CLOSE BEHIND
I can feel her
close behind
and catching up
There’s a bounce to her step
I can hear it
Fwoop, fwoop, fwoop
Matching my stride
She’s gaining on me
I turn to confront her –
and she’s gone! Turn again to
resume my journey and
fwoop, fwoop, fwoop
How foolish am I
It’s only this:
my ass is following me
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
There’s no fool like an old fool (except a fool who is young at heart, but aging). Put on some weight over the winter; now, with every step, I’m twerking while I’m working.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, the first poem, from the prompt “Fool,” for April PAD! Taking up the challenge to compose a poem each day this month. I hope I start getting inspiration from somewhere else besides my BUTT tomorrow…but I am not making any guarantees.
Peace, Amy
NOTE about “ROLLIE” trilogy: It will be completed tomorrow. Couldn’t resist this prompt.
Hysterical Women Running Amok
Hysteria was once thought
uniquely confined
to the female side
of all mankind
Said to be caused
by a “wandering uterus”
That’s why TPs think
our birth control’s ludicrous
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image: Free license, free use via FunnyPictureFunnyPhoto.com
This was for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, courtesy of Isadora. She sent us to the Random Fact Generator, where the perfect prompt was given to me (I confess) on my third click… “TPs” are, of course, Tea Partiers!
I researched “amok” vs. “amuck,” (my original choice) and found that, in modern parlance, “amok” wins. Harrrumph. Peace, Amy
Before we begin, you must pardon certain bits of “flavor” in today’s poem, for it was written to the theme of “incorporate the punchline of your favorite joke into a poem” for Poetic Bloomings (and you must remember I had a long career in theater and cabarets, so the humor was rather salty), but I also used some rather unsavory words from The Sunday Whirl, including “Spit,” “Pulsing,” and… well, you’ll see! Also at my favorite poetic salon, Poets United (going on three years of membership!).
If you are faint of heart or faint over mild vulgarity, best you skip this one. (wink) Amy
To the Manor Born
They number in the thousands,
with up-front titles such as
The Duke of Whodidwhatshire and
Lady Fluffingsham, that sound like
they pee chicken soup, their spit is
a blessing, and their hearty red
corpuscles could run pulsing into
a petri dish and create a ruby.
Dressing takes hours beyond count;
their every text message is met by
thunderous headlines in the
Brrrrrritish tabloids. Oi!
Said Lord Worthlessthan as he dined
on braised pheasant and oysters during
a recent champagne luncheon at Beltchington,
“We call ourselves The Aristocrats…
but really, we’re plain, humble folk.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
DAD’S DYNAMIC DEEDS (The Talented Mr. Barlow)
“A really good fart should come from the heart.”
So said my dad, with no shame, accepting blame.
He blew more gas than a Guernsey.
A one-man methane machine; each a Homeric task.
Expansive explosions the stuff of legend.
The Cryptkeeper would beg for a match
if Dad opened his hatch for a quick dispatch.
Our eyes would water from the slaughter,
and we’d laugh ‘til we cried over his
lack of knack to hide what was inside
and his singular absence of embarrassment
about the mass of gas from his ass.
My mother didn’t mince words:
“BUD! Did you chew your cud?”
Take all the grazing grain-fed cattle,
every bean-eating buckaroo from Blazing Saddles,
plus the backfire from a battered Buick,
throw in a whoopee cushion (or twelve),
push ‘til you’re blue, and your result
would be an inadequate insult to
the Sultan of insufferable incense
A mere shadow of the Shaman
A whisper on the wind compared to
my dad, The Singing Sphincter.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTES: Absolutely true, and one of the best memories of my dad. Seeing “Blazing Saddles” with him at the movies was a trip. The two of us got to the campfire scene and laughed ‘til we cried. I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack, gasping for breath. But then with the belly-laughs came the wretched gas. He poured forth and I had to change my seat for a few minutes until the cloud cleared.
To this day, I don’t think I laugh at anything more than passing gas. If you are near me and “let one go,” I apologize in advance for my guffaws. Can’t help it. It’s hard wired. Just ask my sisters or my best friend, John; they remember. Hope you had fun… Now open a window, for God’s sake!! Peace and a vanilla-scented candle, Amy
For ABC Wednesday (D), and Three Word Wednesday (Backfire, Embarrass, Task), and my source of poetic refreshment, Poets United.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads gave us a form to work on, the Cinquain, sort of like haiku, but with a different syllabic structure (five lines; 2 – 4 – 6 – 8 – 2). Its inventor was the American poet Adelaide Crapsey. I wrote three: one funny, one environmental, and one about our praise service at church. Enjoy. If I didn’t make the deadline (often the case!), it will be shared on Real Toads’ Open Link Monday! Process notes below.
CINQUAINS FOR “REAL TOADS”
What’s In A Name?
Only
myself tonight
wondering how someone
who made this lovely form was named
Crapsey
Skeeter Davis Said It First*
Human
obsolescence
has been hastened by our
wanton disrespect for this gift,
our Earth.
Sing Hallelujah!
My church
Prayers are souldeep
Singing is loudrowdy
When the band starts in to jam, we
“pray twice”**
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTES: Cinquains ideally have a nature theme, similar to haiku; however, Americans generally disregard this, as is our nature. There are other suggested rules, and I didn’t bother with those either. See, I’m more of a “free-verse” kind of woman, and after years of songwriting, being constrained to any form makes me all twitchy. But for Real Toads, I did my best! Also on the right scrolling column of my poetic haven, Poets United.
