New York Doll
There was a time in her prime
when she’d mime drink orders
to cordial bartenders who always
tended to her needs. Never one
for thinking while drinking.
She’d haul a Hal to the juke
and dance dance dance
A chance to prance from
Latin to limbo to limo to
blow snow, no dough, only
her willingness to be ill-used
(not abused in the classic sense;
her men’s tastes not leaning toward
the waste of a pretty face)
The pace of the chase
was hasty and tiring, and so,
rewiring back at the flat, we
would recount the bounty
that shines brightest at 2 am
The night, our flight, our fight
to be noticed in an
of a city
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is why having a roommate in the larger cities is important. Who else will listen to your triumphs and tragedies ‘til dawn? This one will be at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads on Monday and dverse Poetry Pub’s Open Mic on Tuesday. I’ll add the links in the next two days so you can click and read some soulful stuff from a vast array of poets. Peace, Amy
GET TO THE GIG, GIRL!
Take the A train? Hell, no
I’ve faster ways to go
Head south on Amsterdam
Keep low and lively, ma’am
I filter through the fog
and gusting city smog
The traffic’s fierce, you see
I keep it high and free
Some pieces of the News
Fly by in folded twos
Through bitter cold and then
I spring balloon to end
And climb on up and out
the fountain’s water spout
The cries of “Viva! Viva!”
when I arrive, La Diva
Enough to warm my heart
And now my gig I start
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The “B” on the balloon is for Barlow, my former stage name. At dverse Poets Pub, we were challenged to an ekphrastic prompt – writing to an image; I used words from The Sunday Whirl. The brill artist is Judith Clay, and you can see more of her fantastic fantasies and read other poets HERE, as well as check out what other poets did with the Whirl Wordle HERE.
Fun prompt. Was ready for one. It was a long week, but things are looking up! Peace, Amy
Jake, old friend, relic of a rake,
dropped in and occupied our couch
to catch off-Broadway plays
during our Manhattan days.
Friend of my folks, fan of my mom’s music,
I inherited him along with
scrapbooks my sisters didn’t want
and the extra odd silver that didn’t match.
Always fun visits at first, but then
there was the eventual price we’d pay
for his monthly long-weekend stay.
Did I mention his death-rattle breath?
He never picked up the tab, even for coffee.
His girth shattered a rung on my prized
rocking chair inherited from Jeffery and
seriously challenged the shocks on my Fiat.
Boy, oy, ready the clothespins for the kicker:
He never got over living in postwar Germany.
Or maybe he was simply too damned cheap
to buy soap and shampoo. Eeeeeeew.
My olfactory senses may never recover
from Eau du Jake, the scent that made
neighbors complain. If he’d actually smelled
like fish, it might have been an improvement.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, which asked us to recount our personal Monty Wooleys – guests who overstay their welcome and begin to “smell like fish,” literally or figuratively!