ORAL FIXATION
Following years of extractions,
protracted dental procedures
that chanced to finance
dentists’ kids’ tuition,
here’s the fruition:
End of line for teeth like mine
Complete comeuppance
(come-out-ance?) of my
upper floor of teeth (the basement
to remain untouched beneath)
Oh, doctor, pray thee
go gentle into that good right
side; succumb that gum with enough
anesthetic to render a rhino redundant
Gas me gutless
The final result, partly insult
My smile replaced;
our savings laid waste
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You know I will write about anything when you read this one, right? Yes, I will join the “upper denture” group this week, after years of secondhand nightclub smoke plus poor access to dental care rendered my upper rack wretched and wrecked.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday and dverse’s Open Mic Tuesday. And if I’m absent over the weekend, it will be because my face looks like a cauliflower and feels like the aftermath of a prizefight! Peace, Amy
All That And More
Voice like menthol
Balls of brass
Face like schoolgirl
Killer ass
Charmful armful
Singing sinner
Rings the bell for
raunchy dinner
All the makings
All the style
Shimmy, chanteuse
Make ‘em smile
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You want a jazz poem, dverse? One from the heart, heels, and head of a vintage babe who sang in clubs for 35 years and never overstayed her welcome. .
Also on the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
The Siren
Older men
seasoned
schooled in seduction
bandied like young bucks
at the sight of
her winsome face
her womanly walk
Behold, that silksultry cool
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Mama Zen at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us for eight. Eight lines, eight words, anything Eight.
Eight lines to describe the face a thousand words could not paint… I’ve known this woman. Today, she’s still got it… she just uses it to better advantage!
Also at my poetic perch, Poets United.
Peace, Amy
Memo To Shrinking Churches
Hear the cries of today’s church:
“Where are the people?”
“We have a choir, we sing the hymns.”
“We have casserole suppers and Bingo.”
“We founded this church. They should come.”
“Your skirt is too short, young lady.”
Hear the whispers in the pews:
“Why is that gay flag still out in front like an ad?”
“Don’t talk to (so-and-so). You’ll get in trouble.”
“Because we’ve ALWAYS done it that way.”
“Is that a He or a She?” (muffled laughter)
“He smells bad. Is he homeless? Move over here.”
…and my personal favorite:
“Where did all these (insert minority) people come from?
We certainly didn’t invite them to worship here.”
The Greatest Generation has a problem adapting.
Yes, change is HARD. But so is sticking…
…to your ground
…to outmoded ideals
…in the mud
If you’re reading this, you are, at this moment:
on a computer
connected to the Internet
through a cable TV provider.
You may even print off copies to pass out
among “your people” in church on Sunday.
Just a reminder,
computers and printers
cable TV
and the Internet
were NOT around when “Father Knew Best,”
So are you really doing things “the way we always have?”
Or are you only comfortable updating
your acceptance and needs
when it’s conveeeeeenient?
With love from The Church Lady
Just a reminder to Christians who have forgotten we follow a man who was homeless by choice and preached unconditional love. This post may not seem loving, but I do mean it as a loving wake-up call to those who thing stale-bread-cube worship, within four walls of a church on Sundays, is the only way to follow Christ. Worship is great; I get a lot from it, but I grow weary of “cafeteria Christians.” You can’t grow a church until you expand your hearts to include everyone – and quit bitching about change.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday and dverse Open Mic Night. ALSO, Roger Green is adding this link to ABC Wednesday, where the letter is J – for Jesus. Thanks for watching my back, Roger! Peace, Amy
For Riley on her 25th
Always with me
remnants of her
Reminders of
life-giving days,
of nurture and
fragile forgiveness
Front and center,
my fanny pack just
below the skin:
My pooch…
The pouch where
she spent her first
nine months on earth
Not a battle scar;
rather, a souvenir of
motherhood and miracles
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yep, she’s halfway to antique, she’s talented as hell, and she’s her own dog. Riley is showing her art now, working with her Salon (a group of students from her art institute), and making friends as well as network connections.
In other words, she is her own woman, and we couldn’t be prouder! When I heard Peggy Goetz at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted poems about things we carry, I could not think of a better way of celebrating Riley’s birthday.
