GREEDY BASTARD
He was always greedy
Wanting more buildings with his name
emblazoned in new neon
Then, when customers
found flaws and defaulted or fled
he got in bed with the State to
deflate his debt. Bankruptcy,
more than financial, substantial
penalties were paid by ordinary Joes,
like schmoes, we sat by and watched
as he snatched victory from the
jaws of the Street
When his first wife was no longer
trophyworthy, he moved on
And again
And again
Like a rich white kid tiring of a toy
Or a car
he traded his women in
for newer models
Sometimes foreign, sometimes domestic
(sometimes actual models)
All with solid chassis and
that new-wife smell
When he tired of Atlantic City
he moved on to TV
the natural place for such as he
Bombastic, plastic,
spasmodic delivery
When he got fired from TV
he moved on
to the real big deal
And now his greed dictates
that we should grant him
Gold toilets in the White House
Do we really need
to cater to his greed?
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hey, I have not posted anything about Tr*mp (whose name is a swear in our house, like, “Go tr*mp yourself”). Sometimes it’s good to vent.
No image, because ewwwwww. Tagged under “Jerks” for ABC Wednesday.
Peace, Amy
THE MAN WHO MISTOOK JESUS FOR AN A.T.M.
And he makes a good living
Preaches the Gospel of Abundance
like it’s all about actual money
Mistakes manna for mammon
Money managers for martyrs when they
lose it all in the latest crash
Dave says the poor have bad habits
Tosses Bible verses like piñata candy to the
starving, staring sycophants who pay for the privilege
Dave is so white in his chambray shirt
(Get it, he’s a blue-collar guy with
a blue-blood bank account, all cash)
But being white is a given in his world
Because Jesus was clearly a white Christian
who whispered the Holy Password to Dave
Dave can unlock the Vault for y’all
But first, like it was with the Pharisees, you have to
change your money at the temple door and
sacrifice to a False Idol in denim
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads gave us Oliver Sacks; rather, his titles serve as a jumping-off point for our poems today. YES! While I will always question the presumed wisdom of psychiatrists, there is room for a little Dr. Sacks in my world. Of course, it was The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat that caught my eye.
Dave Ramsay is a shyster who once had some very good ideas about paying down debt, but that quickly morphed into a pseudo-preaching addiction. We took a seminar, and it helped, but there was a lot of Fundie crap to ignore. And Dave himself, a blowhard of the first degree… who would not recognize White Privilege if it bit him on his Dockers.
I was going to write something along the lines of The Candidate Who Mistook Me For Someone Who Gives a Shit, but the Republicans have gotten too much ink…
Amy
An Inconvenient Seed
In the Senate men’s room
where Left and Right
meet in the middle
to piddle (and diddle)
my “magic beans” await
Every time a member
ignores the attendant
or doesn’t even tip,
my seeds spring into action
attaching to silk socks
Growing between their toes
vines twining up lazy legs
over pompous paunches
anywhere they can find
purchase
Buds bloom into small papers
the size of dollar bills
All his corporate sponsors are listed
for the world to see and to know
that this putz don’t know shit from shinola
After the lines are laced, the other shoe
gives way to a bud, a roll of
Kimberly-Clark toilet paper
(T.P. made by the Kochs)
and every square squawks
WalMart… WalMart… WalMart…
© 2014 poem and sketch by Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Shanyn at dverse Poets askied for our thoughts on seeds. Of course, Congress sprang to mind (on so many levels, ha ha ha).
Even though these are horrible times for our government, we must never forget the biggest villain of all: MONEYPOWERGREED. Peace, Amy
Peace, the Unknown Commodity
Our world has been at war
since the eighth decade. EIGHTH
Constant bickering plus weapons
equals humans either dead or “victorious”
Where is the victory in bloody children
lying in the street next to their dead mothers?
Will it take violent protest to end war?
That would be quite ironic, but
marching hasn’t done it; even Lennon’s
music was decried as hippie drivel
All we are saying is give peace a chance
And yet the war machine goes on
A peaceful world takes LOVE and respect
A peaceful world means children go to school
A peaceful world means women are not battered
and adults are given meaningful work
In a peaceful world, the Halliburton crew
and Blackwater would have spare time.
Perhaps they could work on clean energy
and free health care for Americans instead
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons
I know I wrote more about war than peace, but let’s face it, folks. As long as Stale Pale Males (emphasis on stale, as in same old crap) are large and in charge of the military/industrial complex; as long as we are dependent on fossil fuels; and, of course, as long as there are “American Interests” abroad, we will never know peace. “American Interests” is a catch phrase that does not mean people – it means Starbucks in Baghdad and McDonald’s in every nation! Beware the sound byte.