* Skeeter Davis’ biggest hit was, “(Don’t They Know) It’s the End of the World?”
** Old saying: When you sing in church, you pray twice. Once with words and again with the joyful noise of rhythm and voices!
Wisconsin Mud
Autumn task
Baskets of weeds
Seeds fall to soil
Toil with the tiller
Clay ground first
Curse of my garden
Hardens like rock
Mocks my feeble shovel
Red, this level
Beveled by tilling machine
Green detritus mixes
Fixes a greyer hue
Potting soil on top
Prop myself with a rake
Stakes then reposted
Toasted from our labors
Add soil meant for pot
Plot now proper brown
Garden set for sleep
Steep some tea and rest
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was simply “mud.” I’m also putting this on a shelf in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United and spilling on the bar at dverse Open Mic Night!
Of course, the damnable ironweed of earlier in the season (CLICK HERE) refused to disclose the center of its evil web of roots, and the pye wede followed suit. Monica planted some spring bulbs in front; a failed daisy plant finally sprang into life in late autumn, surprise! More daisies will be planted, as well as tiger lilies, the bulbs go in now. Next spring, we hope to have a plethora of pots: Herbs, petunias, Sweet William, lobelia, and Johnny Jump-ups (my favorite).
Sounds easy peasy, right? Trifecta says, “Take your favorite book and tell it in 33 words. No more, no less. So, my friends, here is my Cliff Notes version of the Bible. Peace, and please keep your humor! Amy
THE BIBLE (condensed version)
God creates everything,
pulls Adam’s rib to form Eve.
Except in Genesis 2.
Moses delivers Commandments.
People mess up, drown, turn to salt.
Jesus comes, says “Love,” gets killed.
Revelation still scares kids.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic home, Poets United.
NOTE: In Genesis, Chapter 2, the Bible says that God created Adam from dust and the Spirit blew life into him, completely contradicting the first account. Biblical literalists, please take note!
Face Down in it When I Die
It’s my last wish
that I shall leave this world
drowning in chocolate cake
The dense layers slashed by
thick, sweet frosting and
dusted with Mexican cocoa
But for now, seeing as
I’m pretty much alive
and kicking, I’ll settle
for a plate, a fork, and
a cup of espresso,
swirling mocha on my tongue
The nearest thing to good sex
is rich, sensual, forbidden…
and sitting in front of me
Excuse me while I
indulge in the bliss of
this final piece of pleasure
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Dessert Devil
For the delightfully named Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, courtesy of Ella, whose blog appears HERE. She challenged us to write about food porn. Also hanging about in the kitchens of Poets United. Peace, and whatever food porn floats YOUR boat, Amy
Quick note: I’ve been quite vocal (well, I AM an activist, right?) about the “auto-check” option that WordPress foisted on us without notice, flooding our (and our followers’) email boxes because “Keep me posted on follow-up comments via email” was now automatically checked. Complaints flew this way and that; I posted a series, including a “fix” for the “glitch.”
Apparently, many WordPress followers made their voices heard, and together (go, WPbloggers) we AFFECTED CHANGE. This was a wonderful, peaceful activist movement. Y’ALL DID IT AND Y’ALL ROCK! Next time you feel a call to action, take it. You’ll be amazed at what happens. As Margaret Mead said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” Amen, ma’am.
AND NOW, ON WITH THE SHOW!
Song of Psychiatry
Paperwork presentation
plus insurance information
Explanation of condition
(that part really saps ambition)
Process of elimination,
might need “bin” incarceration
Finally, the prescription(s)
matching your description(s)
(If you didn’t tell it well,
your mental health goes straight to hell
Then you end up in “The Bin,”
feeling like you’re lost again)
Follow-up examination
Tweaking meds, anticipation
that he’s found the incantations
to relieve these odd sensations
(Ennui and extreme malaise,
lasts for weeks or only days;
MANIC, I could climb a tower
but that wears off in an hour)
Diagnostic confirmation:
Bi-Po PTSD-ation,
winter bluesy affectation…
Happy Light, a true salvation
(All these meds for downs and panics!
I may Kafka into Xanax…
Lex will look for me until
he finds me, morphed into a pill)
Don’t skip therapy’s vital function
Psych meds only, mental unction
Counseling’s for exploration,
finding roots of situation)
Now shrink gives me medication
Spirit gives me meditation
Thus my balance has been struck
(Thanks to doctors, God, and luck)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “S.” Also at dverse Open Mic and my poetic haven, Poets United.
NOTES: I have a generally productive, sometimes difficult life, a fantastic husband and daughter who understand all the facets of my chemical imbalance, great friends and a supportive faith community, and I’m not on public assistance – because I have solid mental health coverage. WE NEED UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE. It would half-empty our prisons and save many homeless people from the isolation of despair. I’m an advocate for Health Care For All. How about you?
The Pinkie
The pinkie has a purpose.
Pointing outward at high tea.
Stand proud alongside taller siblings.
Rich people adorn it with rings.
When chopping veggies, it
rarely falls victim to the blade.
No longer than a thumb, yet
pushed to the end of the line, for
Thumb basks in glory of its opposition.
Oh, lowly pinkie, you are my little hero
holding fast at the end of the digits,
keeping the others in line.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “P.” Once in a while, whimsy catches me by the heel, and this is the result! Also at my poetic pinkie ring, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 