Carpe See ‘em
Homeless souls – some call them “bums on the street”
Folded small into their desperate beat
Solo bench or so-low depressed bunch
Waiting for a handout or maybe a lunch
One lady says, “Why bring him into this place?
I don’t mind bums but, right here in my face?”
She’s talking about Ed, who’s depressed, just like me
We’re cousins in ways other people can’t see
Tells me over bagels, he’s long out of work
Routed from working by some kinda jerk
who left a buzzsaw blade-out where he shouldn’t
Blindsided my new friend Ed, who couldn’t
avoid it, no matter how cautious… so now
Ed lives on a deadwood bench – but somehow
he knows “sometimes better’s bound to come”
His faith is real strong… so now who’s the “bum”?
Aforementioned lady attends church every week
I say, “You know, you just called Jesus a freak”
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image obtained through Creative Commons thanks to psyberartist – see licensing HERE.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Grapeling challenged us to “carpe diem” and remember Robin Williams and his struggles with depression by choosing some words from a list and writing on the subject in whatever way we chose. Since I live on Bipolar Boulevard, all I had to do was walk outside, take this guy to lunch, and we ended up having a great conversation. He turned me on to a bagel place I’d never heard of; we had strong, fair-trade coffee; and over the speakers, I was gifted with a song I will use in ministry tomorrow… but that’s a story for another day.
Robin Williams used to make my hands shake a bit, remembering the cocaine days as he’d imp and jester his way through routines at spitfire pace. But I also recognized what lurked under the surface, as with Jonathan Winters (who was given a gig on “Mork and Mindy” at Williams’ insistence), Lou Costello of Abbot and Costello (whose depression was compounded when his two-year-old son drowned in his family’s new swimming pool, there’s Hollywood irony for you), and so many more. Lots of comedians learn their craft as children, trying to cheer up a family member or escape bullying or simply stand out. Jim Carrey comes to mind.
The woman in this poem actually ‘called me out’ while Ed took a bathroom break. It’s like people don’t want to see the homeless, but they don’t mind bitching about them when they are not in the room. She’s the kind of “Christian” who gives the rest of us a bad name.
May Robin’s family find peace. Thanks for the laughs, Robin. I’m sorry you couldn’t see a tomorrow in sight. Peace, Amy
UNDER THE HARSH
Sleeping on a park bench
Living in a Chevy beater
Winter covers each with
an unwanted blanket of snow
Downtown, shoppers
pay them no mind; while
searching for deep discounts,
they discount these folks
Tonight, under starlight that
sets the frost a-twinkle with
thousands of crystals, remember
Jesus is sleeping under cardboard
not too far from here…
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Michael Crawford sings this song with heart, with understanding. May we all remember the homeless during this HOHOHO season of frenzied gift giving, as we fatten our credit card balances buying crap made by child slave labor in China.
For ABC Wednesday, the letter U. Pick one: Underfed, Underemployed, Under stress, Under cardboard boxes. Also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
Ginger and the Need
She shambles by in vin-
tage thrift store pin-
stripe threadbare and win-
some smile, rootless, adrift
She spots me, grin-
ning at me with an in-
the-know winkish bin-
there-dived that, too. We kin-
dle fragile friendship, cin-
namon stick in cocoa, fin-
ishing each other’s thought, in-
tuitive, this girl, and worth more.
I have meds, in-
temse therapy; she sin-
cerely deserves same. I win-
ce at her need because din-
ner, doctor, care are in-
trinsic parts of my day. Fin-
ish this sentence: “Homeless Gin-
ger deserves less because ______.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We know that many homeless Americans are in dire need of solid therapy and usually some psychiatric care as well. This girl is detached in an odd way – she smells, but not for lack of a bathtub; she’s comfortable in her own aroma soup. She’s off the wall, but no more than I used to be before I got help. She’s homeless and does the dumpster dive; we have that in common from my Bad Old Days. She is a fascinating human being who deserves better. The missing piece of this puzzle? Health care for all Americans.
Hats off to De Jackson, AKA Whimsy Gizmo, for the hyphenated fractious quality. De’s freedom with punctuation and wordplay astonishes me, and I know she will not mind my “borrowing” a device from her toolbox. Check her out – click on her name.
Written for the puzzle prompt at dverse, and thank goodness Mr. Linky is still open! Also in the margins at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
Please join with me in engaging the homeless when you have a spare hour. You’ll know whether or not there is a threatening vibe, trust me. There is no sin in stopping the relationship at taking them to lunch and simply listening for an hour… sometimes, that hour is their diamond in an otherwise suck week, and you will be doing a mitzvah.
Peace, Amy
Now and Then
New guy on the block.
He sits at an outside table and
eyes my scarf with the absolute contempt
usually reserved for racists and politicians.
(Hmmm. I grab a coffee,
sit at a table near him, knowing he’ll
start talking. Everyone does, with me.)
He starts right in with
“Do you know I am Armenian?”
No, I didn’t, cuz we’ve never met.
C’mon over and sit awhile with me. I’m Amy.
“I’m Armand. Do you know about
scarf you wear? You should.”
