Brunch in my friend’s back garden
We sipped mimosas
Lingered over lemon scones
Stuffing our faces, coffee strongstiffsteaming
The scent of patchouli streaming
A particularly choice strain of weed had us laughing so hard we did spit takes
And then Jim – or was it Tim? They were called The Ims
Interchangeable, flannel clad and fluid
One of the Ims opened his NY Times and chimed in,
“Have you –“ coughing, choking on a long puff–
“Have you read this bit? Rare cancer seen in 41 homosexuals
They’re calling it Gay-Related Immune Deficiency”
SILENCE.
You could almost hear that joint burn, the paper curl
As the days went by, when the wildfire started
O, the withering, the wilting, as the burgundy wine stains blotched their clear skin
Wheezing and weary
The gay men who had once joined the Black queens at the Queer revolt at Stonewell
Their anger fueled the fire
They who had marched at the first Pride Parade a year later
The sashay and shimmy down to the Christopher Street Pier
with sequins and boas, in bare-chested glory – plus a nun on roller skates
They were now angry young men with angry young friends, those of us privileged to play in their sandbox
Gay men who staged die-ins in the aisles of intolerant churches
Who died, one by one, then dozen by dozen and on and on
An endless emergency that left them empty, save for handfuls of pills, washed down with Ensure to ensure nutrition
My Jeffrey, a lithe and limber dancer
now rail thin and rasping and God, he died in their bed
because politicians said, “Virus? What virus?”
and Reagan wouldn’t say AIDS
and clergy said SINNERS
And parents disowned them
Through it all, the forced smiles of young men hobbled by hatred and that damned disease – our first pandemic
And those who stood by held hands, we witnessed wills, we hoped, we prayed
Today, as we celebrate Pride
We remember how the light in their eyes faded, their very souls flickering
We remember it all
We raise our voices because we have to
So the straight, cisgender, and privileged hear us
We call out the powerful who forget the rest of us
So that trans kids know they are treasured in their truth
So Black queens and Queers know white people give a damn
We call it out because we must
We raise our voices because we still can
© 2026 Amer Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I wrote this to the prompt HISTORY at What’s Going On. As Pride Month draws to a close, as I recently came out as nonbinary and changed my chosen name to Amer (my nickname growing up), I wanted to convey the helplessness we felt in NYC during those first days of AIDS (or GRID, which my Jeffrey called “a truly classless acronym”). By the following summer, the pandemic had carved a gaping, bleeding gash through the heart of New York City. A whole generation of gay male artists were lost. It was in many ways the death of Broadway, from a creative standpoint. And yes, so many more types of folks were lost, but I wanted to put forth my personal experience. PRIDE is for celebrating, but we must never forget.
I haven’t been this unsure of the world and my place in it since the 80s in Manhattan, as I watched my dear ones getting sick and dying in the first pandemic. That sense of hopelessness and fear can cripple us. The best thing I can do for this prompt is post a song I wrote years ago for World AIDS Day, in memory of my dear Jeff French. It’s called “The Day I Saw an Angel Fly,” and I hope the link to the recording opens all right. If not, let me know and I will find another way to get it to you. Guard your hearts, my friends.
In the 80s, on a big iron bed
My friend Jeffery, and a sign that read, “Body Fluid Precautions”
A nurse came in and whispered to me,
“Put on a mask and gloves – it’s for protection, you see”
And in defiance of the rules, I lay the gloves aside and wiped his fever cool
When it was time to leave, Jeffery tugged at my sleeve, and spoke of
Angels flying free
He said, “Angels, they’re waiting for me…
They’ll take away my fever and fear
They’ll give me wings and release me from here
We’re all of us, angels-to-be
I hope you see them when they come for me
When I go, and your missing me soon, turn your face to the sky
And say you saw on angel fly”
So many years, so many goodbyes
Too many breaks in our family ties (sisters, brothers, friends, and lovers)
A little news of research each day, and in the meantime, we pray
We keep on working for the best
But when the battle’s lost and someone’s laid to rest
Jeffery’s words come back to me – I close my eyes and I see
Angels all around
Angels, on holy ground
They see my fears and soothe all my pain
They give me reason to face life again
We’re all of us, angels-to-be
I know I feel them when they comfort me
I’m not sure of too much in this world, but I know I learned to cry
The day I saw on angel fly
I can’t remember when I learned to laugh, but I know I learned to cry
The day I saw an angel fly
(c) 1992 Amy Barlow/Sharp Little Pencil
For What’s Going On, the prompt is “In these uncertain times.”
