Carry On Tuesday gave us an interesting prompt: Somewhere within our poem, we were supposed to use the phrase, “But that is the beginning of a new story.” I decided to write an account – only the names and genders of kids have been changed – of an actual story, told to Buffalo’s DIVA by DIVA: A Celebration of Women, a group of “gals” who glitz up and tell stories, sing songs, and raise funds for Cornerstone Manor, run by a wonderful woman named in the poem.
Learn more about Cornerstone Manor, and maybe even throw a few bucks their way! Trust me, it’s worth every penny you can spare: CLICK HERE.
Gimme Shelter
Two girls with this man, and he let her bring her boy into the family.
He was so righteous (at first), so good with her son (before the whippings),
and kind to the girls (she caught him, that was the breaking point).
He had been the answer to her every prayer, the man of her dreams.
Now she realized that, with some prayers, the devil tends to
listen in on the party line, get in on the action.
Nowadays he nightly, neatly folded up their clothes, seized their shoes,
and put them under lock and key before going out to party every night.
This ensured his family would be there when he decided to come home.
This night, she could only see with the one eye not swollen shut.
He shut her up real good before slamming the door behind him
and going out to party with who knows who, who knows where.
Her son, still awake, said, “Mom, enough, OK?”
He’d tried to pry them apart; now, blood dripped slowly
down his chin, like a leaky faucet. He’d tried his best.
He was just sprouting his first proud whiskers and
thought he could take on The Big Man, but he found out
it wasn’t gonna happen. Not this year. He hugged his mother.
So they woke up the girls, wrapped themselves in bedsheets,
pried open the side window, and climbed out. Their feet fell
into three inches of Buffalo February, brutal snow and ice.
Mom carried baby Keesha and her son offered Kendra
a piggy back ride, sacrificing his own natural speed
to take on the growing five-year-old as his load.
They made their way to the women’s shelter two miles away.
Mom rang the bell and Dr. Laura (not that woman on the radio, thank God)
hustled them inside and drew the blinds. She called for help.
Soon, they were covered in blankets; their feet were washed
in warm water (Jesus washed his disciples’ feet). Injuries were
tended to (when I was sick…) and clothing found (when I was naked…).
This shelter for battered women and children had no scheduled
“date of departure”; families left when they were ready. In days to come,
the girls let go of some of the trauma and began to play with others.
Her son enrolled in a new middle school, hoping
he could stay under the radar and not be found by his stepdad.
And if found, he vowed not to give up his mom’s location.
Mom chats with her peers – they’ve all been there. Now they
begin classes on computers; they are coached for interviews
and given donated professional clothes for a new start.
These miracles are the blessings of Cornerstone Manor.
She found work downtown. Soon, her survival skills showed
a unique talent for relating to others facing trouble.
“What about social work?” she thought, as she leafed through
pamphlets for local community education programs.
But that is the beginning of a whole new story…
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Last chance for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “I.” Please know that I don’t believe ALL Tea Party members are misinformed racist birther idiots. Just most of them. My only prejudice: bigots! My only problem is with a marked insistence on a refusal to learn throughout one’s lifetime. Amy
Ill-Informed
“If he indeed isn’t Indonesian, we insist he prove it.”
(“Was Hawaii an individual state back then? I wonder…”)
“If you’re an ideal American, display flag insignias,
fly Old Glory in front of your home in sun, in rain, in inky night.”
(Incorrect, incidentally; in fact, improper. But
idiots don’t listen.)
Ignorant, imbued with INSTANT TRUTH
(inscribed illegibly on a chalkboard).
Instilled with self-righteousness by
spiritually insulated evangelists.
Illiterate, or might as well be, when introduced
to a newspaper.
Insisting they already know – don’t confuse them with
intelligently researched facts, in-depth analysis.
Ignorance is bliss. Idyllic idiots.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “I.” No better time to remember the victims, both dead and slowly dying, in Sendai and other towns in Japan. No better time to rethink our “commitment” to nuclear power, an option that is doomed to fail us at some point. Remember Oppenheimer: “I am become death.” Remember Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Remember shirt designs tattooed onto human bodies. Remember Karen Silkwood (RIP). Remember GREED.
