, Silence. Mine seemed to go toward the political side of the spectrum. Interesting that “object” takes both the verb and noun forms.
CONTROL
The object of failing to
educate our youth
is to silence dissent
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
QUESTIONING AUTHORITY
In opposition to corporate domination,
three options are clear:
Educate those around you
about the history of abuses;
Object publicly, speaking
truth to power; or,
Keep your silence, avoid roiling waters…
and wait for them to come for YOU.
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 