READY TEDDY
Minors with major
attitude, back when
Betty Page assurance met
Edwardian drag chic
Teddy Girls, they looked sharp
Teddy Girls, they were sharp
As they cut you down to size
with a casual look in their eyes
But underneath the lipstick façade,
faces full of grace
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads gave us a Teddy Girls prompt last week. These girls were the Brit spin on Teddy Boys, who looked like very early pix of John Lennon: greasy, front-flopped hair; leather jackets; and jeans. In the States, we called ’em “greasers.”
Teddy Girls were the sassy ones – some probably the lesbian ones as well – and they hung on until the next style came. Too bad this “British invasion” never caught on in the States, because I quite like the look! Missed the original ‘Toads’ prompt, but that’s what dverse Open Mic Night is for. Peace and blood-red lipstick, Amy
THE DRINKING YEARS
The drinking years poured on
in various degrees of fizzfriction
My dream manifested: 18 at last
My tribute, a friend bought
the first round and round we went
Soon, my lonely heart found itself
nestled in the arms of some shlump
I met the night before… score
I had envisioned losing IT
over Chateauneuf du Pape
Not snotlockered over boilermakers
Finally I was a space cadet in
launch mode: “If I am to…
stay here for a… p-period of time,
will someone pleeeeeease
persuade the floor to pleeeeease…
stop spinning?”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
The Sunday Whirl gave us a Baker’s Dozen of words. Click the link to see what others have done with this unique prompt, and, as always, thanks to Brenda Warren for her sharing the list!
This is also “in the margins” at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
Suffice it to say, after watching my mother die from a combination of 50 years of smoking and 40 of drinking (she was in recovery toward the end), I gave up partying. Besides, I’d much rather enjoy the occasional microbrew beer than depend on Gordon’s for a lifeline. Thanks, Mama, for showing me the better path. Peace, Amy
Don’t Forget The Mesquite
(musings on Hell and Oscar Wilde)
Lots of folks
Some in my family
say I’m gonna burn in hell
‘cause we love
our daughter, gender queer
We ring her praise like a bell
Hell must be
fun, funny, musical
Gershwin, Gertrude, Oscar Wilde
I’d rather
burn in hell with those folks
than live in sanitized Mild
But please don’t
forget to put mesquite
in with me, to smell my best
when I descend
to see Blanche and Charlotte
and our cat Gable at rest
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yes, it’s true, our cat Gable was gay. The only one who could pick him up was our landlord, and they would plotz over each other like two preening queens. My mom Charlotte and her mom Blanche were not lesbians, but they knew and loved the whole gay community, including “Auntie Frank,” she of the cowboys boots and best friend (a femme who “never found the right man either.”). So, yeah, I’m going in a handbasket, whatever.
I actually don’t believe in Hell (there’s enough on Earth), but they still want me to go there. Whatever.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Marian asked us for poems about, influenced by, or concerning Oscar Wilde. She posted a BRILL YouTube clip of countertenor David Daniels, whose voice you would swear is alto – he’s a countertenor, higher than a tenor – but he seems pretty chill for an opera singer. Click HERE to witness his magnificent voice, as he prepares to premiere an opera about Oscar Wilde, starring as the man himself.
And oh, you homophobes, I hope you enjoy this piece. It is absolutely true, every single word! Peace and solidarity with my LGBTQ bros and sisses, Amy
CUPPA
First
cup of
coffee is
curative brew
Excites my brain
Gets my train
back on
track
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Creative Commons
Kim Nelson, at Poets United’s Verse First, asked us to edit, edit, edit and create a poem about something ordinary… in a handful of words. Unaccustomed as I am to brevity… !
