Back then every morning broke both ways. Salty and sweet
Head already splitting sitting up, sliding into bell bottoms, frayed hems fringed over faded espadrilles
Peasant top, you know how it was, a roach clip on a looooong feather clipped into frantic loopy hair
Sip of last night’s to get me out the door, down to Ruby’s
Step out near the canals, the shaggy likewise join the journey
Who’s holding? Lights up, the high travels along the line of linked arms like a fuse
Snickersnorting to the boardwalk, Jingles and Frank ready for busking
All the lovely boys building bodies to bodacious on the beach, sand sticking to evvvvvery sinewed limb, pump pump bump
Now we can smell the coffee smell the bacon smell half the customers too, or at least their smoke
The clatter of breakfast – and always smiling Ruby (“somebody hit the juke for Ray Charles!” and his voice, “They saaaaay, Ruby, you’re like a dreeeeeeeam…”) She was 100% movement but never rushed us
Lazy, luxurious breakfast, runny eggs, and how they got bacon that crispy while retaining every bit of grease that came off the hog is a mystery of faith
OJ from the carton (back when we still called it that) not fresh, but we only drank it for the sugar hit
And so Sunday began. We were together. We had survived another Saturday night. And as we ramshackled back onto the mostly deserted boardwalk, it never occurred to us that something else might happen. That soon, Ruby’s place would turn into Starbucks; all the trash on the beach would become all the Eurotrash in the tragically samesame cafes; and eventually, Jingles might get a ticket for loitering.
Not yet. We didn’t have a clue that it was coming: the encroachment of developers, the diaspora of cool. I can still smell Sunday morning, the sweet greasy and the sweat weedy.
Thanks to my old friend Roger Green for kicking me in the butt to post something! He’s at www.rogerogreen.com
TO ALL MY FRIENDS: This is the reason I’ve been absent the past couple of days. Thanks for your patience. Amy
Candles For Nina
Nina, who is far away
I know you hear my prayer
My heart and soul (my daughter)
is right there, been there
since it happened,
the Horrible Thing
Wrong place, wrong time
The pavement, no springing
up from this blow, it seems
As your friends stared
the ambulance came
Carried you with care
Now Nina, you’re in limbo
Twixt here and no one knows
Through my girl, in spirit,
I’m there, I feel so close
Your friends, angry, crying
and Nina, that’s for you
Sad, praying, lighting candles
And God is right there, too
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons
Nina Fitzpatrick is a student at Laguna Beach Institute of Arts and Design. One moment Nina is a vibrant, artistic, cool woman…the next, it’s moment to moment. It happened in a crosswalk at the school – a crosswalk students have complained about repeatedly,
WHAT FOLLOWED WAS WRONG INFO AND I HAVE APOLOGIZED TO SCHOOL AND TRIED TO EMAIL. WRITER WAS ANONYMOUS BY EMAIL AS WELL:
…but about which the school did nothing, citing budget concerns. Seriously? (END OF MISTAKE, what follows is redaction)
Real story: LCAD (Laguna College of Arts and Design – I wrote wrong name) was indeed the recipient of numerous complaints, including near misses – BUT the road is apparently privately owned, and the OWNERS would not do anything, even when the SCHOOL offered to help pay. The only good news is that LCAD went public and it looks like their demand for stop lights at the crosswalk is being heard; it made the paper, etc. I logged into my edits to write the person who said I was “kicking them while they were down” (see comments, lower portions) but they did not leave a valid email. This sort of sucked, but I get it.
So I am mailing a hard copy of the original plus the redaction to the school and hoping they distribute it widely. In the meantime, my complaint is valid; however, my blaming the school was TOTALLY based on numerous instances of hearsay. So much for that. Nothing can bring Nina back, and I am so sorry I hurt folks who may have read this comment. LCAD is a marvelous school and has done wonderful things for all its students. Amen.
Before I launch into the poem… It’s late at night, and I’m thinking about today’s horrific tragedy. I pray for the day when people won’t have to kill and maim others to “make a statement,” to draw attention to their cause, or whatever it is. The fact that today is also “tax day” may prove relevant, I don’t know. My prayers to all in Boston, to all who have lost someone or whose loved one is in hospital. My prayers that another entire class of people aren’t stigmatized because the perpetrator suffers from a particular mental disorder. My prayers for the soul of our nation as we continue to install puppet figureheads and then turn around a drop bombs on them when they don’t do our bidding. As we drop drones on innocents to “get” one “bad guy.” I guess I’m just praying for our world tonight.
I wrote this poem today while Lex and I lolled in a cafe, our favorite day-off pastime – this was written hours before Boston. Hope you can enjoy it despite what’s going on. This is for Poetic Bloomings’ prompt, Rain. Peace, Amy
Half a Rainstorm is Better Than None (Bermuda, 1987)
Favorite haunt in Hamilton.
A day-off treat, strong coffee
dense shortbread, and
small talk with a friend.
Sky darkens, pavement is
wet across the way.
We emerge, fully
expecting immersion.
Yet we’re on the “sunny side of the street.”
Rain spatters cobblestones in
a literal line drawn down the lane.
A meteorological DMZ.
Island storms are that specific.
I pass my hand into the storm and
pull it out again; palm to fingers, drenched.
It dries in the sun as we ponder miracles.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I still remember that day. I had never seen the “edge of the storm,” nor did I know the concept existed. I’m not even sure Riley believes me! (“Whacky mom stories,” like meeting Bob Dylan and realizing he has zero charisma… or that my right ankle is thick because of an unfortunate intersection of tequila, Quaaludes, and hopscotch.)
