PLEASE NOTE: If you are strictly anti-abortion, you probably won’t want to read this. Better yet, perhaps you should, because it deals with a particular “method of conception,” as one lawmaker so callously put it recently. So that makes me… a walking uterus? And since I’m post-menopausal, that would make me useless… It’s like how they called cigarettes a “nicotine delivery system.” And don’t get me started on “legitimate rape.” It’s violence and power, not sex. Hey, women can see past this malarkey. Remember in November, sisters!
Scroll down a bit for the poem.
Since the Procedure
First appointment since
her miserable abortion.
She’s 18 – nervous, tearful.
The nurse who knows her and
helped with the procedure
is by her side. Part rock, part teddy bear.
Then Doctor steps in.
Without a word, detached,
he flips up the stirrups
like it’s a mechanical bull and
not an exam table. “Slide up,”
are his first words to her.
He invades her with icy hands.
Palpates roughly.
Orders her to relax.
This from the man who
vacuumed her womb
only last week. He performed
the abortion, but you can feel
his disgust toward his patient.
“I said RELAX.” She tenses at the command.
Then, he mumbles, “I can’t do this
if you don’t cooperate.”
Briskly sheds his latex gloves;
brusquely exits the room.
Nurse holds the girl as she shakes and sobs,
“Take the money and run, doc.”
Later, Doctor gripes, “These girls
get in this type of trouble
and I have to take care of it but
they don’t help, not a bit.”
Nurse blurts, “Yeah, don’t you hate it when
girls go out and get themselves raped?
Honest to God, you have no idea, do you?”
Her indignant outburst is lost on him as he
flips through a Bermuda Vacation catalog.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday (yes, it’s Sunday, I’m well aware!) asked for a poem including the words Miserable, Brisk, and Detached. I knew a doctor like this… one of my friends was raped and he had ZERO pity, zero compassion. There are plenty of wonderful doctors, but this guy wasn’t one of them. That nurse (Catholic by faith, dedication to social justice gospel) quit the practice and opened a counseling center for girls and women recovering from abortion. “It has to be legal, clean, and safe,” she said, “but it doesn’t have to be even more traumatic than what some of them went through to need the procedure in the first place.”
I will also challenge readers at dverse Open Mic… perhaps I’ll get some flack. In fact, I hope I do, if only to open the door for mutually understanding and conversation. May every child be a wanted child, Amy
To my friends,
Just so you’ll understand my absence, my computer has been giving me the Blue Screen of Death (followed by The “Blue” Screams of Amy) and it’s going to have a Time Out at the repair shop.
Thanks to all for their prayers during yesterday’s second, third, fourth, and fifth mammograms, which reveal NOTHING! “Old Leftie” is clean as the proverbial whistle. Amen. Thanks also to Carolyn for her wonderful advice (as expressed in “You’re EEEEK! uh…”) and thank God I didn’t need most of it… this time.
Please say a prayer tonight for all the uninsured, who are unable to breeze into the clinic knowing they have insurance coverage like ours. Pray for a national health plan that covers everyone… and if you have to give up your cosmetic surgery so that some kid doesn’t have to die from whooping cough, think about it… isn’t it worth that much? Health care is a RIGHT, not a privilege. We spend a thousand times more on bombing Afghanistan (and yes, Iran is next) into the Stone Age than we spend on health care. Tea Party, please research, thanks.
See you in a few, and again, thanks for your support. I love you all madly, as The Duke would say. Peace, Amy
“You’re…” EEEEEK! uh…
Mammograms are the only day
when it doesn’t suck to be moi
I take ‘em out, I flop ‘em on
the glass, and they squish like foi gras
Then came two voice mails
on the same choice day
from the same office.
And suddenly my world morphed
from “as controlled as possible with meds”
to head-spinning dread, fed by
one freakin’ phone call.
All I must do is careen
back to the scene of the crime,
primed sans deodorant and scent,
rank with my own odor and fear.
It may be one mammo;
it may need more ammo.
a big needle thrust
to left of my bust.
“They’ll take the sample
with ample drama, mama,
and a big-ass needle, so
close your eyes and tell them
you have PTSD,” my beloved
survivor friend says.
“Then set phasers on STUN -it sounds
like a staple gun or Pac-Man as it
chomps in search of tissue.
