Simply a meditation on power and overcoming its shackles. Amy
More Than This
She burned with the anger of the powerless.
That incendiary pissed-off-edness:
Light the fuse, fueled by years
wriggling under the thumb of
a cruel, oppressive man…
There must be more than this.
Seething through silent beatings
which left no marks, bruising only her ego,
mangling her tangled inner weavings,
thread by thread he delighted in pulling apart
the uniqueness she had once treasured.
There should be more than this.
When at last the reaching occurred
(God to her? Her hand outstretched to the Divine?),
the tinderbox of regret, hatred, guilt
burst forth in flame, melting away
tarred resins of the past.
There can be more than this.
Emerging from the fire,
refined to her pure self,
she took her little girl’s hand and smiled.
His pursuit was futile,
for she finally possessed an unbreakable truth:
There will be more than this.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ah, the beloved Wordle landed once again at Big Tent Poetry. Like a Rubik’s cube of words, except there is no right or wrong way to assemble it. Check out Big Tent to see others’ work. Peace, Amy
Parade of Smiles (Big Tent Poetry)
The parade of smiles, boyish slips of things
that turn out to be teenage girls,
seems to defy explanation.
I gasp as they slump by,
stick figures who should be
waking to full womanhood.
I question silently their choices
of salad over Chinese in the food court
and hope they get enough protein and fats.
My daughter’s love of moccachinos speaks volumes
about her state of mind and body.
She may be a tangle of emotions…
but her body is aflame with curves.
Thighs with musculature and form;
she is aware of herself and fully awake.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Dallying on Writer’s Island is a pursuit every poet should indulge in. This week’s theme, “Improvise.” Yeah, like I’ve never done that! Amy
Fill In The Blank (Writer’s Island, “Improvise”)
So I arrive at my gig, hauling my rig all by myself.
I snag my stocking on a stack of speakers,
speaking in a pitch only a poodle could discern, “!!#*$!!”
Into the Ladies’ cause I don’t wanna start late,
I rummage through the rucksack that
passes for my purse.
On my thigh, one big hole in my black tights…
a dollop of whipped cream on an otherwise
dark-chocolate-frosted plane.
Dredging up a Sharpie, I fill in the blank, then
sketch in the run, the pen climbing
up and down a ladder.
I’ll deal with scrubbing it off tomorrow;
for now, it’s beg, borrow, or steal my way to the mic
with as much dignity as stinky ink can afford me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is another double prompt, courtesy of two sites from Poets United: Poetry Tow Truck (my first time there) wanted a poem based on the beginning and ending words (in caps), two lines from “At the Doll Hospital” by Robin Ekiss (from the book The Mansion of Happiness) which, when read vertically, form a full sentence. That’s the best I can do in the way of explanation… just go with it!
Also on the Poets United page, I found Sepia Saturday, and these both blend to fit the poem that follows (sorry, I can’t figure out how to recreate the picture here, but if you follow the link you’ll see it there!). Enjoy. Amy
Blanche and Bill
AMONG the regulars at the café, WHERE
SOphie and Ruth frequently stopped, their friend WILL
(MANY girls fancied him) met Ruth’s sister, Blanche. SHE,
EYES big and brown, was considered a real FIND.
FIXED them up, Sophie did, bless HER.
IN June the Blanche and Bill forever sealed their TENDERNESS.
GLASS covers their wedding portrait, where they look a bit grim,
but they laughed the same laugh and loved like no couple since.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil Continue reading
CHARMING THE SNAKE (for Thursday Tales)
He spoke only in monotones
His voice, the flute
And I, foolish cobra
drained of venom
danced to his tune
his orders
Performing at his whim
That day has passed
I found my fangs
Reclaimed my venom
And dance to my own tune
Pity the snake charmer
He is always left with
an empty basket
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
While I am editing several poems on the public protest over workers’ rights here in Madison, I need to take a break and answer a call to a prompt. Too much politics leads to personal unrest, and self-care is a huge part of successfully managing my manic depression… so meditation and writing are a big help!