ROOTED (dedicated to Miss Forward)
Mama never got over being on the road with bands.
“Keep your roots shallow,” she said,
“so you can pull up and move on when it’s time.”
Yet, after wandering for many years,
I find myself grounded, firmly rooted.
Maybe it’s the friendships we’ve forged.
My innate knack for blooming in any new
place I was transplanted (quite often) from coast
to coast, and sometimes in the ocean, small isles.
Relentless in my search for home, the
perfect church… a city with a full spectrum
of cultures, history, creativity (plus a few vultures)
Some artists of delicate mien, others rampant,
unrepentant rowdies, all with eyes and voices meant
to rejuvenate others, if only for art’s own sake.
Madison. Never bland; blooming flowers or snow banks,
it’s all good, as long as the local microbrew beer
and the silk long johns hold out.
Grounded, circles of friends interconnect, grapevines
forming beneath the surface of simple kinship.
Home isn’t where I hang my hat.
It’s where I have planted my soul, patting down soil
in this haven of lefties, young and old, rippin’ good worship, and
a golden lady on the capital dome, wearing a badger helmet.*
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My first posting since hearing my brain MRI was negative… I mean, I still have a brain, but it’s tumor, clot, and stroke-free. This poem, for Sunday Scribblings (Grounded) and The Sunday Whirl (see Wordle HERE), is a celebration of sorts, as well as a love song for our adopted home, Madison, WI. This is also posted at my poetic home, Poets United.
*The “golden lady” is called Miss Forward, and she shines at the peak of the dome. She can be seen from a mile away. She does indeed wear a helmet with the shape of a badger, our state mammal, on top. Everything here is Badger: basketball, local football, everyone wears red. BADGER red. Me? I’m more of a ‘honeybadger.’ (wink) Peace, Amy
After tonight’s depressing turn of events here in Wisconsin, where a dunce has retained his cap because the King lent him $30 million – no strings attached, of course… ugh. Anyway, I had to think of something positive. And nothing is more heartening than a tale of a Madison small business that makes artists out of people who simply assume they have no talent. Kim, this one’s for you and your intrepid crew!
FIRED uP!
Workplayhijinks at
the local pottery shop.
Monica molds clay into
small discs; she’ll chisel
Celtic figures to fashion runes,
piercing each disc with a lace.
A mistake with clay?
Hey, crumple, start over.
At another table, colors
burst forth as Stephanie
dips her sponge to draw forth
bright discs of color on
a black cup; the design
beats any we’ve seen, as
intricate dots are dropped
into the circles in third dimension.
Karen splits her spoon rest
into shades that will please
her kitchen. She’s done this
before, you can tell, she does it well.
CRASH! Something goes
over the table edge.
Owner Kim sweeps up. She’s
earned every bruise on her knees.
She crouches to retrieve
shards of hardened “baked goods.”
I wonder what closing time is like.
The kiln, glazing over bits of art,
and Kim’s face, beaming as she surveys
her corner of the creative world.
The kiln, or Kim…
which glows more?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Bruise, Chisel, Crumple, Crouch, Crash, Edge, Split, Draw, Pierce, Burst, Beat, and Glow.
Image courtesy of www.stockxchange.com, a royalty-free photo resource.
At FIRED uP!, owner Kim Stanfill-McMillan makes sure the members of her staff are all sassy, fun people. Girl Scout troops come in groups; home school kids have projects; and there’s a Ladies’ Night, where we all brown-bag our own bottles of Zin or beer… I combined two separate occasions because I wanted to mention all my friends and our projects!
Folks, I’m amazed I’m even posting, but PAD means exactly that – a poem a day for the month of April. I KNOW I HAVE NEGLECTED RESPONDING TO YOUR COMMENTS FOR THE PAST FEW DAYS. I humbly ask for your patience: It’s Holy Week. Tonight, I am coordinating the ritual portion of a Seder at Lake Edge UCC. Soon I’ll respond, I promise.
Today is a special day for a very special friend. This is her story…
SOJOURNER
She’s moving again
Unsettling – like the trap door
fell out from under
her well-worn sandals
How many times has she
Called Two Men & A Truck?
They know her by name
But this time is different
New, her own sweet space
New keys, placed in her palm
by friends who love her
Feels like coming home
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads… too late to post there, but the prompt was: Find four words and create a poem out of them. My words were Home, Keys, Feels, and New. Also posted with my buds at Poets United, as always. Peace, and happy moving, Monica! Amy
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Men (for We Write Poems, with a nod to Wallace Stevens)
I. They’re different in certain ways, but what’s in common reigns.
II. Through the bottom of a shot glass, darkly.
III. Millions are fathers deserving of respect, when respect is due.
IV. Sometimes, they are bullies or abusive and deserving of no respect at all.
V. As leaders of our nation; therefore, we should elect more women to level the playing field.
VI. Warily.
VII. As warmongers and war profiteers… and troops who actually have to fight the battles.
VIII. While wearing rose-colored glasses (which you will eventually lose).
IX. As friends who are with you no matter what the circumstance, especially if they are gay and you are one of those straight girls who just loves them to death (like me).
X. As husbands or committed partners – in which case, keep your hands off them (straight OR gay!). Monogamy should be honored (and polygamy, well, eeeeeeeew).
XI. As co-founders of our country, along with the mostly forgotten Founding Mothers.
XII. As white/Anglo and born to privilege, never having to earn the money they now fight so hard to keep.
XIII. As people of color who are often overlooked, profiled, or assumed to be criminals, in the US illegally… or born in Indonesia, so he can’t REALLY be president.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 