DISSOCIATION
They say I have brain imbalance
I say I have special talents
When attention starts to wander,
what I see, I never squander
Though it seems I’ve gone away
when my glassy eyes hold sway,
I’m right here! Yet, for a minute,
seems like hours I’ve spent within it
Parallel to conscious thought,
there lies treasure – can’t be bought
Worlds of wonder close at hand
when I stray to Neverland
They call it ‘dissociation’
I call it a free vacation
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Tuesday Platform.
My therapist noticed – Lex, too – that I sometimes drift off. I call it, “over there,” just to the right of my conscious being. This was a hallmark of my school years, and it’s probably why I graduated by the skin of my teeth. Now I can enjoy it, because I know what it is and no longer fear it. Don’t worry – I never do it while driving! Peace, Amy
All That Glitters
A friendly, energetic employee
sits me down before my complimentary workout
She’s motivated
to sign me up for $29.99 a month
plus a “one-time $149 contract fee”
plus an annual $5 “enhancement fee”
(I asked. It helps pay for “cleaning and maintenance.”)
Rows of rowing and
shiny – if plastic – elliptical mills whirring
Designed to tighten sculpt lift renew energize
in classes or
in earbudded solitude
We’re sweatin to the Gold-ies
This gym, a starship enterprise
Squeaky clean, pristine
None of the primal potpourri afforded me
by my local community center gym
After pedaling pushing pumping up a sweat
I do due diligence in the changing room
A woman, quietly cleaning the bathroom
She, a little English
I, zero Ukranian
We talk with our hands and eyes
She mops up their leavings
Swiffers their sweat, and most importantly,
is not allowed to take tips
She is paid eight bucks an hour
Always on call, seven days a week
So who’s really sweating
at Gold’s Gym?
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, The Tuesday Platform
It’s true. I went to Gold’s Gym with the shameless intention of getting one free workout, because our local community center is closed this week for an intensive cleaning! Madison’s Goodman Center pays their people a living wage, has no fancy frills, and houses a small – but totally adequate – workout room. The Center also has a senior café; an afterschool and summer program; a food pantry; a splash park and playground in summer; and a loyal, friendly staff.
When we visit a hotel or a restaurant, I always talk to the gutbucket staff. Those holding mops and bus trays. I ask about unions, about pay, about how well they are treated. And Lex and I consume services accordingly.
Stay human, folks. Amy
She’s a Classic
She’s a classic
antique, silver
Smooth lines
Smart mouth
Knows the score
Gives what-for
Loves change
Changes for no one
but herself
Reads, learns
Sees, remembers
Shares with abandon
Abandons no one
Wants for nothing
Her needs are easy
Her burden is light
Her way is forward
She never looks back
except, perhaps, to smile
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, the second poem for April PAD. (yesterday’s prompt was “Horse,” and I had nothing. Not even a pony.) The prompt was “The Classics,” but I had another little “dickens” in mind…
Amy
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
PLASTER CRACKS
One of those unexpected glances
A happenstance mirror
The old lady looking back at me
with curves in places
like her face
and craggly bits about the eyes
Who is this woman? She
looks off her feed, or depressed
No, I replied, it’s just you, ya old bag
Your fault for smiling so much
For choosing to live with your depression
rather than finding a way out
And so I settle into almost sixty years old
I let gravity, cruel mistress, have
her way with me
It used to be boobs and the
skin over my knees becoming
a canopy for bone beneath
Now it’s the more obvious sites
The ones one cannot hide under
clothing, beneath makeup
It’s the glorious blooming of
A New Amy, crone delighting
in the fact that she can still.
make new things, such as wrinkles
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It’s true. That little sag under my jaw, the crows’ feet that have morphed into Crow Valleys. It’s happening, and I can either get pissed at God (which seems quite useless, and I owe God so much) or dive in, feet first. I choose the dive.
This is for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Play It Again, Toads. One of my poet buddies, Fireblossom, had a previous prompt called, “The Crack in Everything,” and we have written to that prompt. Thanks, Shay, for always being an inspiration! Love, Amy
Bridge the Gap
Thoughts here
Pen there
Bridge the gap
Under cover of covers
Mind unsnuggled and busy already
Journal over on dresser…
Oh, to find courage and brave
the icy sprint in thin flannel
to capture, capsulize this inspiration
Make haste
Bridge the gap
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Mama Zen, you are my hero today. I was winnowing files, shrinking the ever-growing pile of laundry… and then, when I logged on to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, the “Play it again, Toads” prompt brought back a “Words Count” post from you – Twitter, fewer than 140 characters (this is 114). Since I was in an editing mood, this seemed perfect.
Also, it’s worth noting that I had the first stanza in mind just before falling asleep. I grabbed a paper napkin from the nightstand and scribbled with a stubby pencil. Completed the rest just now at my computer! 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
STUDIO QUANDARY
Not what I thought I’d paint this day
Not at all, the dizzying colors and
figures from last night’s dream
I tossed the covers
Stirred the maid from her rest
Even woke my wife in the next room
A dragon gave chase and I
was naked screaming running
Bare and barely missing his fiery, explosive tongue
Now the dream is slowing settling on wood
The creature and my whirling flaccid flesh
And a phrase I still don’t understand: Barney & Friends
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden of Real Toads gave us this Rembrandt, “Artist in His Studio.” I put myself in his cobbled boots and decided to give him a little scare… and myself a chuckle! Amy
TIMEPIECE
She is a perfectly wound timepiece
Impeccable, pristine
Her every movement serves a purpose
No effort wasted
Pristine, aglow
Admired by those who
value clean lines, precision
Who see time as precious, noting
her ease in handling each task in turn
And yet she dreams of
tarrying
and tarnish
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
William Carlos Williams was a master of metaphor (and also a fellow Virgo, if I’m not mistaken). I can only wish… and admire. Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads had previously posted this prompt; I am daydreaming with admiration for Mr. Williams and other Imagists today. Amy
Dear Straight Guys,
It’s not like darts
Not if you’re smart
Not “point and shoot”
It’s not like b-ball
Not at all
She’s more than a rim to hit
and webbing to fall through
She’s neither mark nor target
The real woman lies beyond
what you’ll see
when you see her
As much as she wants you
(and make damned sure she wants you,
or we’ll have more than words, little man)
she needs even more
What lies within us is a world
An ecosystem
A universe of the delicate sublime,
of intricate, meandering passages
She’s a labyrinth and you must
must must must
caress the key, finesse the lock
with time and care, the kind
you’ve never shown your own
So talk to her
Let her guide you
She has places that need
the same soft kisses you place on her mouth
down south at the delta
And just in case you still think
you hold all the power, here’s a thought
After you don the raincoat to
dance in the lovely dew, think about this:
Whose parts will disappear in the meeting?
Who welcomes in, and who is swallowed up?
She has unfathomable fathoms
of phantom bliss
Remember that
from the very first kiss
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, we are on the letter F. That’s for “finesse,” you naughty children. Also on the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads! Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 