At We Write Poems, we were asked to write about “safe places.” I was a rover in my twenties, and these are but a few of the places were I laid my head to rest…
Safe Havens
An unheated, leaky garage at an old rocker’s compound
A couch in a flophouse
The egg-crate pads laid on the floor of a nudist commune
Haystacks in a barn, as we helped with the harvest
Marcia and Jesse’s closet, the door unhinged (as was I),
the most comfortable vortex of all…
The beach in Venice, where I lay under an umbrella of starts
watching the slivered silver moon dance through my tripping eyes
An SRO, hot plate heating Chunky Beef Soup
Looking back at these havens, all were safe
Some were filled with love.
others with the scent of cow patties
and the sweat of an honest day’s work.
And still others bore the sweetness of smoke
from Mendocino County’s finest…
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Three Word Wednesday, they gave us: Figure, Juicy, and Stress. (Wow, that could go in a lot of directions. Click the link and see what others have done!) Managed to combine it with ABC Wednesday, “brought to you by the letter F.” No, not THAT “F” word. Whattaya think, I’m that obvious? So, again, two prompts, one poem… from my third and “f”inal trip to the DMV with proper paperwork to secure my driver’s license! Amy
Finally Fit
Finally fit for the DMV
Forms filled out
Foto fixed (couldn’t forage the file from Friday. Go figure!)
No frustration, no fuss, stress–free
These folks, friendly and fine
Fruit-juicy satisfaction, this fact:
Finally, fully Wisconsinite!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Writer’s Island, the prompt is “Foretell.” This is my second of two! Enjoy a true moment… Amy
PROPHESY
Five-year-old
pulls up an ankle sock and
turns to the grown musicians
“In B Flat,” she whispers, “one-two-three-“
and launches into “K-K-K-Katy”
Two choruses, much applause
She’s found her spot:
Face to the crowd, in front of the band
Selling the song
No fortune teller could have read her palm
Nor Tarot deck have been laid
any better than this
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Honeymoon and Garlic (Writer’s Isle, Sun. Scribs)
Drove upstate after The Big Date…
Honeymooning in the most
romantic, exotic destination
his heart could conjure:
A state park near Ithaca, NY.
(I knew this was the beginning of the end.)
My idea of camping is:
Where do I plug in my hair dryer?
Dire situation: Pitching the tent
(bitching to myself about the
rocky terrain. And the park.
I had definite ideas about tent poles.
In general and in specific.
Now he was bossing me around
telling me how I had the doohickeys
upside down, here, let ME do it,
like it takes Einstein or a similar genius
(meaning him) to put the damned thing together.
My betrothed, until death do us part
(until I strangle him, I’m already thinking).
Stoking the fire with damp wood –
smoking grey and choking the cook (moi),
I began begetting dinner.
A large pot for boiling water.
A skillet, olive oil shimmered as
garlic and onion swam
in the hot, shallow pool.
Clams next; a pat of butter.
Folks at the next campsite stared.
Dad yelled, “What the hell ya cookin’?
Sure smells good!” But he was kinda snarky about it.
I chirped back, “Linguine with white clam sauce,”
shaking a bottle of homemade vinaigrette
to drizzle over crisp romaine.
Guffaws from the the old fart as he
shook his head. Then he whispered,
loud enough for me to hear,
“City folk,” burning his mystery meat wieners
on the disgusting camp grill.
His wife looked to me with longing,
grinning her approval at my audacity.
I shrugged back, as if to say, You pitched your tent,
now you have to eat his wieners.
(My husband had ridiculed my choice
of uppity food, no gratitude. He did like
the Corelle plates, environmentally correct.
But he didn’t help clean up, just meandered off
to commune with nature
or talk to some animal who understood him.)
Unzipping the “honeymoon suite”
for a 3 a.m. leak in the bushes,
I gazed at the pinspot-littered sky.
“Why?” I whispered to God.
“Why did I just sign up for a divorce?”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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