Two girls in one… both of them me before I got the right mix of meds and therapy. A note to folks who have the same condition, please know I’m NOT making fun of anybody living with any type of mental disorder or chemical imbalance. I learned how to laugh at myself as part of my therapy and to be open to that wacky part of my heritage. I’m also part of NAMI Stigma Busters. Amy (For Poets United’s Poetry Pantry.)
DEPRESSED (a dirge)
Leaden footsteps dog my pace
Straining, forcing smile on face
Gravity has conquered me
Hard to muster strength to… be
Wheels are grinding ever slower
Ten more steps to my front door
Dropping bags and sloughing coat
Sitting in a sinking boat
———————————————-
MANIC (an effervescent Peter Cottontail hippity-hop)
Wow I feel great I’m late for work but it’s
not my fault this jerk on TV was sooooooooo
fascinating I had to watch this invention
and the audience was soooooooo enthusiastic
about it just twelve payments of $19.95 plus
shipping so I called oops that credit card
is maxed, went through three before I hit
the jackpot it’s a juicer that also vacuums
your cat whattaya think about that? Gotta
run run run I’m late for work wait there’s
the cafe need coffee and a biscotti really bad
catch you later what’s your name again?
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “T.” Also posted at Poets United, natch. My daughter is visiting, and this was composed in her honor, not to make fun! (And actually, her posture is better than this indicates. It’s a composite of the entire generation!) Amy
Techie Twentysomething
Got an IHop plugged in one ear
and a Blueberry hangin off the other
“Wii love the Tech Age and
text ’til our thumbs go numb.”
Shoulders slump from hauling backpacks
since second grade.
Laptop, pursewalletID, keys, cell sardine-crammed
(stash stashed in secret side pocket).
Turn on, tune in, drop out?
Plug in, click on, tune out.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Women, Woman
In a sea of Marthas
She remained the Magdalene
Neither wanton, nor wayward, still
different, misunderstood
Her gestures of sisterhood
looked upon as threats by
the many married mommies
who kept their men on short leashes, well-heeled
Had they taken time
to listen to her thoughts
How she cared for their town
How she admired their ability to maintain stability
They might have warmed to her
But women are women, and
wives are wives, gathered in hives
And single mothers lead separate lives
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings (“Flock”) and my poetic home, Poets United.
This happened long ago and far away, but the memory still stings. Mental health consumers, take note. Amy
Dark Place In An Old-Time Church
Once upon a time, I, Sunday School teacher and wife of the preacher
asked for prayers for my falling, frail state of
misdiagnosed psychiatric overdose.
What a head-first dive into the greasy gruel of the gossip pool.
Mental illness was whispered there with vague disgust.
These were tough folks, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps”
Could spare no time for a mental lapse
Manic = panic = Someone Else’s Family
Treat diabetes with insulin
No reason my skin should’ve been thought thin
Imbalance of a chemical nature, a different nomenclature
My bootstraps are still pharmaceutical
Incidental mental quirks, deep emotion runs
through my family like Drano through pipes
creative, self-deprecating, frustrating, flustered
mermaids – hilarious but precariously perched on the rocks
It was no a sin, this place I was in,
and not theirs to judge,
for as they whispered uneducated superstitions behind me back,
they were also mocking Jesus’ message of love
I sing praise to the God who has seen me at my lowest and pulled me higher.
While I was wrapped in darkness
God lit the fire, showed me the light, and
got me from uptight to upright
They stared as I took my fall;
I scared them all, even as I forgave them in my heart.
Upright eventually, but when would I fall again?
And then – when would I mend?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my poetic home, Poets United.
Creation Circles
Circling dew-drenched winds
Particles settle, drawn into a core
Water seeps over to shore
and upward to the clearing sky
A sphere, then
Slowing moving, a circular wholeness takes shape
Revolving, arcing around a star
as other spheres form
In the waters, moving creatures differentiate
Unique beings, yet still part of the whole
They swim, consume, reproduce
as nature will allow
Some beings are drawn to the shore lines,
dwelling near coral reefs for eons
until fins lengthen, gills morph into lungs,
and land beckons them to a new home.
They reproduce as they did in the sea:
Those with penises plunge into waiting wombs;
babes pop from the penetrated and drink milk
from that parent’s body as they learn to live.
Some come to shore without gender.
They adapt as they must to continue the species.
Some beings take to the air, darting into water
to devour their forgotten cousins.
There is a Creator of all this fecund beauty
Whether it is Nature or God or Gaia or a
legend born of necessity to explain the world…
We will only know when we leave this place
Once there was a void of intermixed, intermittent
molecular flotsam floating, flung far and near
Now there is something so ancient, so precious,
all humans do is fight about where it came from
But I know this much…
It is and
it is beautiful and
it is worth preserving for as long as we deserve it
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems (Creation) and my poetic home, Poets United
Sarah’s Schnooks
“Such a schlemiel Sarah’s seeing,” said Shamira.
“The sort who schleps in for supper at seven when he
was invited at six. Sorry-ass schmuck.”
Aunt Sophie, sporting the same schmatta she’s worn since
the seventies, sighs. “Never simple for Sarah. She
schooled at City and now seems to savor those
simpletons and shegetzes. Shitheads who schmooze
soup to shtup!” She giggles. “And sure, I know from
shtupping, don’t look so surprised.”
