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.”
Grandma Laughlin, gone forever, listens always
I talk to her out loud, loudly and often
Guardian angel of the trolley lines, spirit of the Chicago Public Library, goddess of suffrage and suffering
“Blanche, I’ll bet you thought we saw the last
of that ass Hitler, but Deutchland Uber Alles is on an endless loop
A rancid record spinning crackling – thunk-kathunk-kathunk
Who’d’a thunk it, Grandma, it’s’ happening again.”
And even though she was too classy to swear
Even though she wouldn’t have said SHIT if she had a mouthful of it
I cuss freely when I speak to her
What’s she gonna do about it, anyway?
“Blanche, that miserable fuckwit will get us all blown to kingdom come
Bastard takes everything FDR stood for and
folds it into paper airplanes
sets it on fire
burns it with a spyglass and
feeds it to the pigeons
(strike that – I don’t believe he would ever feed a creature other than himself)
There is a haze on all our hearts, a deep groan of disgust…”
Blanche’s face is in my mind
In her heyday, an irrepressible Socialist, FDR fangirl, chatterbox, survivor
By the time I knew her, she was weary
Made it through the Great Depression but
bound by the other kind, dull and grey and nothing to say
But she blinks slowly and seems to convey,
“I know, Amer. I wish I could say I lived to see the other side of the nightmare,
but this one is so much worse.”
There is no moral to this poem, no twist, no clever upshot
Just remembering her face, the calm after the storm, ready for the next one
© 2025 Sharp Little Pencil/Amy Barlow Liberatore
For What’s Happening Now, the prompt was Grandma. I had a grandpa, too, but Blanche, my mom’s mother, took the cake. One of my favorite human beings ever. Love you, Grandma Laughlin.
It’s not my fault, I’m not to blame for our stolen kisses and whispered voices
I tried my best, and it’s a shame you couldn’t stay away despite my fashion choices
I didn’t shave my legs, or touch up my roots
I didn’t put on makeup, and even wore my hiking boots
But you see what you want to see, and say what I need to hear
And in your eyes I’ve always felt beautiful and dear
But you came here with your girlfriend, so in my own defense, I’ll say
I didn’t plan on loving you today
I broke out just in time to look my worst for you
It’s guaranteed my kneesocks spoiled the southern view
You see me with your heart, I know, the way I’ve always been
And in your eyes, it’s long ago – and I’m young and sweet again
I knew you both would be here, but I stopped by anyway
I didn’t plan on loving you today
Why can’t you behave – and why do you insist
On turning back the pages to a time when we first kissed
You couldn’t have me then, and I can’t have you now
This is not for keeps, my friend, but I love you anyhow
So maybe we can meet when we both need to smile
For though we live in different worlds, we share a common style
Fate was always strong enough to sabotage my plans
And though I love you endlessly… the rules of love demand
That I didn’t style my hair
And I wore mismatching underwear
I didn’t plan on loving you today
But you loved me anyway
© 1997 Amy Barlow/Beehat Baby Publishing
Pink, Above and Below
Pink
above and below
She knows this tavern
is a cavern of
half-truths and full-blown lies
Icarus and ice
Yet, this morning
la colorosa* bathes
the barstools and bodies
laid waste by last night
Sunrise brings the glow
of a knowing
that this day
there will be change
Her heart will melt
inthe pink glow of sundown
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image by Oxag at Wikipedian Commons:
Sunrise at Angkor Wat (Worldwide Usage Permission)
* la colorosa means “pink” in Spanish – at least, in Puerto Rico.
Hannah at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted color, a cave (and what better cave than a bar!), a hunger, adventure, and ice. Pull up a barstool and tell me yours. Also on the margins at Poets United. Peace, Amy
PEACE IS POSSIBLE (a Fibonacci)
One
mindset
among many
will cause peace
to flow all around us
like a mighty, majestic river of unfathomable love
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is my prayer for peace, as prompted by Mary at dverse Poets. Of course, I did not make the deadline, so perhaps I will submit this for dverse Open Mic Night as well as the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. And, yes, I managed a form to boot, using the word-count version of the Fibonacci Sequence (1-1-2-3-5-8).