This was written in 2010, and it still holds true. Based on a person from my hometown, name changed for dignity’s sake. No one should ever have to suffer because they live without lying about who they are. Over 20 years have gone by, and I can still feel every word.
FRANCES BY NIGHT
Frances took a lot of shit
back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood
On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines
Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps
The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her
Sometimes she’d get bounced early for
flouncing around the married guys too much
They were undercover, like the CIA
This was back in the day
when you came in the back door and showed ID
Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances
who had to show her license with her real name, Frank
It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her
A few cocktails would set her right
She’d be fine ‘til closing time
If no prime escort took the bait
she’d wait as long as she could
before leaving for good (or for worse)
Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat
Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”
Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!”
No cops were ever around that part of town
despite the shouts of the frantic rumble
She put up a good fight, that little queen
for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper
Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles
of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her
but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies
“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”
“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!
You need it more than I do”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
“…to get a drink?!”
Rollie was funny as hell but
in those days, ‘queer’ jokes were
all the rage (except around me)
But Rol never made fun of local queens
or butch girls who beat the pavement
in biker boots back in Bingo
Walking Manhattan with Rollie and Jo
and tomorrow morning’s groom
(later, my ex-husband)
All my fave boys were there
We took my family for
a walk on the sparkly side
Drag show, which bar?
We walked in to claim our
Night Before Wedding toast
(most men have bachelor parties;
I’ll give my ex credit for that)
Drag star, Connie Lee Francis
Finished “Where the Boys Are”
Stood at bar, waving glove at
bartender, then a flirty falsetto,
“What does a girl have to do…”
Thirsty girl, she dropped to baritone
“BOURBON ON THE ROCKS!”
We didn’t have a proper laugh
until later – the whole thing
The setting, the show
Her range of voice; she had
no choice. Like I said…
Thirsty girl
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The second of three consecutive poem/stories about my late brother-in-law, Rollie Newton.
Matt and Casey, this one’s for you. Bet you didn’t know your dad rolled this cool. Love you guys. I will link this up with an Open Post this week as well. Peace, Amy
How To “Recruit” Straight People
Pink is for girls
Blue is for boys
Girls should be passive
Boys make the noise
Girls given dolls
Boys given trucks
Girls are called “pretty”
Boys are young bucks
Betsy gets yelled at
if she steals Bill’s stuff
Billy, a whoopin’ if he
sneaks powder puff
If Billy weeps
while getting the switch
He’s told “boys don’t cry”
and there is the hitch
Billy’s a sweet soul
who dresses in pink
Betty plays hockey
at the local ice rink
Much to chagrin of their
parents who shudder
Their kids are not from
the right cookie cutter
Forward to adults
Billy married, by force
Goes ‘out’ at night
His wife ponders divorce
Bett moved to SoCal
She broke her folks’ charge
On the beach playing volleyball
Smiles – livin’ large
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Illustration also by Amy; please feel free to use it for stereotyping examples.
I hear all about “homosexual recruiting” all the time from “Christians” and FOXophiles; nothing I say can convince them. Societal convention steers kids the “right way.” We are conditioned from birth, which is why so many LGBTQs suffer years of guilt and shame in silence. Some children of the “very Christian” commit suicide.
Support kids when they have the courage to come out of the closet – we did, and our reward is an incredible relationship with Riley. 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
Video by Matt Logan, used by permission. Worship at the Edge
Lake Edge United Church of Christ, 8-11-13
THE ECSTASY OF EXPRESSION
It’s clear we’re here
for PRIDE celebration
To lift up all living –
Jesus’s exhortation
To love without boundaries
and love all we meet
Good news evident, everywhere
we happened to take a seat
For if there’s not love
in each person’s heart,
what good are the Gospels?
Why even start
to work hard for all people’s
true dignity
Extending to all this
expression of glee
I was born this way
That’s what Gaga sings…
We joined in the dance
and our souls sprouted wings
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Lake Edge United Church of Christ has a “Worship at the Edge” service at 11 each Sunday morning here in Madison. Sometimes, it’s worship WITH an edge… as in this PRIDE Sunday, when Chris, Jennie, Hayley, Peter, and a bunch of co-conspirators flashmobbed the church with Lady Gaga on the overhead! Talk about real ecstasy, a true and lively expression of the Holy Spirit amongst us.
