The Big Change
How to explain the changes ahead of me.
First, Mom needed gin, just a snort
to abort the mortification of
the dreaded subject at hand: Sex.
On a page in her steno notebook,
she drew crude diagrams:
Ovaries, tubes, uterus – utilitarian scrawls,
later to be thrown away in disgust.
“The egg starts in here,” pen on ovary,
“travels down through here,”
tracing Fallopian Lane,
“and ends up here. Once a month.”
Another jigger of gin for courage.
“If the egg gets fertilized, it stays here
and becomes a baby. If not,”
siiiiiiigh, “you bleed and need some equipment.”
She pulled out the mysterious
blue box, used heretofore only by
Mom and my big sisters. Removing
napkin and belt, she trussed me up.
That was the extent of Sex Ed with Mom:
There were eggs (aren’t eggs big?).
There were tubes and a place
you might make a baby (is fertilization about peat moss?)
Later I found out the good stuff…
recalling Mae West’s immortal wisdom:
“No man ever loved me
the way I love myself!”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, a new site – check it out! Theirbeing Change. Also at Poets United, the poetry collective.
Three prompts, three poems. Enjoy, Amy
FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY (prompt: Home)
Our Big Transatlantic Move
In tropics too long…
Gazing at Autumn’s palette
we know we are home.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION (prompt: Silence)
Silence
Deeply drowsy,
almost asleep,
I am awakened by
silence.
My silence possesses
a certain charisma.
Mood music melts my mind
in the key of D-flat.
As one’s eye might
perceive a heavy haze
on a lazy afternoon,
so I hear my silence.
Whispers, wishes.
Haunting harmonics
pitched aloft like angels, but
with a hint of humanity.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR POETS UNITED (prompt: Third letter of your first name. And no, my first name is not “Sharp”!)
Y Not?
Yawningly waking.
Yearning aching to make love.
Yanking off your T-shirt,
purring, giggling, yowling…
Yelling, “Yes! yes! yes!”
After all these years,
you and I are youngas our first “yowza”!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Lex, with love
Strolling
Today, I’ll stroll to Mary’s place.
The patio screen scritchscratches with my departure.
Why lock it? Next Door Nan will be at home.
Sneakers on grass, bristling the sunburnt ground cover
The brush of palm fronts bending to grant me passage
And all along the way, crickets chirping
Now my sneaks scrape along the sidewalk,
past Pete the shoe repair guy, who waves.
“Time for that again?” he jokes.
“Yupper,” I shout, as my finger makes
little circles around my ear. “I’ll bring my
sandals over tomorrow, hope you can save ‘em!”
A profusion of orange flowers, “ditch lilies” they call them here,
but I dead-head the wizened, faded flowers,
pitch them into the fray, mulch for another day.
(Someday, I will be wizened and faded, too –
but if they want to toss me into the mulch pile,
they’ll have to catch me first!)
Finally the clip-clop upstairs, into the waiting room
with the fountain that always makes me need to pee.
Then, the soft inhale of a door opening:
“Amy?” smiles Mary, my therapist.
“Let’s do this sucker,” I laugh, and whoosh!
The door shuts. Tears to be shed, secrets to keep.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems‘ prompt, Walk. Also on display at Poets United! Peace, Amy
Whose Side Are They on Now?
When things go right…
when her friend’s surgery is successful;
when his kid scores a goal;
when the baby is born with ten and ten
and Mom’s epidural was spot-on;
when a football player executes a game-saving touchdown,
when an old guy, down to his last buck at the bar,
hits the TV gambling jackpot,
it’s “Praise Jesus!”
They crow, “Thank God!”
When war rips a relentless dagger with
no healing in store,
and “smart bombs” hit the
“actionable intelligence” targets
(and only kill a few kids and other civilians),
when a dictator who was funded by the US but
falls out of favor ends up on the wrong side of a noose,
it’s, “God is on our side!”
When Katrina hit New Orleans,
when earthquakes hit Los Angeles,
Bible Belters shouted, “It’s because of all the sin
that is tolerated there! It was God’s will!”