This is for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ “Blog 4 Peace” highlight. I am so proud to be a “Toad” and to take part in this wonderful cause. I’m also posting this for dverse Open Mic Tuesday. Peace, Amy
Authentically Fake
How come some have it all, she wonders
The clothes the Corvettes the coats so warm
Houses so big, all for one movie star and her boy toy
Pools they don’t swim in, just get drunk beside
More cars than they could ever drive
like little boys collecting marbles
Women panicked by age, skin stretched and sewn
Poisons injected into foreheads, butt fat into lips,
plastic made for Barbie breasts and big booty
Arnold must sit in a private spa with a head full
of foil to keep that blond, Redford, too
Hair Plugs For Men (I’m not only an action star;
I’m also a client) – only his agent knows for sure
Guys gayer than picnic baskets, hand on the girl’s
knee – but never higher than that.
Rich people dressed like… clowns.
BEIBER! Pull up your damned pants!
HEIDI KLUM! Put those girls in a bra!
KARDASHIANS! Just go away, now!
Jeez, they are all so fake…
My shopping cart, yeah, this is real
And my cup full of change from kind people
This bench, solid and all mine, for now
I may be homeless but I’m not a public joke
Here on Hollywood near Vine,
I’m the most authentic person in town
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United wanted poems on truth, on authenticity. As seen through the eyes of a homeless woman, we begin to question what is real and why some people work so hard at faking it to appear authentically young, perky, and prosperous. Peace, Amy
FIVE HUNDRED POSTS!
Well, I have to thank everyone who has expressed concern about my health (both physical and emotional) recently. You have buoyed my spirits greatly. I may never be free of mental disorders, but… “I get by with a little help from my friends.” Truly blessed to know such talented, giving spirits. Thank you all. And now, two poems for two different sites. Love and peace, Amy
SERENITY
We can differ without having to defer.
We can hold out and still not halt.
We can accept and still imagine.
We are human. We can adjust.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday (Differ, Halt, Imagine), and at Poets United.
___________________________________
Leaders… and bleeders
For all the teachings
of Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed;
For all the wisdom
of Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and Rachel Carson;
One would expect a more peaceful world.
For all the writings
of Rumi, Buddha, Howard Zinn;
For all the actions
of Mother Teresa, Mother Jones, and Susan B. Anthony;
One would expect a world filled with justice.
Yet for every peaceful action,
there is a virulent, violent reaction.
For every step forward,
there is the rumble of a clattering machine,
rolling over the footprints of those
who act on behalf of good in this world.
For every machine,
there is a master.
For every master,
there is a burning need to bleed the life from others.
And for that burning need, that hubris,
the rest of us are sacrificed
on the altar of Capitalism and The Global Market.
One would expect better from humankind.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads; also at Poets United.
Weirdos In Living Color
Pondering life, parsing a Wordle
at my local locally owned café
Out the window, saw a weirdo
Headed over Starbucks way
Reet suit, silk tie, plus a gadget
dangled on his ear, he talked to it
Rhythm on the street was financial
I could tell – he walked to it
People in hats lug large boxes
with handles they clutch tight as breath
Talking so fast ‘bout Wall Street, K Street
Talking fast as a dealer on Meth
Where’re they going? What’s the rush?
Why is Rush a god and God replaced
by Sunday crosswords, fancy brunch
What’s the point of all their haste?
I’m content with three hots and a cot
Better still, a rabbit-eared TV
Come watch parades of Armani lemmings
dive off a cliff so willingly
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, “Life’s a Little Weird.” Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
So sick yesterday I didn’t post. Now THAT’S illness at its worst!
Today, I pay tribute to that nesting place of computer-surfing, caffeine-addicted folks everywhere. Me, I prefer local bean, but lots of people love the taste of burnt coffee… perhaps the laptops distract them from the taste? (Ok, if you are a confirmed Starbucker, I won’t go all WalMart on your ass, I promise!!) Amy
Laptopia (Ode to Starbuck’s, haiku)
Baristas, big lungs:
CARAMEL LATTE EXTRA
FOAM SKINNY UP HERE
Ladies who lunch ne’er
linger long here; they prefer
linen and light fare
Day trading greedy
lucre lizards, looking for
elusive landslides
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Meaning no disrespect to The Reason For The Season; simply pointing out that most folks have all but forgotten why they celebrate Christmas in the first place. My one cynical Christmas poem, dedicated to the true memory of that feisty, loving, prophetic man who started out a babe in rags.
HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY
Have yourself a merry little American Christmas
where mall-bound mauling marauding shoppers claw for
the latest imported Chinese toys
lead-laced crap for girls and boys
O little town of Bethlehem
creeping with hordes of consumers
No visions of Visa bills dancing in their heads
They’re masters of their MasterCards
Mary, did you know your baby boy
has turned into an excuse for excess
for booming business, parental stress
the backbone of a spineless economy
Joy to the world! The Lord & Taylor window
has a “holiday display” with Santa and reindeer
Deck the hall with Hallmarks from family and friends
and other folks we forget about the rest of the year
A day to plow through a thousand presents
overturn overstuffed stockings
stuff ourselves til we crash in front of
the new 52-inch plasma TV we bought on credit
It’s a wonderful life
Crosby Christmas never ceases
but for God’s sake
please don’t mention Jesus
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 