Make them issue enough painkillers
to knock out a horse.”
“Of course,” I reply,
she laughs, knowing I
am immune to OTCs*
thanks to the 70’s…
…during which I imbibed
enough pharmaceuticals to
peel the cuticles off
a gorilla’s thumbnails.
It’s this Wednesday, folks,
please pray it’s a hoax,
and Old Leftie is “clean,”
if you know what I mean.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* OTCs are “over the counter” drugs like Advil, Tylenol, and aspirin. I could take a whole bottle for a headache and it would do nothing for the pain… but the Advil would trash my liver!
Sunday Scribblings asked us to come up with a poem about a “Eureka moment.” This is the down side of that concept, and we’re hoping and praying it has a happy ending! Will keep you posted. Also at the one office where nothing ever hurts… Poets United! Peace, Amy
Day Four of National Poetry Month’s “Poem a Day.” Feeling my oats, thanks to Poetic Blooms (see below for process notes and sites). Peace, Amy
MRS. CLEAN WIPES THE SLATE
Woe to you, lobbyist and profiteer
Avenue K will be set on its ear
Begone, day traders sipping hot
MochaccinoSkinnyNoWhipLattes,
as your fingers scurry over the laptop keyboard,
some letters and most numbers worn off,
scars of fiscal battle
Gird your loins, o members of Congress,
for your days of feasting shall draw to a close
as I focus my wrath on your graft
Whosoever can be bought will be for naught
Sweeping streets and slaving in call centers
(for a living wage, of course)
The payola shall be purged
Elections no longer auctioned to the highest bidder
(or Brother), nor Diebold election machines
glean false numbers from pro-Machine hackers
Even the Supremes will feel my ire for
conspiring to convince us corporations possess
ears, eyes, tongues… and souls
For I, Mrs. Clean, now hold the power:
Contained in the Golden Rule,
affirmed by the Great Commandment of Love
I am trusted by even the crustiest atheist
(because I’ll drink coffee and shoot the shit
with people of every belief or non-belief)
Mrs. Clean will change the scene and proclaim
the mighty truth: Democrats and Republicans
stink of graft equally, and in good measure
President Obama should bring our troops home NOW
And when that is set right, the real work begins:
Mitt Romney will wash windows at women’s clinics
Newt Gingrich will scrub toilets in public restrooms
Hillary Clinton will bake free cookies on 12-hour shifts without
breaks, just like Chinese children work on her watch
Ron Paul will oversee Area 51 but make no more money
than the baristas at the low-cost local cafes
Rush Limbaugh will be bombasting “Would you
like fries with that?” in a little paper hat
Michelle Bachmann will be sent back to middle school
to learn history and how to recognize gay boyfriends
And Sarah Palin? Field-dress THIS
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings – a second take on their prompt, Superheros, which I had answered earlier with “Reflector Babe.” Also at my site of sites, Poets United and that dynamite poets’ cafe, dverse.
ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter, “Z”! (Do we start on the Cyrillic alphabet now?) Also at the poetic collective, Poets United.
This poem is based on the phenomenon that effectively destroyed my piano-bar career… Amy
Zithromax (Think Before Lighting Up Indoors)
A smoky club, the trapped wait staff
take your orders and get the shaft.
While you puff a cig or two,
others do just as you do.
You can leave and breathe fresh air;
singers, barkeeps, stuck in there
Low-wage job with no insurance;
Z-pac samples help endurance.
When you blithely light that match
think of what the workers catch.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides had an interesting prompt: Sound.
I don’t often indulge in haiku, but Sensational Haiku Weds. on You Know… that Blog? posed a single word: Wish.
So it’s one cynical and one hopeful. Both are also at the poetic collective, Poets United, where I think my interview is still posted as well! Peace, Amy
FOR POETIC ASIDES (also posted on their blog)
Snap, Crackle, Plop
The sizzle of a full-pound burger hitting the grill
The crackle of a Snickers bar just dropped in a deep prayer
The burble of Mountain Dew as it glugs from a 2-liter bottle
The pop of an opened Pringles can
The crunch of hot, salted french fries.
The hiss of whole milk foaming for a macchiato,
another hiss for the extra whipped cream
The snap of a third or fourth Twix bar.