Ray, your talk had me in tears, and bless you for speaking the truth in love. Thanks, Matt Logan, for filming and editing so fast! And Lex, you rock. Not just because you’re my husband… because you’re a pastor who presents God’s extravagant welcome with a rainbow ‘round your shoulders!
This is for E at ABC Wednesday, as well as in the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
An Activist’s Fourth of July Vacation Agenda
Celebrate my reproductive freedom (oops)
Go to an LGBTQ marriage in Wisconsin (oops, no license)
Celebrate “one person, one vote” (oooooops… Citizens United)
Celebrate American Union rights (oops)
Call Edward Snowden, invite him over to relax (is he still at that airport?)
Eat “brats” and drink beer (except I don’t eat pork, oops)
Guess it’s down to beer.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
As always, Mama Zen at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wants ‘em short and sweet, and she asked for vacation themes. Since activists are NEVER on vacation, this is as close as I’ll come! Peace to all, and prayers for the troops… and I stand by my comment on Edward Snowden. I strongly disagree that he leaked security dox that would “compromise national security.” The American, Iraqi, and Afghan people are suffering national INSECURITY, and any info we can get from the “transparent” Obama administration about this (insert expletive here) war is like gold. We are being taken for the same ride that Bush started, and I don’t appreciate it, not one little bit. If I had my own country, I’d offer Mr. Snowden sanctuary, a free condo, and drinks on the house. Amy
The Couple at the Altar
They stand before the altar
Penitent and sure of their love
Pastor eases them through vows
Rings, unbroken circle of commitment
Pews on the bride’s side are empty
because relatives disapprove
damaging Cathy’s feelings
on her wedding day
Friends move across the aisle
to ease her distress
Her fragile ego soothed
by their kindness
Final moment: Pastor
pronounces them married
They kiss; the congregation
goes wild, whooping, cheering
Cathy and Mariana Smith-Lopez
had to visit Iowa to receive a
legitimate marriage certificate,
but this is the real wedding
Mari’s mom, Aida, smothers Cathy,
“my new daughter-in-law,” con besos.
The four Lopez brothers lift their
new sister aloft, like the World Cup.
They parade her around the hall.
DJ spins Indigo Girls and Regina Spector.
Their first dance, “You Do Something to Me,”
a duet by k.d. lang and Tony Bennett
“Tough luck for Mom and Dad,” whispers
Cathy, “they looooove Tony Bennett!”
Mariana holds her new wife closer
as they snicker and dance on air
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Our church is UCC (United Church of Christ), the first mainstream Christian denomination to recognize “same-sex marriage,” although I prefer “marriage equality,” more descriptive of the struggle for civil rights LGBTs and their Allies wage. I’ve been an Ally since age 5! While equal rights for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people is not yet recognized in Wisconsin, our church performs blessings for LGBT couples. Ray and Oscar, paz siempre a su casa.
Three Word Wednesday gave us Damaging, Ego, and Legitimate. This is also “in the margins” at my two poetic homes, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. Peace, Amy
Before the poem, an announcement: IT’S OFFICIAL! I AM A TOAD! The site where I spent most of April, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, invited me to be one of their circle of 20 poets. I am extremely flattered and thrilled to be included in the Garden with so many wonderful poets. Like Poets United, one must be invited to join, so that’s my BIG ANNOUNCEMENT for, like, the year! Now, on we go…
Queer.
She’s queer and
wants me to
refer to her as
gender queer,
androgynous.
I could do no less
than confess:
My generation has
problems with Queer,
hearing it said in
locker rooms and
school, in sports
and retorts spat at
the skinny boys.
‘Queer’ meant
wrong, bent.
Now it means
the whole LGBT
community.
‘Queer’ has found
immunity.
She told me that
I must embrace change,
dangerous as it seems.
She dreams of
a day when ‘Queer’
simply means
‘Not Straight.’
Apples
to
apples.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday and also to be found on my non-homophobic hangouts, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. It’s a generational thing. I remember gay pride movements in the 70s and 80s, and the cry, “We’re Here! We’re Queer! Get Over It!” Then, the word was still used as a pejorative by straights and closeted LGBTQs. The new generation, those who remember coming home from school on 9/11 like we remember coming home from school the day Pres. Kennedy was shot, have taken that word back, flipped it like a coin, say it with pride.
And I say, “Good on them!” Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 