No, tell me about it, please, Armand.
“That scarf is from Muslims.
Same pattern Arafat wore, that dog.”
Yes, I know, but what does that have to –
“Many years ago, Muslims drove
Christians out of Armenia. You wear
this symbol like it’s just a scarf.”
(I reflect on Freud. Sometimes a scarf is just a – )
“Where you buy that thing?” he spits.
On the street in New York, from
a really nice homeless guy. Besides,
it’s cotton and I’m allergic to wool, so –
“Well, it off-fends me grrr-reatly,” he stammers,
“I wish you take it off. Glad Mama not here.”
Come inside the café with me, then, it’s cold out here.
(We sit; I’ve bought us a round and some pastries.
He was stuttering before; now he’s calmer.)
Why does my wearing this upset you?
“It reminds me of the atrocities.”
Tell me more, cuz I’ve never heard about this.
“They don’t teach Armenian Genocide in school here?”
Um, no.
“Figures. OK. In 1915, Muslims tie Armenians
together with rope, march them into desert. Leave
them to die. They rape many women, throw
babies into river, shoot fathers in front of families.”
Good Lord, I didn’t know that.
Did your mother lose people?
“Parents, the sister, brothers, many cousins.
She still light candles for them.”
I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine…
(We sit in silence, bonding over strong java.
He is teacher; I am student.
I slide the scarf into my purse, for now.
Later, I’ll head for the library.)
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Armand was right. In 1915, extremists who called themselves Muslims (note the distinction between my phrase and the media’s “Muslim extremists.” There is a world of difference, just as the most radical members of the Christian Right should be called “extremists who call themselves Christians”) emptied whole villages in the region called Armenia, long a haven for Christians in the Middle East. The atrocities were not deemed strategically important enough for America to intervene; even the British ambassador could not urge England to do anything.
The Armenian Genocide served as a “blueprint” for the plans of a failed art student from Austria to foment terror against many “others,” including Jews, gay men and lesbians, Jehovah’s Witnesses, those with mental disorders, and on and on. His name was Aloys Schicklgruber, but we know him better as Adolf Hitler.
As for the scarf, Armand and I continued conversing until he understood that I was not wearing it as a political statement. He also thanked me for learning more about the Genocide, because, as a homeless man from another country, he is usually disregarded.
The Turkish government steadfastly refuses to apologize for the incident; in fact, they fund many American colleges where Turkish professors teach revisionist history.
ARMED
Put yourself in his position.
The kid was always odd.
Mom got knocked up but
some guy married her to
keep her off welfare or worse.
He grew up. Spoke loudly
at worship when he should’ve
kept quiet, now they thought
he was more disturbed that ever.
Roamed around with a bunch of
homeless dudes, got kicked out
of his hometown, they booed him.
“Crazy,” they whispered. Harsh.
He gets in big trouble and
hides out in the woods, but
one of his gang gives him up to
the authorities. He is cornered.
If Jesus had had a gun in Gethsamane,
would he have taken aim at the guards?
Nowadays, it would barely make the crawl:
“Middle Eastern man, 33, guns down cops.”
Jesus would never own a gun; he shunned
violence. He preached unconditional love,
and that’s not shown with assault rifles.
Even when betrayed with a kiss.
Even when tortured by Roman soldiers.
Even when people screamed at him
on the long, laden perp walk to Golgotha.
Even bloodied, he forgave those who
drove nails into his body.
Even as he was raised up on the cross
and set up for display like a sick statue.
Suspend belief in the resurrection
for a moment. He had no idea what
was coming next, and still, he chose death
willingly, for the sake of others.
What if Jesus had an assault rifle or
a high-powered Palin moose killer?
If you’re Christian, ask yourself:
Whose message do you put more faith in?
The words of Christ… or the lobbyists of the NRA?
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, we are back to Square One: A! I imagine this will ruffle some feathers, but remember, the crux of this not “either/or,” but rather, priorities. One can be a Christian and hunt, go to the shooting range. It’s a personal choice whether you feel safer with a pistol in the house, but if it’s stored and the ammo locked up, as it should be, that’s not a lot of help when, as Rush Limbaugh so eloquently put it today, “Obama’s thugs come to your door to seize your guns.” Ted Nugent would call me nuts, but I don’t think hunting requires Kalishnikovs. People are so fearful (some of that biracial man in the White House), they are stocking up on ammo!
FYI: Despite Rush’s ranting about the Commander In Chief (calling the president Socialist, Muslim, Nazi, racist, a traitor, and TAR BABY… let’s all throw up now), RUSH is the only radio talk show on the Armed Forces Network. This treason goes directly to the troops. Your tax dollars at work, and mine.)
It’s all about choices. And politics. And remembering who, and whose, you are. As for me and mine, I’m with Jesus; Gandhi; Martin Luther King, Jr.; the Buddah… you get the idea. Peace, Amy
This is when I realized that I was, indeed, THAT far behind. Here is the Wordle from the current week’s Baker’s Dozen, followed by one from last week’s words. Brenda Warren, you are a creative source and very much loved by this here sharp little blog!! This is also at my poetic meeting place, Poets United.