Peace, and thanks to all for sticking with me during my recent dry spell, caused by depression. My poetic community was so supportive, this is my way of saying “all’s well.” Amy
LEST WE ARE FOOLED INTO FORGETTING
The sheer weight of it
leadens my gait
Each breath less caught
then captured
Rooted to my roost
My throne of self-indictment
Too groggy to blog
Too depleted to give a damn
Too depressed to feel blessed
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, where LaTonya Baldwin and I had our collaboration posted HERE, and where the challenge today was to write essentially, write with direct treatment of the subject, in the style of William Carlos Williams. I hope I have fulfilled that prompt, using a subject I know too well, one I would not wish on anyone.
I’ll get past this. I always do. But Lex is at the family reunion, (I opted not to go), with a sick cat, a sore molar, and now with the president rattling war sabres once again (probably the only thing Congress WILL push through this year), this time no doubt to drone the crap out of Syria… well, let’s say I’ve had better days.
Thank God for a call from an old friend and for little Diva, who lays on my stomach and rubs her face against mine. Even when she’s under the weather, she’s such good company. And SHE doesn’t drop bombs, except in the litter box. Amy
Brian, Abbreviated
He walked into the party like… yacht. Abbreviated man, missing pants, unembarrassed, but bare assed. Cake, PUNCHy punch, kids screaming H.B.D!
Serenaded by open mic readers, feted by muses, celebrated by blogosphere. A party to be remembered; a personality destined to move mountains, if only by click click click on the keyboard and constant commenting.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At dverse, Brian Miller wanted 55-word stories to celebrate his birthday. I even borrowed one of his deVICEs to pay tribute. My comments about his sense of humor and his dedication would be longer than the story so I’ll stop. Happy Birthday, my friend! Peace, Amy
FATHER COMPLEX (Complex Father)
It’s tricky, sticky wicked
That piñata over her head
Follows her night and day and
especially late at night
Waking sweatshivering but
carrying HIS shame, unfair…
Quivering over vague memories or
screaming at every fire alarm,
My house is burning down
(as her young kids cower)
Piñata full of poisoned treats
Candied little deaths
One for every time it happened
It’s chockfreakinfull
Been that way for many
yeasty years, its yaw
occasionally pin-pricked
(precision meets sweaty palms)
but never baseball batted
The conundrum:
If she whacks it, will candy
attack her with what it is?
Will she binge on the bittersweets
and purge up the truth?
Or will the piñata float
over her like a raincloud
Rancid, restless, ever
present
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, the letter being F. Also in the margins at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
For all women who have not gotten to the truth of having been molested as a young child: this type of horror is usually perpetrated by a family member or close friend. For me, it was my dad, so I used him. Hell, he used me enough, why not?
If alarms alarm you to the point of screaming, if the surprise of a lover’s gentle touch makes you jump out of the bed… Think about seeing a therapist, NOT a psychiatrist, cause baby, this chigger can’t be chased away by chugging drugs.
A comprehensive article on the signs pointing to both remembering and finding the way to recovery may be read HERE.
You’ll go through hell in therapy, maybe need a temporary anti-anxiety med, but you just might be rewarded with a life worth living, and kids who are not scared of you, nor embarrassed by your public explosions. Call Samaritan Counseling, they have a sliding scale. And your issue may be something totally different, even a more recent event that still sticks to your muscle sheath memory like Elmer’s Glue.
I have a life thanks to therapy. It does work, if you’re ready to dig deep. Blessings to all, and may this never be visited on ar young person you know… Amy
LONELY GIRL
Face of oblique glitter hears
Whispers that he done her wrong
Restless spirit, frozen
Hearing again their sad old song
Shine it all on, lonely girl
You know I’m kin in spirit
Face it now, lonely girl
That song, you know I can hear it
Neither of us had no loving since
January, February, or so
Why not climb off that lonely perch
C’mon – ready, steady, go
We’ll speak of days gone wrong
We’ll snicker at misbegotten men
We’ll hide our eyes from strangers til
We do it all over again
Find others to do us wrong
To keep us stuck in one place
But I’ll remember our big time out
Each time I look at your face
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ha! Betcha didn’t know the subject of my poem. It’s
… and yes, we did trip the light mediocre one night eons ago, back when the world was full of vague regrets but more possibilities.
The subject was the moon, courtesy of Izy at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Catch: We were not to place the moon in the sky, speak of night or starry night, etc. So I took my girlfriend off her perch and we talked it over. Sure, she’s seen same place, same time, every night, but now she does it by choice, because we got so plotzed on Margaritas, she doesn’t want to come down to earth again. My bad.
This is also “visible” at my poetic lunacy rompfest, Poetic Asides. Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 