For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “A as in Amy.” There were two of us on State Street today, plus a Michael and an Alex (who is probably muttering, “A is for Alex, guys”). Also posted at my fave poetry saloon, er, salon, Poets United.
After All
Old friends, long time since last
we shared a table in a café
We talk old days, school,
kids when they were anecdotal fodder
Then politics, the dumbing down of America
The Hemlock Party and educating barbarians
Unions, pros and cons
Dems, Reps, Libs, and Cons
The future… they visited Glacier Park
and saw mostly wildflowers and a bit of ice
But after all our kvetching and laughter, it ends in this:
GROUP HUG!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
What can I say? Three Word Wednesday asked for poems with the words Grin, Jumble, and Naked. So first a little fun, and then… a little more fun. Peace, Amy (Also posted at my fave poetic collective, Poets United.)
Rugby Gone Wrong
Post-rugby match, Stan, with a grin,
said, “Never mix scrumming with gin:
From deep in the jumble
We heard someone mumble,
‘Good Lord, I’m as naked as sin!’”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
““““““““““““`
Time Goes By
They mesh peacefully
‘neath sheets weathered
from years of laundering
He grins; her finger traces the deep lines
engraved from years of laughter and from struggle,
the hardscrabble jumble of their lives together
Her naked breasts sag off to the side
She doesn’t care; he thinks she’s as lovely a lass
as ever a man was blessed to wed.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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.
Sharp Little Pencil 