Pink Champagne
Was that the name of
the chalky rose that graced
my 20-year-old lips
Was it a drag queen or
my girlfriend Rickie who gave me
that stick/mystical tube
Cylinder of cotton candy
and chemical confection
that no doubt helped my pout
Yes, it was Rickie after all who
slipped Georgette Klinger into my purse
and said, “Work it, girl”
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
When Imaginary Garden With Real Toads mentioned the color pink, this little memory emerged from the silver tube of my synapses! I will always be grateful that Rickie Lee Jones is my friend… we are almost the same age, but she was always the big sister, more worldly, a bit wiser. And yes, she still has the BEST makeup, hee hee.
She has her first album of all originals coming out in June, so stay tuned. I will write to one of those pieces.
Amy
Muse-ical Demands
Starts off humbuzzing
nuzzling, within and without
her brain stirring to life
“Wait awhile,” says a muse-ical voice
“Hang out here – words are
on their way.”
Then her mind’s forest glade
is overtaken by a storming swarm
of mystical creatures
Jumping
Scurrying round her chair
Mumbling jimmystewartlike
Shaped in curves and lines
The stuff of scribbled margins
“Hear us!” they demand
“No idyllic comforts for you today!”
Passion’s blessed curse
She knows but one way:
She and the skittersliding
ROWDS
SWORD
WORDS
can coexist
And she fumbles for a pencil
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us to consider the work of Eugenio Montale, an Italian man of words who was a Nobel Laureate. He wrote prose poems, and I have adapted his mostly nature-themed works into my own “human nature-themed” work!
Have been drawn to art (acrylics and the like) lately, so have not been around my blog much. Apologies, and many thanks for all who stick with me, even when I don’t stick with myself. To myself. Oh, you know what I mean…
Peace, Amy
Pink, Above and Below
Pink
above and below
She knows this tavern
is a cavern of
half-truths and full-blown lies
Icarus and ice
Yet, this morning
la colorosa* bathes
the barstools and bodies
laid waste by last night
Sunrise brings the glow
of a knowing
that this day
there will be change
Her heart will melt
inthe pink glow of sundown
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image by Oxag at Wikipedian Commons:
Sunrise at Angkor Wat (Worldwide Usage Permission)
* la colorosa means “pink” in Spanish – at least, in Puerto Rico.
Hannah at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted color, a cave (and what better cave than a bar!), a hunger, adventure, and ice. Pull up a barstool and tell me yours. Also on the margins at Poets United. Peace, Amy
Night-Scented Stock, by Kate Bush; purchased online
Listen while you read the poem
Free Peace Silence
Eyes close
in cozy bed
Mantra repeated
releases
heightened view
Swirls of
green and blue
Connection
with the One
Freedom from
confines of body
I am by myself
but
I am not alone
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Poets United, Kim Nelson wanted poems about freedom. Then she asked us to pare them down to the essentials. A wonderful exercise in excising the extras, Kim, so thanks! Also at my poetic lily pad, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
Portrait by Edward Lear, poet and artist
I Made a Bu-Bo (and other nonsensical blather)
Snickering up on the biggest owl
on the entire Gaia Marble,
the Eagle Owl
(some are longer than,
some are heavier than,
but the Eagle Owl is
generally considered, by those
ornithologically inclined,
to be biggest, so who am I
to argue with expertations
of the nth degree; their
degrees on their walls and
in their halls of edification
So I am snickering up,
that is, asneak, all the better
to pop the vroom lens on my
Kodak Not A Brownie But
Something Of Great Cost,
the camera, my only friend
since my husbandonment
left me too for spending
so much money on this
gadgetary nonsense
As I said (for I digress,
even upon egress), I am
snickering up sneaky as pie
to take a rotogravurical image
of the Great (if not largest or
heaviest, per said experts)
Eagle Owl, as rendered
(in ink, not in olive oil,
for this bird has little meat,
and the plucking’s torture,
especially if the owl is still
alive and quite ornith… ornery)
I say, as rendered by the Even
Greater Edward Lear, I thus
with my gravuracospity at its
heightedness, do snarkily step on a
bygone Snickers wrapper and oops
The Bubo-Bubo, as it’s called
in Eurasia, yes, boob that I am,
it flies off before I can get a shot
(with said camera, and not with
assault riflage of any repudiation)
My questation, a lost causation…
The owl, gone the way of
other fowl, and growlsome, I
retreat fleet back to my bungaloo,
buggered again by Naturama.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, a tribute to May birthday boy, poet and artist Edward Lear/ I thought he was known only for his doggerel (including The Owl and the Pussycat) but now I know (thanks to the site) that he produced fine artwork, especially his collection of bird portraits. I decided to try the fun doggerel style of Lear as well as writing about one of his portraits. Hope I succeeded! This is also on the rolling right column of my poetic nest, Poets United (proud to be a member!).
