WHO WILL TAKE CARE OF GREGORY?
It started off like usual, boy and girl meet,
make the trip to City Hall, marry.
Start a family with a beautiful boy.
Then Mom relapses, synapses lost to
crack addiction come back to haunt her
like Jacob Marley, chains and all.
Dad bails, few details known of his whereabouts,
so Mom goes to work and leaves Gregory in the house.
When the State workers came, they found him,
three years old, still in a crib, pillows packing him in
“to keep him safe,” mutters Mom, as she is
taken into custody (so is her son).
A year passes; Gregory waits for foster parents,
but he is no poster child for adoption. First,
they see his bright blue eyes and big smile…
then ask, “Why doesn’t he walk around?”
Workers explain that he just learned to crawl;
crucial development of muscles was delayed by the crib.
All potential parents pass him up like a misfit toy
until one day, the right couple comes along.
They see him as a creation of God, worthy, worth the fight
to take him to therapy, get him walking upright.
Take him to worship – he’s the church’s bright, shiny penny.
Pastor says, “You can’t spell ‘congregation’ without ‘Greg’!”
Finally, the big day, the whole church goes to court
to support the new family, to make it legal. Gregory looks
regal in his little suit and tie, smiling, smiling…
The joy on his face, applause when the papers are signed.
Gregory was put on this earth by a sick mom and a deadbeat dad,
but he knows he can always count on his two moms.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Another Poetic Asides take on “forget what they say,” this one with no holds barred!
CALL ME WHAT YOU WILL
Call me too tolerant for
respecting those of other faiths.
Call me a bad Christian
for saying that God created us all equal, including Jews and Muslims and Taoists and Buddhists and non-believers.
Call me a bleeding heart
for wanting everyone to get health care.
Call me an alarmist
for insisting that hydrofracking is dangerous.
Call me an n***** lover (and they have)
for supporting an African-American president.
Call me anti-civil rights
for wishing to disband self-styled militias.
Call me anti-Constitution
for insisting semi-automatic weapons are not needed to hunt.
Call me a coward
for being a steadfast pacifist.
Call me a moron
because I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth.
Call me a bad mother
for not trying to talk my daughter out of being lesbian.
Call me a bad American
for pointing out that “under God” was added during McCarthy’s reign of terror and anti-Communist hysteria.
Call me a bad liberal
for listening to Rush and Glenn at least once a week.
Call me unbalanced
because I’m a responsible mental health consumer.
Call me a socialist
for wanting the rich to pay more into the kitty.
Call me a snob
for encouraging kids whose only adjective is “fuck” to dig deeper in their brain pan.
Call me a traitor
for believing a former president should face charges for ordering waterboarding and lying about WMDs… and laughing about it publicly.
Call me a bra-burning bitch
for having the temerity to insist on equal pay for equal work.
Call me naive
for wanting undocumented aliens to be granted citizenship (hey, if it was good enough for Reagan, it should be good enough for the Tea Party).
Call me whatever you want.
I stand by my values, no matter the consequence.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
DON’T FORGET TO TAKE POLAROIDS
Never one to take instruction
well, welcome to
THE EVE OF MY DESTRUCTION.
That’s me, going to hell.
Hand-basket by Longaberger.
So say the Bible thumpers
Because I insist my daughter’s
Divinely made, perfect…
and, yes, she loves women
If all she did daily
was love women,
I’d be worried, but fortunately,
she does other things, too:
art, music, movies;
she has a full life.
“I’ll bet you and Lex
do stuff besides
hanging in bed being straight!”
That’s right, baby, it’s true
We get up
sometimes for breakfast, lunch, dinner…
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thanks to Riley for permission to use her experiences for this poem.
LOVE IS ALIVE
They hold hands in private
They “kiss in a shadow”
They go separate ways for
family functions, from
weddings to Christmas.
They always stay home
each Thanksgiving, sharing
bountiful blessings with
friends, more their real
family than relatives
(except Aunt Sandy and
Uncle Lou, who always bring
sweet potatoes and hugs).
They’ve been beaten bloody
for daring to share a
peck on the cheek in the park.
They can tell you all about
Stonewall because they were
there. They met in Harvey’s
Castro District and clicked.
They are part of a generation
of gay men, closet doors open
only to their neighbors, friends.
To families, pastors, and former
classmates, they’re just two guys
who never found the right girl
and sharing a house saved money
in the long run.
Forty years of keeping a lid
on their love.
(For John and Tony, RIP)
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 