First, continued apology for not answering your comments on recent posts. Doing my best to catch up, so don’t give up on me, OK? This is a dark take on the Sunday Whirl prompt; wordle is listed below. Thanks, and peace, Amy
The Ward and Me
Shadowy business, this
Nestled in the crook of a couch
for another shrink rap
My balance, shaky at best
This ward filled with walking open sores
Memories ooze from their psychic wounds
The runoff seeps up the floorboards
leaving smudgy, evil footprints
Traces of ghosts linger, follow us inmates:
Xeroxed Marleys, hovering phantoms whispering
what happened back when
back then
Grandma Blanche was a frequent flier,
restless for answers to
bizarre questions that made Grandpa cringe
and then commit her
They’d strap her down
They’d scorched her tortured brain
A sick science fair
I know that old game, how they
sucked the fun out of her
so I play along
I’m afraid but don’t let it show
I whistle a happy tune
This will all be over soon
I think
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Straps, Balance, Sores, Ghosts, Smudgy, Bizarre, Scorched, Shadowy, Restless, Nestled, Whistle, Know, Seeps. And, as always, to be found in the right column of my poetic kith and kin, Poets United.
Coming Back to Life
In a busy café,
a couple – hard not to notice
the incision showing through her
clinically shorn hair.
Her husband is her guide
as they clear their table.
“Garbage in there.” In go paper napkins,
delicately, like presents under a Christmas tree.
“Recyclables here. Which ones are those?”
She points to a plastic cup and a Coke can.
Her husband nods in appreciation
of her returning awareness.
“Dishes go in this bin.” She picks up a spoon
and looks to him for reassurance.
Then a coffee mug, and her husband chimes in,
“Don’t forget the fork.”
Suddenly peals of laughter erupt
straight from her gut, and he asks,
“What’s so funny?” She gasps,
“YOU SAID ‘FORK’!!!”
The whole place cracks up, joining her
in her first joke since brain surgery.
And, as tears stream down his cheeks,
he starts chortling too.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for Sunday Scribblings; the prompt was “Wit.” Also posted at my nearest and dearest, Poets United.
Crystalline
The perks of being a backup singer
were the free drugs supplied
by folks who’d tend to linger
after the show, back in the hotel room
Finest weed from finest seed
Took her right back to the womb
Times change, from rage to new rage
Thai to cocaine, then rock in a pipe
First hit flew her to an infinite stage
The saddest moment she’d ever know
was a bright shining synapse pinging
Gogogogogogogogogogo
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore
Memories of His Dad
Antique, the shaving brush atop his side of our bathroom counter.
Memories of his father come forth,
back when Dad used soap and an old-fashioned razor,
how the blade grazed his flesh with precision.
Later, his father lost that control
as Lou’s legacy sent him flailing
Hard for a WWII vet, an engineer, a man of science,
to revert to unexpected infancy, utter dependence.
The badger-hair brush reminds his son
of happier times, watching Dad pull up his nose
to stop that mustache from gaining ground.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Razor, Flesh, Control; also at Poets United.
Image courtesy of http://www.tjrakowski.com
Processing Me
I am at the Wisconsin DMV
I am sitting on a plastic chair
I am scolded by a supervisor for
sitting instead of
proceeding directly to Photos
I am told to sit down in another plastic chair and
wait for my number to be called
I am DY72
I am in the process of being processed
Now I know how cheese must feel
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse and Poets United!
Hello all, from our new digs here in Madison, home base for recalling the governor of Wisconsin; protecting the environment of our state and others; protesting the war in Afghanistan (this includes Veterans for Peace); and sheltering the homeless during the bitter cold that comes and goes.
During my vacation from blogging (and while my computer crashed with one of those “phishing” viruses – I never fall for that), I composed a ditty for my good friend, Buddah Moskowitz, of I Hate Poetry and Virtual Poetry Reading. Thought it would be a nice “dipping of the toe in the poetic waters” to post it here. He’s SO worth it!! Peace, Amy
SILK THREAD (for Moskowitz)
There is a long, silken heartstring
Starts in the Midwest
Stretches to the Coast
(The Left Coast, not the other one)
Connects me with my
brother from another mother
in ways gutty, gutteral, giddy
and good
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
As always, posted at my “nest,” Poets United.
During all the recall mishigoss, I had time to write something more all-encompassing! Here’s to the new America, as envisioned by Newt, Rick, and (depending on the day) Mitt (featuring backup vocals by Michele and Sarah):
Anthem for a New Party
Harken to the new American song!
The mating call of the vulture.
“Take wing and we shall restore prosperity.”
Blood drips from his beak,
from his talons,
trickling down upon the rest of us.
The offspring of this vulture are
vile, virulent creatures
who cannot fly but still flock together,
plotting, under the right wing.
Taking tea with spiders whose backs bear
hourglasses, betraying the truth:
Time’s almost up.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic nest, Poets United.
WARNING: NOT for the squeamish. (So if you read it, you have only yourself to thank or blame.)
For those who don’t know me well enough yet, this happened to me when I was a kid. Feel free to comment, ask questions, or engage me through email if you prefer to speak privately (ask and ye shall receive my address). I’m open about this (and my mental disorders) because I want survivors to shed their unearned shame and get the help they need to sweep the monster from under the bed and LIVE their lives not as victims, but as true survivors. Peace, Amy
Too Close, No Comfort
She feels the proximity of the monster
Hears his footsteps
Smells his acrid third-martini breath
She should call out, scream
But it’s useless, no one comes to
help the child until afterwards
It’s over. She wet the bed again
but he never noticed, too busy with
her small, slack-jawed mouth
Will she ever tell the secret everyone knows,
or will she block it all out to preserve
what little sense of self remains?
Little girls have a capacity, as do little boys
to save retribution for adulthood,
when they are able to handle the history
Tears witnessed by a therapist,
perhaps meds to ease the trauma as it is relived
again and again, until the haunting stops
My dad never did the perp walk
Mom never admitted she knew
but my sweet revenge was forgiveness:
After all, he was the sick one.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Immobile, Proximity, Retribution
Lindy at Poetic Licensee wrote a lovely poem today, memories of her mother. I promised her I’d blog a poem I wrote a year ago about my mom, because we had some bits in common, so here it is… This was also part of my chapbook, Dance Groove Funhouse. Thanks, my new friend Lindy, for reminding me of this one! Peace to all, Amy
THE WRINGER
I was the baby so I
spent a lot of time with Mom
watching her perform the mundane tasks
of suburban housewifery
that would eventually lead her to alcoholism
But back then they were fun
The radio was always on
Roger Miller singing King of the Road
We’d sing along
She taught me to harmonize when I was four
Downstairs to do laundry
A humungous circular washer, a wringer
And a clothesline out back
To her this was heaven
having survived the Depression
All these conveniences
meant just for her
In those days, she saw her life as luxurious
And she saw me as company
and the only friend around
After poking a stick into the washing
to make sure the detergent had really dissolved
She drained it and refilled to rinse
Man, she really took the stick to that
Everything had to be clean, perfect, worthy
But the best part
Before the hanging on the line with wooden clothespins
(Someone should invent something with a spring,
she said absentmindedly one day
Her mom was a genius, too)
Was the wringer
The clothes being strangled as they
gave up almost every drop of their being
I pretended they were bad people who were being punished
I prayed for them but secretly relished their fate
Back then it was easy
We’d go upstairs and have coffee (mine was mostly milk)
She light a Lucky and we’d sit
gazing out the window to the fields beyond
Soundtrack by The Lettermen and Peggy Lee
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 