Ironically, the two poems could be a “before” and “after” sequence. But as it is, I’ll pray for peace. Amy
RECRUITED
Ain’t no draft in this war
‘sides, the rich folks’d
pull strings so their kid’d
be son-of-a-Bush Leaguin
We got through Boot,
crack troops, they say.
Yeah, there’s crack for sure
here, and some good weed
Bad meth got Duffy in
a zombie trance then BOOM! he’s
beatin his chest, temper real high,
hell, he was real high, making a
racket, kickin over the table
beer makin soup outta my
Lucky Strikes. Now Duffy, he’s
locked up, latch like a dog.
Recruiter, he says at the BK,
“Currently (yeah, they talk like that)
we require troops who refrain from
drug use and talk straight, you know?”
Yeah, I can hear him now over the bombs.
Straight, but you know that ain’t about talk,
it’s bout the showers. And somethin bout drugs.
“Hey, I can do that,” I say, “sign me up.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Draft, Crack, Spare, Refrain, Strike, Temper, Chest, Blend, String, Racket, Trance, Latch, Current.
——————————–
DAY 38
Crawlin to another meeting
in my rust-stained Corona.
Dirty jeans and the same shirt
I wore overnight in the back seat.
Parkin in the shadows, near
little bluffs where prairie grasses
brush against the very air,
I swear, it’s a real trip.
Now the willow slaps the roof
of my car, dippin low to whisper:
“Here we are again, my friend.
Remember the first time, you
trembled, decaf in one hand,
12-Step book in the other.
Three days out of the mud then,
not stoned, not wasted? One nerve
short of suicide?”
Damn if the tree ain’t right.
I remember that night,
I was sure enough that scared,
cause the meeting was downstairs
in a church. Only sacred vessels
are in there, not homeless guys.
The willow creaks and sighs,
“Don’t forget the man
with a nail in each hand.
Never a pillow for his head,”
the weeping willow said.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For LAST WEEK’S Whirl: Crawl, Shadows, Nail, Corona, Vessels, Brush, Stain, Bluffs, Trembled, Stones, Willow, Mud.
Bud is Bummin’
Bud’s buttressing his building,
same as yesterday and forever.
Paper cup kept jingling:
The classic ask.
I’m boy I’m embarrassingly I’m
so damned late,
I buzz by him without blinking;
must rumble through
the crowded sidewalk,
Almost to the conference door.
My heart screams;
conscience bubbles through my bloodstream,
hits my medulla “obligata.”
Turning tail to the nearest café.
Two large coffees, a cup of milk,
a banana (potassium) and bran muffin.
Sugar, yellow, pink, blue packets.
I don’t take sweet, but he might.
Back at the bastion,
Bud’s taking a break, huddled under a blanket
I offer him the tray;
he looks up and mumbles, “What’s this?”
“All for you, sir, except the second cup.”
I blush, grab my portion, bend to share a hug.
I run off.
Blessings abound.
Angels around.
Dependence is a two-way street.
If we want to connect with them,
let’s show respect for them
Let’s interrupt our previously scheduled lives
for a moment of grace.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dependence, Kept, Rumble; for dverse Open Mic Night; and as always, for Poets United, my poetic hotspot!
The Drifter
Maybe this town’ll be different.
Friendlier.
Or leastways not as bad as the last place.
I ain’t felt so low since my draft notice in ‘69
except for the three years in Nam (Hell)
and an awful lotta times since then.
First thing off the bus, I locate an empty bench
so nobody’ll smell my stench. Then out of the blue,
this lady says, “How do you take your coffee?”
Then she brings out two cups of killer Joe
and sits down and talks, tells me where the shelters are
and about an AA meeting two blocks over, it’s tonight.
Didn’t give me them damn Bible papers
or try to drag me to her church, just a nice person.
Hope there’s more like her round here.
Cuz it’s gonna take more than the Serenity Prayer
to keep me on the wagon. Long road.
Lotsa potholes. And a little hope…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday (Draft, Locate, Serenity)
Photo courtesy of http://www.nccca.org, a Christian organization mobilizing to help the homeless, including veterans.
Living Love (for Kate)
So far down on his luck, he’s under it.
Literally.
Living beneath a bridge called Home.
Gathering other folks’ flotsam by day
to make do, then retreating to his camp
where he sleeps unmolested each night.
From her window, she spies the man.
She ventures out, offers some food, scopes out
the soul hiding underneath his misfortune.
They don’t talk much, but then,
true generosity is not a grand, chatty deal.
Her gifts are met with quiet gratitude.
She buys him a propane grill and this and that.
He probably needs psych help, but she’ll never
push – so easy to scare a rabbit from its hutch.
She says, “When the president came to Madison,
he drove right over that bridge.” The irony
is thick as brick, and just as heavy.
That’s not a troll under there; no beast from
a Grimm tale. He’s a human being. And she
acts out of the words of Jesus, quietly.
She lives out of love.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings; the prompt was “investigate.” Iif Kate had never checked out this man and his circumstances, she’d never have had the chance to help him. Also posted at the wonderful Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 