(Sure, there’s that racist tinge to the condemnation…
never mind that the majority of Katrina victims
were people of color who worked hard to maintain
their neighborhoods, while the vast majority of “sinners”
are white college girls who get stinking drunk and
flash their boobs to get Mardi Gras beads…)
“Praise Jesus, who looks after the righteous,”
says the preacher, passing the collection plate.
(It’s all in the timing.)
But when a neighbor is laid off or gets
screwed out of a pension,
when someone on your block develops cancer and
it’s already Stage Four,
or it’s your kid who’s hit by a drunk driver
or knocked up by her own uncle…
Whose side is God on now?
Does Jesus hate your neighbor? Is that why he’s
slumping his shoulders in the unemployment line?
Does God think it was the 13-year-old girl’s fault
for “tempting” her pedophile uncle?
Do God and Jesus sit on high and zap people
with cancer when they are bored?
Think about these things
the next time you presume
to speak for God.
And feel free to give a copy of this to your pastor.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Me, Not Me (am etheree)
She
is me
is not me
Ebullient to the point
where even strangers point fingers
at her dancing in the rain
How she sings along with grocery karaoke
Her ass sways as she pushes the cat
grabbing junk food, beer, and tofu with equal enthusiasm
This jitterbug dervish, drug-free hippiehead, the part I keep hidden.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
She is, in fact, me on an old manic high in my manic-depressive cycle. I feel that, once in a while, I have to remind myself as much as my readers what it’s like to be caught in that bubble, flying overhead where all can see you. It’s so eacy to make run of someone in this state on the street – but I was once one of them. I’m managing through my psychiatrist and therapist – but once upon a time, I thought this was simply a facet of normal life, not understanding the embarrassment and possible damage to self I could inflict… did I mention that, when walking about town on a manic high, I never noticed traffic lights?
Posted, as always, at my poetic haven, Poets United, and I remembered to post to dverse poets, a new site with some extraordinary talent, plus open forums. Peace and clear thinking, Amy
Our Navy SEALS and other Special Ops units pay a terrible price for their extreme talent. They are exposed to sights and sounds the normal American citizen never considers. After hearing about a large number of SEALS being killed this week, and knowing a couple of former Special Ops folks myself, these are my thoughts about what they go through, and at what cost to their own mental health as they become vital cogs within the war machine. Peace, Amy
FORWARD MARCH, SPECIAL OPS
He pledges to hold sacred even the most seditious plans of the military.
His head is shaved ‘til every blond tuft falls to the floor.
He will tread the nether worlds to hinder whichever enemy is targeted.
His missions sporadic, vital;
he is enmeshed in that zone of adrenalin and HOO-AH!
Tonight, he’ll get plastered with his buddies to ward off the sting.
Years later, waking in tremor, he is haunted by
horrors executed at the bidding of men
who felt no stigma about
stirring the global pot to suit their needs
and those of their investors.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle words in bold), Sunday Scribblings (Forward), and, as always, the poetic collective, Poets United.
Poets United asked us to meditate on the word, “She.”
THREE IMAGES OF WOMEN GRACE MY WALL
A dog-eared poster hovers near my desk, rebellious wallpaper
Detailed manifesto of the Women’s Liberation Movement
“Because woman’s work is never done and is underpaid…”
Words from a bubbling wellspring of hope and burned lycra
Demand for an equal stake in this country, still unmet
A postcard: Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein
keep me honest in all pursuits, artful and activist
as they stare me down in a loving way, like sisters
heart of depression beside the mother of us all
reminding me that women are worthy of everything
Klimt portrait, foil-embroidered woman
She stands alone, in no man’s embrace
yet framed by flowers, wearing a come-hither robe
Full black hat, ebony halo, distant gaze
Essence of loveliness, an equal part of my soul
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I Heard The News Today, Oh Boy
I note, fascinated, that
TV prophets cheerfully tender
the day’s torments,
as though yesterday left no scars,
no rusty bloodstains on the streets
of Kabul.
The sun has been swept under
a cement cloud.
Why chance a morning walk
when crawling will do?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Whirl words are in BOLD. Try Brenda’s Wordles – they are fascinating!
Also on Poets United, my poetic collective home.
Sharp Little Pencil 