Quandary
Words haunted her, hounded her
Phrases dogged her footsteps,
nipped at her heels.
Thoughts butterflied about her head,
no shoving them away.
Fanciful images and rhyme
began to work they way
into the margins of her mind.
At work, she inked them on her arm
(transcribing them before nightly oblations).
When at last she found her voice,
the words rejoiced, flutterflapping, then
settling on her desk or clinging to the walls
like hastily taped reminders.
Carefully, she pasted them into a book
in a certain order
(like a ransom note)
and the captive was set free.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
For ABC Wednesday (brought to you by the letter “Q”) and my poetic home, Poets United.
Cat of Nine
In a cafe on a blissful Madison spring morning.
I sip coffee and poem peacefully.
A harpist sets up his hand-crafted instrument,
intricately carved, and he plays with his heart on his sleeve.
Spying his technique from the side,
I see calluses, thick pads on his fingers
as he deftly navigates the strings
to bring forth delicate melody.
His other hand surely must bear the same scars
of practice, of pursuit of that elusive
perfection – real musicians know
it’s ever out of reach, but the muse still coaxes us on.
I look again at that other hand;
he has only four fingers. He’s a vet
who lost his ring finger in combat but
chose beauty over bitterness on his long road home.
See nine strumming fingers thrumming Celtic chords.
Watch the strings continue to vibrate as sound reverberates.
Feel his joy, throw a few bucks in the tip jar,
and take that love with you as you leave.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Poetic Asides prompt: On the Other Hand; also posted at Poets United.)
Powerful Urge (For ABC Wednesday and Poets United)
Never one to linger backstage,
craving instead gelled red-hot spotlights overhead.
Sustaining me through sickness, divorce, and
freewheeling, full-tilt mania
Yet there lingers within that nauseating self-doubt:
Will I ever be good enough?
The first time house lights went up,
a chill raised the hairs on my neck,
and I gave out with
the best version of “Skylark” I ever sang.
So maybe the self-doubt is actually
my own spirit stirring me up to help me through.
I am the siren who makes sailors crash into rocks (or fall off barstools)
and I love that power.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ignore the racist stereotypes and see true athleticism, artistry and energy. The incomparable Whitey’s Lindy Hoppers, and the poem follows. Watch the video first; I dare you not to be amazed. Band is Slim Galliard and Slam Stewart; Slam spent his last years in my hometown, Binghamton, NY. A gentle, sweet man who never lost his soulful voice and way with a bass.
Lindy Hoppers
Back when jazz was hot
When the drums meant dancin
jitterbuggin, Lindy Hoppin
shimmyin, shakin your sugar…
Lil, Grace, and Fancy
flounced and flirted in the finer clubs
Gracie, she was fine on the dance floor
Lil had more meat on her bones,
made lifting for the Lindy doubtful
Still, she clapped and hooted off on the side
beer in one hand, the other tucked in Slim’s front pocket
Now, Fancy was a flimsy-thin frail
made for stompin at the Savoy
When the band commenced to wailin
she’d be flyin over Jimmy’s head,
flung between his legs and back up again
She shined like a new penny,
bronze and easy rollin
Her real name was Flo
but once they saw her dance
hellzapoppin on that floor
they renamed her Fancy
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Thin, Jitter, Grace, blog
Took a couple of days off to process the events of the past week. Hope you are all well, and please, don’t anyone comment on Osama bin Laden on my blog, OK? If I write a poem about his life or whatever, then you can, but I’m meditating on peace at this time. Thanks for understanding! Amy
Road Asides
Roads, those easier I could have taken,
long past regretting.
Lessons learned on bumpy avenues,
long time forgetting.
And yet there is a wistful twist
in every boulevard – if you look hard
you’ll find it and, if you dare,
something good might find you there.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Published links at Poets United and Monday Poetry Train Revisited (thanks, Gautami!).
The prompt at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem using words you hate. This covers a wide spectrum from one part of my life. I miss you, Jeff. Love, Amer
Panel from the Memory Project
Pneumocystis Pneumonia (PCP)
Prone on the steel-back chair.
Probed straight down the gullet.
Cysts and rancid breath emerge
as he lay stupefied.
He will awaken and count the hours.
Tick, tock, curse the clock.
Swabs grabbed cultures.
Petrie dishes cook up the fetid truth:
He has it.
He has full-blown AIDS.
It is 1985.
He is 32.
Tick. tock, curse the clock.
Skeletal soon enough, too soon.
Patches of scabs peel off his scalp.
Bactrin on every sink so that
if he barfs, bleeds, or brays
we can wash it off.
Tick, tock, curse the clock.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at Writer’s Island (Day 28) and Poets United.
Two in a row for We Write Poems: “I do my laundry when…” One fun, one serious.
These are also at Writer’s Island and Poets United. Peace, Amy
Laundry (haiku)
I do my laundry
when I damned well feel like it.
I am self-employed.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
—————————
I Do
“I do.” My laundry: When he needs his lucky shirt
for Dart Night with the guys.
And despite my long hours at work,
I end up cooking every meal.
He reclines his spine on the sofa
without a “thank you” for the chips and dip and beers I
serve his buddies while they sit and swear at the ref’s bad calls
and don’t call it a day until after 10 p.m.
“I do” sealed my fate until the swearing
was no longer aimed at the refs, but at me and
the bowl of dip just missed my head
falling in clinks and plops to the just-mopped floor.
Darts no long reserved for the board:
He’d found a new target.
It wasn’t always like this. In our early days,
kisses and promises of blissful years ahead.
Words I believed until my lips met
with his fist; until sunglasses became basic makeup.
“I do” sounds lovely at the altar, but so hollow when
promises melt and mingle with the salt and blood at my feet
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Brenda’s Wordle at Beyond The Bozone including silver, phrase, forever, scars, crescendo, crude, recount, perfume, message, and bottle; also, this works with Poetic Asides’ “Message in a Bottle.”
Cobalt Blue Bottle
Auntie Ruth’s perfume in a cobalt blue bottle
embossed with the phrase, “April in Paris.”
Twirling open the fluted silver cap,
I’d sneak a sniff.
Stronger than a crescendo of crude
on a Texas Tuesday,
the scent still held a message
of forbidden romance (one that might leave scars).
Recounting those afternoons
I used to while away
in Ruthie’s room…
Memories I’ll treasure forever.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You can also see this poem at my NaPoWriMo site, Writer’s Island, and, as always, at Poets United. Check out these poets!
Sharp Little Pencil 