Amy Barlow Liberatore… stories of lost years, wild times, mental variety, faith, and lots of jazz

Tag Archives: Grief

After the Loss of Him

Her first impulse was primal:
to clamp her fists and pummel
God, invisible creator of Death.

A precise hit to God’s gut;
that might ease her unending,
sharpsullen sadness.

Time ticks on; faces blur
at the very edge of memory.
Only now can she kneel,

knowing there is no distance
between her and the Infinite.
Prayer is soothing and silent…

God answers in whisperings,
in the rhythm she will come to
accept as the rest of her life.

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl (see Wordle and read others HERE). This is dedicated to three women I know who lost their husbands, all too early. Peace, Amy

Boston (sort of a rondelet)

There are no words
for fear, for gut-deep grief

There are no words
to give us much relief
from action of the thief

There are no words

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

The irony of having at least some words for what happened yesterday does not escape me. But Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked for a Roundel or Rondelet. Of course, I looked back and the prompt and realized my syllable count is not right, but I think it IS uniform. A poem with a repeated refrain, and you know what? To hell with the rest of the form!

THANK YOU, Toads, for giving me an avenue for words to express my grief. As for the “thief,” I don’t want him/her/them put to death. Jail for a lifetime to ponder this tragedy is much worse punishment.

With many prayers for all, including the perpetrator/s – that those who did this awful thing own up and confess to it, and that we may begin to understand why, because I don’t get it at all. Peace, Amy

One of my favorite prompting sites, dverse poets, put Brian Miller in charge (look out! Backs to the wall… wink). He asked us to write a history poem, and it reminded me of that question we always ask one another: “Where were you when…?” Excellent prompt, and I’m looking forward to reading everyone else’s work at dverse. This is also posted at my favorite time machine, Poets United. Peace, Amy


I knew a lot by the second grade
The alphabet, counting to one hundred and beyond
How to write my name in cursive, and quite perfectly
What not to flush down the toilet
(all my broccoli smuggled in via dinner napkin)

How kittens are born, because I watched
Even how to make a dry martini
(kids learn a lot from alcoholic parents)
How to spit water between my front teeth and
how to get real distance spitting watermelon seeds

One thing I didn’t know
and never expected to
was something the whole class
learned at the same time

The grownups were outside our classroom
mumbling something about
President Kennedy
A grownup was sobbing in the hall
and Mrs. Darrow almost fainted

Until second grade
I didn’t know teachers were allowed to cry

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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