Most importantly: Remember, no man who owns a nuclear power plant has ever lived anywhere nearby. Amy
Isolation
Island, inland,
isotopes, infrared.
Indelible images on the Internet.
If it implodes
the industry, intended to provide
immense power (ideological and industrial)
will implode as well.
Iodine pills, dispersed like incoming radiation.
Imperious platitudes; empirical attitudes (inferred)
Impossible to end nuclear power?
I intend to work to that end, in spite of industry.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Carry On Tuesday, they gave us this prompt…
“This week, the opening line from Home Thoughts From Abroad. Not by Robert Browning but Clifford T Ward: I could be a millionaire if I had the money.”
Now, you know me. The first phrase that caught my pun-addled brain was “Thoughts From a Broad,” but that is so Bette Midler… Carry on! Amy
If I Had the Money
If I decided to waste a buck
I could buy a lottery ticket
I could be a millionaire…
If I had the money,
I would give it all away.
I would drop it on rainforest recovery
and houses for Katrina victims
and public education grants
(and recalling the governor of Wisconsin).
Buy canned goods, give them to pantries;
clothe the homeless, give them shelter;
feed the hungry, give them hope;
help immigrants learn English if they wanted to
so they could see beyond cleaning rich people’s bathrooms.
I would spend it so fast,
old friends couldn’t catch up to me for loans,
because the money would already be gone.
I could be a millionaire if I had the money.
But if I had a million bucks, I wouldn’t have it long!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
THREE! This poem answers three prompts: We Write Poems (Against the Grain), Writer’s Island (Tribute), and Sunday Scribblings (Big).
Larger than life, yet in her own mind, just doing her part. One of my all-times heroes, and right now, we need all the heroes we can get. Amy
Big Little Woman
To a woman who lost it all
Widowed, her children dead from dread disease, the flu pandemic.
After her kids perished, she nursed neighbors.
To a woman who rose from grief and chose
to take up the burden of others:
Mothers, fathers, children, all laboring side by side
in factories, in fields, on farms, long hours for pennies,
as their cruel, crafty masters garnered a tidy profit.
Fat cats whose fortunes were secure.
Rich men whose better angels whispered, “Show love, compassion.”
But Greed and Hubris shout down angels.
They blot out God in a frenzied cloud
of green ink and gold coins numbering 30 and more.
Still, this widow woman knew nothing and cared less
about her own comfort. Others’ welfare trumped wealth
in her sensibilities, as she saw the rich exploit the masses.
She trod into the mines and the mills.
She talked in the fields, where the hopeless
worked long hours under punishing conditions.
She spoke of dignity (if she’d stopped there,
she would never have seen a jail cell).
She spoke of fairness (watch it, lady).
She shouted about rights (ah, the gloves were off now).
She stirred the pot, this big little woman,
pistol under her petticoat, taking on police
sent by their rich masters.
She was the voice of unions, the midwife of labor.
Let’s raise a toast in tribute to this hero,
who warned us that labor leaders should never
wear fancy suits or become rich off their organizations
(a fact that speaks volumes today)
and who taught us that, no matter what
the rank and file must be protected:
Raise your glasses high to Mother Jones.
At Three Word Wednesday, the prompts were: Dainty, Haunting, and Tantalize. Took me days to get to this place… and not one I relish being in. But some things must be said. Amy
Desserts (3WW: Dainty, Haunting, Tantalize)
Petit fours, marzipan
Dainty cupcakes set
in a tantalizing row
each night for his consumption
Little girls on display
Sleeping delights to his watchful eye
This patisserie from Hell
is haunting me still
© 2011 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 Writer’s Island, the prompt was, “Secret.” Something I know a little about… Amy
Bound
Bound-up little girl
heavy with secrets
she never understood
or could quite remember.
Faint whispers in
darkened rooms.
Shamed feelings.
Questions without answers
danced in her mind
in recesses, shadows.
When her truth
was at last unveiled
and then conquered
the psychic straps
that held her captive
were loosed,
and she unfolded slowly.
A Japanese fan
expanding, revealing
dizzying glorious colors
for the world to see.
“Here I am,” says she.
“Unbound.”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 