The Eagle Owl is arguably (as poem says) the largest owl, found in Europe and Asia. It’s about halfway up the Endangered Scale. I like its expression because it looks like my late black kitty Missy when she put on her “mean face”! Amy
Dark Voyage
Another dark alley
Why aren’t there ever any
light alleys? she quirks to herself
She waits for the next john to be sexed
Pawns her body for a fix
Used to be kicks
First the hash pipe
Upgraded to Opium 5.0
The real deal, the needle
Heroin
Looks like a smear of poop on foil but
once it’s lit, it’s hit and
she isn’t worth shit
Heroin, a nightmare cannibal picnic
sliding down the clever beanstalk
into the tar pits for a long slick sick soak
Heroin. She’s nodding, her mind
smolders with visions conjured from
the greasy plank decks of the U.S.S. Sheol
She forgets the mess under her dress and
presses her mind against a wall of sounds
When she wakes, her stomach will ache
She’ll john once more to score
to black it out
to empty the chasm
already scraped bare
The addict: A mind forever voyaging
through strange seas of thought, alone
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image: Wikipedia Commons
Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted us to write using a line from a William Wordsworth poem, since today would have been his 243rd birthday. The Wordsworth line I chose was, “A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.” This is how I see many addicts: isolated, caught in a foreign place (even if it’s his/her home town), and always wondering. The “aloneness” of the line grabbed me by the ear and said, “Listen!” And so I did. And then I picked up my pencil. This is also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United… proud to be a member! Peace, Amy
Thanks to all who sent notes of support during my recent “computer Blue Screen Of Death” crisis. Took a day or so to read the work of others before starting to post again.
To followers of this blog, THANK YOU for your patience. If Sadie doesn’t Blue Screen again, I’ll be happy and she won’t be carted back to the shop sniffling. (OK, I was the one sniffling…)
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about creativity. Seems like a good starting point for getting my groove back, also to post at dverse Open Mic Night, as well as the site that never BSODs me, Poets United (become a member, y’all!) and the whimsical Imaginary Garden with Read Toads for Open Link Monday. The seed for this poem was in a note to my dear friend Sidnie, with whom I share certain parts of the bozosphere.
Creative Juices
In the game of Poetry*
there are no winners, nor losers
Our creative juices flow
sometimes in rhythm and rhyme
or perhaps in chaotic streams of
consciousness
One man’s Keats
is another women’s drivel
So please accept
these dribblings
from the
howling bloodhound slobberjaws
of my
creatively juicy life
(or not)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Shout-out to Buddah Moskowitz, who disdains “Capital P” poetry!! You’re my bruddah from anudda mudda! Ameleh
MY MAN (the texture of his soul)
Jagged thorny corners where
nuns did a number on him
Nearby, a fountain that weeps salt
for this father, gone too soon
On one side, blown glass
Cool to the touch, warming now…
Burlap covers newly planted notions
He will wait for blooms
Devotions in denim, closed eyes
weary after work of worship
A patch of stubble – not 5:00 Draper
but his biting, familiar sarcasm
A kazoo juts out of one side
waiting to play “Bridge On The River Kwai”
Settling in to meditate will be hard
what with all the racket, but he’ll get there
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “M.” Also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
This seemed to be the week to write about Lex, who pastored during a Seder on Thursday, spent quiet time on Good Friday, went to the vigil with me on Saturday, and rocked the church with an amazing sermon on Easter Sunday. Love of my life; man of God; sweetheart of a guy. Trust me, you’d love him.
Sharp Little Pencil 