The plop of millions of butts onto sofas
for “Dancing With The Stars,”
plus whatever else will fill a full four hours
of family television viewing.
The click of the computer mouse
as Facebook meets Farmville.
The thumbpunch on a keypad, texting
from a comfy chair at the Internet café.
The huff-puff of labored breathing
and murmured swears as the businessman
struggles to climb a single flight of stairs
(elevator out of order).
These are the sounds of obesity.
The sounds of Americans feeding not only their addiction,
but the corporate coffers of people so rich, they
laugh all the way to their next liposuction appointment.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
“““““““““““““““““““““““““““
FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY
Wishing and Doing
Wishing on a star
mimics prayer, save but one thing:
Invoking God’s name
Praying for world peace
Will not ever be enough
We must work for it
We must all cry, Stop!
Take it to the streets, until
real peace is world-waged
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This happened long ago and far away, but the memory still stings. Mental health consumers, take note. Amy
Dark Place In An Old-Time Church
Once upon a time, I, Sunday School teacher and wife of the preacher
asked for prayers for my falling, frail state of
misdiagnosed psychiatric overdose.
What a head-first dive into the greasy gruel of the gossip pool.
Mental illness was whispered there with vague disgust.
These were tough folks, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps”
Could spare no time for a mental lapse
Manic = panic = Someone Else’s Family
Treat diabetes with insulin
No reason my skin should’ve been thought thin
Imbalance of a chemical nature, a different nomenclature
My bootstraps are still pharmaceutical
Incidental mental quirks, deep emotion runs
through my family like Drano through pipes
creative, self-deprecating, frustrating, flustered
mermaids – hilarious but precariously perched on the rocks
It was no a sin, this place I was in,
and not theirs to judge,
for as they whispered uneducated superstitions behind me back,
they were also mocking Jesus’ message of love
I sing praise to the God who has seen me at my lowest and pulled me higher.
While I was wrapped in darkness
God lit the fire, showed me the light, and
got me from uptight to upright
They stared as I took my fall;
I scared them all, even as I forgave them in my heart.
Upright eventually, but when would I fall again?
And then – when would I mend?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my poetic home, Poets United.
Johann Ink and I were comparing notes on psychiatry today; much of this poem is derived directly from our three-hour conversation. Johann is a budding poet; we are both what is genially called in our society, “mental health consumers” (in other words, we’re both nuckin’ futs!). If you’ve never had the joy, the incredible honor, of being granted a meeting with a real live board-certified psychiatrist… consider yourself fortunate! Amy
(PS This poem also appears at Writer’s Island for NaPoWriMo 12.)
New Shrink Rap
(from a conversation with Johann Ink)
I’m checking in with my new shrink
society having granted me leave
from my sleeve-silky cubicle (AKA “acting normal”)
Now I sit in a leather chair so large
my feet dangle like Edith Ann
Doc is regally ensconced behind
an impressive antique desk
Drawers full of free pens from drug reps
Myriad diplomas staring me down
and sneering, “We’re smarter than you”
He’s new, at least to me, and eager
to change what my last psychiatrist did
He’s ready to rearrange my brain plane
because he has sample of a new drug
(They tested it on lab rats, so, hey, it must of OK for me)
I state flatly, “I want to maintain my current regimen”
He stiffens, doesn’t care to listen even thoug
I’ve been to the brink and back
(while he’s just read about it a whole lot)
Experience vs. experiments: The Great Battle of Which
“Man,” I itch to say,
“if you want to pimp for Big Pharma,
why not go all the way? Get yourself a solid gold chain
and maybe a diamond in your front tooth…
or don’t monster tires and hydraulics work on a Corvette?”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
No prompts today… just some thoughts. Hope they help you find your “safe place.” Amy
Island Dweller
When the dentist’s drill begins shrill keening
in my latest in a series of root canals
When the physical therapist says, “This
might hurt a little”
When the Red Cross phlebotomist
tries to mine my blood, missing the vein
or my legs are in stirrups, awaiting
the pinch of the Pap
I go to my island
The passport is breath
often deeeeeep breath
and I though I am prone
it’s on a bed of warm sand
Relaxed by water lapping my toes
on the shore of an endless beach
Every breath is music
Every moment is relief
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 