Shamira, stirring soup (matzoh balls soft as satin),
says, “Stanley should have stepped up seven years ago.
Sarah could do worse than the cantor of our shul.”
Sophie smiles. “Sarah with Stanley? Sterling cantor,
but that schnozz! And I suspect he’s a snore in the sack.
He schpritzes during prayers and his spiel is too slick.
If Sarah doesn’t size them up,” she snickers, “there’s always
Sylvie the yenta!”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter S and the extensive Yiddish I learned in my youth. Always fascinated with Jewish culture, my daughter’s father is Jewish. Consult Wiki for words you don’t know! Also at Poets United, my poetic home. Amy
Having been passed over for The Rapture – oh, it’s been rescheduled for October now. How many millions has this crotchety fool made, donated by suckers who want to “be right”? I am now Left Behind (nice behind, and I’m most assuredly Left!) to ponder not the End of Days, but the Beginning.
(And guys, please this is “to laugh.” I love y’all, as you know from my comments on your posts. Couldn’t avoid having some fun with this one, especially after all the crap creation (and the banks and oil companies) have put us through during the past few months.) Amy
Creation, From a Woman’s P.O.V.
First there was God.
A grey-haired, bearded Dude who created
the heavens, the waters, wind, rain, tornadoes, and dirt.
Also the platypus, ostrich, and armadillo,
just for shits and giggles.
Then He made cows, pig, sheep, and other
exploitable creatures, for food and, well, stuff.
But who, thought the Dude, would be able to
exploit them to the max, and with the most
barbaric methods? MAN! And I’ll make him
Just Like Me, except he’ll have to wait for
the beard and the grey to set in.
Like Me, but a facsimile.
God named him Adam, later saying, “It’s short for
A Damned Mistake,” after the H-bomb leveled Hiroshima.
Then the man was lonely, so God created Dog.
But the man was not lonely in that way, so God said,
“Here let me show you how to inflict maximum pain
in the animals I gave you (but go easy on the dog),”
and performed non-anaesthetized surgery,
grabbing a rib out of the man’s side.
“OMG!” screamed the man.
“What?” said God.
The rib somehow got turned into a woman named Eve
(short for, “Eventually the pain will stop,” meaning the surgery).
Then came the Great Apple Debate: Who really did worse?
Eve, for talking it over with the snake and deciding to take the apple,
or Adam, for saying, “Whatever,” and eating without thought,
then blabbing to God that it was all Eve’s fault?
Adding insult to hasty judgment, Eve not only needed
more clothing than the Adam; she got a monthly bout with cramps,
as well as nauseatingly painful childbirth, when God could have
let her drop ‘em like tadpoles. But NOOOOOOO…
God didn’t bother to create marriage;
Adam and Eve just went at it.
Two brothers: One killed the other.
Dudes are violent, women suffer.
Creation was a crappy deal for females
and has pretty much remained so since Day Six.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This Creation prompt will appear (if I remember) on next Wednesday’s “We Write Poems” blog; it will automatically feed to my poetry home, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
Damp Laundry
Mom and damp laundry
Despite new products, incensed:
The skid marks remained
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Damp, Incensed, Skid
…and your second helping (hope you already ate dinner!):
Rank
The new apartment was spotless:
Creamy carpets calming, yet daring any mud
to tread or trespass.
Spacious closets; bathroom, a religious experience.
We moved in, delighted to have found
a small space offering big comfort.
Then I stepped into the hallway
shared by a dozen apartment front doors.
Smacked in the schnozz by a complicated, rank odor.
Some good: Spices, worthy chefs working ethnic magic.
Much more body odor… culturally acceptable
where the bodies originated, harking back to my East Side days.
Worst – cigarette smoke sneaking out to play hookie,
curling, wending its way from under some front doors.
Lingering like a London pea-souper, toxic fog.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
ABC Wednesday – R, and Poetic Asides, “Telling it like it is.” Also at my poetic home-away-from-blog, Poets United!
Triskaidekaphobia
Silly to be scared of a number
But there it was
She was scared to celebrate
her first official “teen” birthday,
thought the house
would go up in flames
because one of the candles
would flare and
that would be that.
She could not move into a flat
on the 14th floor
because she knew
the numbers skipped
from 12 to 14.
Karma was bound to catch up
in the form of
falling out the window
being squashed by a toppled ladder
(even though she hadn’t walked under it)
or being slowly gnawed to bits
by a black cat.
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at Writer’s Island in answer to their prompt, “Superstition,” and my poetic home, Poets United.
Mirror Grows Up
Girl standing on tiptoe to see her reflection
in the grown-up glass
Teen crying over ravages of acne
on her nose, her neck, her back
Bride at home wedding, same mirror
as this morning, but suddenly she’s changed
Single mom, single crease forming
over her left eyebrow, souvenir of divorce
Second time’s the charm, as she eases back
greying bangs from her smiling face
And just this morning, taking stock
More circles than a box of Cheerios
More wrinkles than a pug puppy
More fire in her eyes than Mrs. O’Leary’s cow ever wrought
More twinkle than Tinkerbell
More love than she thought she’d ever have
All shining back as her husband slips his arm around her,
whispering, “Love how you look today, babe.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
From a prompt about mirrors at my poetic home, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 