The latest carnage in Kenya, at a mall in Nairobi, took many lives at random. And yet here in the States, gun violence continues to claim veterans, spouses, children, and people caught in the wrong place (or school) at the wrong time – also, a gun on hand means access to a fast suicide, rather than trying to reach out. The Second Amendment provided for armed militias, like the National Guard, and was conceived when one-shot muskets were the standard. I’m not against others hunting (as long as it’s for meat, not ivory), but the proliferation of high-powered rifles with huge magazines – and people with violent histories being allowed to own guns? Is Ted Nugent running for president or what? Get a grip, people. Peace, 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
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
Yes, it’s true, I’ve joined the “700 Club”! Oh, wait a sec… actually, this is a poem that Pat Robertson would do well to read, since he’s all about putting down anyone and anything he doesn’t understand, and using God as an excuse. He makes the phrase “bully pulpit” come to life in a new way… So let’s talk about love, shall we?
Love is Not/Love is
Love is not the flip side of hatred
Love is not a sexual act
Love is not what your parents told you
or what your friends brag about
Love is not locked up or meant to be hoarded
Love is friendship to the nth power
It’s giving up what you cling to in the world
for the sake of helping another
Turning your back on Honey Boo-Boo in favor of
cradling abandoned crack babies in the NicU
It’s holding hands that are colder than yours
Love is vast as creation
Warmer than bread fresh out of the oven
More beautiful than your granny’s eyes
Each day we are given the chance
to show love to others
Love is the only thing that can heal our fractured world,
and it starts with each one of us.
Fling wide open your arms
Dance to the sacred rhythm
Unlock that latched love and give it to the world
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United, where Kim Nelson was looking for poems about locks. I wrote this earlier today before encountering her prompt, as though the planets were in alignment! Also “in the margins” at my poetic Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace to all, and let the love begin. Amy
Life Cycling
First come the three little words
Then, “I’ll love you ‘til I die”
Vows to share a lifetime as one
Down the aisle into Real Street
Change begins to take hold
She feels faint over nothing
After a march to the drug store, she
Places calls to her doctor and OB
Family planning worked, a baby is on the way
To create life within is a special calling
She doesn’t mind the stringy stretch marks
Nor the RR train to La Maze classes
in order to master the art of patience and breath
while bringing new life into the light
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I remember being pregnant with Riley. Ask women who’s ever been pregnant, and they’ll probably say they felt like the most powerful person in the world. Submerged, cradled within, this growing child… I am getting misty because my girlfriend and bandmate Karen’s daughter Amanda is in hospital just now, dilating and all that good stuff.
Riley is the best thing I ever did. Not just giving birth, but raising her, watching her tap out complicated drumbeats from the age of four; seeing her first pictures – and for years to come, finding manga characters scribbled on the margins of homework. Startlingly smart, easy to be with, and wicked talented… she’s a force to be reckoned with, and, as you can see by this photo shoot (body painting, not tattoos), she’s gorgeous. Love you, Riles. Mom
For the Sunday Whirl, the wordle can be found HERE. Check out the other poets as well! Peace and soda crackers for the first trimester (!), Amy
At dverse, Hobgoblin asked us to attempt a poem in a foreign language. While I did spend years in Puerto Rico, my Spanish is a mite rusty; that’s why I buy bilingual volumes of Neruda, to strengthen that connection. Let’s see what you think (the English translation follows).
San Juan por la noche
Noches en la playa
de mi Borrinquen querido
Con mi amor, sin abarcas en la arena
y la aroma del mar
Besos dulces, cervezas frias
Manos entrelazarse
Estrellas bialando
por la cadencia de nos corazones
Muchos anos pasados,
yo recuerdo este amor… suave y eterno
TRANSLATION
San Juan at Night
Nights on the beach
of my beloved Puerto Rico
With my love, barefoot in the sand
and the scent of the sea
Sweet kisses, cold beer
Hands intertwined
The stars dancing
to the rhythm of our hearts
After so many years,
I remember that love… tender and eternal
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at “la casa de poecia,” Poets United!
Sharp Little Pencil 