This also appears in the left margin of my home pad, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
WHEN WE WERE YOUNG THINGS
When we were angels
swimming in the stars,
we were but boy toys
hanging in the bars
When we were divas
dressed in les Diors,
we were with shlumps who
didn’t open doors
(Bridge)
Looking glass, tell me
When did the view change
Why not forever young
Rather than cue change
When we were sirens
singing from the cliffs
we were a jumble of
“whens” and “whys” and “ifs”
(Bridge)
Looking glass, tell me
When did the view change
Why not forever young
Rather than cue change
When we were young things
slinking down the street
we’d ne’er imagine
that ourselves we’d meet
Now we were older
greyer each season
Now we are bolder
We’ve found our reason
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We were asked, at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, to write a song… a chanson, a lieder, anything that might be set to music. This is a slow waltz with a pause after the bridge (at “cue change”). Songwriting has long been my business, so I guess I’d better pen the tune now! Also “in the margins” at my poetic concert hall, Poets United. Peace, Amy
THE WAY I’M GOING GREY
Grey
springs up
livens hair
God’s free highlights
upon this crone’s crown
Silver threads, valued so,
weaving their way farther up
from hairline to thatched brown fields
Growing stronger, a widening way
Accentuates mature women’s beauty
Most women bend to social demands
Face the fact, youthfulness attracts
Yet intact my grey stays, quite
stubborn am I, one of
few women I know
who find value
climbing the
shakra
tree
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads Open Link Monday, a double etheree about aging and being OK with it. I stopped coloring my hair years before I started my grey streak, which has also peppered my hair. I vowed to never be a “tragically blonde crone.” In a society where women “of a certain age” are not valued for their wisdom and experience, I don’t care if people see me as an old lady. Hey, I earned every grey hair – and that goes for my wrinkles, too! This picture was taken in honor of GLBTQ Pride Day, and our church played Lady Gaga today. Really! Peace, Amy
SLIM’S SONG
Sky so black it shines
Stars dance and glimmer
Souls surely are up there
Swimmin and lookin down
We’re keepin warm by
Smoky’s campfire, we
call him that cause he
could make a fire outta rain
For once Lance brings ME
coffee, like an equal pardner
Took me years of provin myself
to get to this place at the fire
Not huddlin by the chuck wagon
Not hangin back like a shy kid
But ridin and wrangling with em
Sharin dirty jokes and talkin bout
women we had in Laramie, and
I had me a few; they were better off
for knowin me. Glad I cut off
my hair and bound my breasts
to assume this identity
They think I’m a him and
that’s fine with me, I was born
to be a he, Little Slim Lantree
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Woke up this morning not knowing I’d be a transgender cowboy by afternoon, but here I am, thanks to dverse. This gal had upchucked the chuck wagon, born to ride, probably had all brothers on her father’s ranch and wasn’t going to be left behind to his devices. And the prostitutes, used to slam-bam-thanky-ma’am, were obviously pleased with her prowess… wink. Also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
This gender bender also appears at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Trudger
Heavy burdens of life lived loudly
She would like to carry proudly
Truth is stamped soul-deep, and down
Under lines of chalky frown
Purse is German, dress is French
Shoes Italian, teeth are clenched
Shamed by family, maimed by men
Trudging toward new men again
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Bored Panda, shared by permission with Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
Thanks to Hannah at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, we learned about salt flats today. They are called “the world’s largest mirrors,” and you can read more about them, as well as see more examples of the Salt Flats, HERE. This woman, dressed up and traversing the salt flat, struck me as lonely and careworn.
The couplets came naturally, and when I read about the iambs and other rhythms at dverse poets, I realized that I had, indeed, come up with a poem that displayed the rhythm (I think) of the trochee, which is the mirror sister of the iamb. TA da TA da… anyway, I’m posting it and am very happy that I was able to fulfill a form prompt.
Peace, Amy Barlow Liberatore (a name that, when pronounced correctly, also employs trochee!)
Diva (little cat feet)
Cats change the landscape of plans.
When orphaned Diva poked her head
out of hiding, a loving thread
filtered from her heart to ours.
She sniffs shoes, jumps at
her own shadow, eats bread crumbs
off the kitchen floor. She defies
gravity, leaping from carpet
to couch back with ease at 11 years.
She salts us with the reality that
we are parents again.
Her soft breath, her purr,
sends me into blissout mode.
We all sense the sea change
and we love it.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (see Wordle HERE); also in the margins at Poets United and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. We adopted Diva this week, and she’s a vocal little old girl whose “daddy” died suddenly… she’s grieving, plus she was scared by two of the man’s daughter’s more aggressive cats. Still a bit hand shy, she will climb up on my lap (when she’s ready) and purr… sounds of the heart. Peace, Amy
Of Love and More
First love lost; ‘twas not worth keeping
(or it’s cheap red wine a-speaking)
Then came city boys who gave
me lessons: How To Misbehave
(Married, briefly
Much grief, chiefly)
Then I found a righteous man
Values, charm; he had a plan
Liked my daughter, and loved me
She saw “dad,” I saw me
Going for another marriage
Diff’rent style; no horse-drawn carriage
Love was true that second time
Faithful, solid, and sublime
Now I know what life has taught:
Love is cheap when cheaply sought
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Kerry O’Connor at Imaginary Garden With Read Toads was celebrating the August birthday of poet Sara Teasdale. Reading Teasdale at first seems dated; but, like many poets, she has wisdom in those couplets and free-form writes. I read some of her poetry, per the prompt, and was inspired to tell the story of my rough-and-tumble path to Lex.
Also in the margins at my poetic love nest, Poets United! Peace (and real love), Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 