When you’re done, you MUST check out the wacky prompt that Walt gave us at Poetic Bloomings. It made for one heckuva fun Sunday!
Moody Charlotte
Mom, stuck on a cul de sac
with no car. Had she the fare,
she would have fared well
in Paris – a random thought,
reflecting her need for
dramatic change.
“I’ll take up painting!” she
blurted; Leslie and I nodded.
She burst forth with wacky plans
when moody. Lacking supplies
(Les and I were thinking easel,
paints, canvas, a jaunty beret)
she called two friends before
securing a ride to… an art store?
Chances of her following through
were about even with the chance
of an armadillo successfully crossing
a West Texas highway.
Next day after school…
the danger signs: In the open garage,
large paint cans, brushes dripped
blood onto newspaper, and three
Gordon’s gin empties.
Whatever it was, she was done with it.
High as a kite and just as flighty,
she flittered around her creation.
Charlotte had painted the kitchen walls
tomato red
and the ceiling Vincent Price Black.
Her Waterloo with an indignant
bridge club; members refused to
enter our home on Brookside Avenue…
a cry for help that passed
unanswered.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Walt at Poetic Bloomings had some fun at our expense:
Today, you are given random nudges, the replies to which will become the pieces to your poetic puzzle.
1. Your mother’s first name (Charlotte)
2. A wild animal (armadillo)
3. A city you’ve never visited, but would like to (Paris)
4. A hobby (painting)
5. A mode of transportation (car)
6. Your least favorite vegetable (tomato – don’t even get me started)
7. A “lucky” number (2)
8. Your favorite color (red)
9. Three random words (dramatic, moody, random)
10. Historical event (Waterloo – doubles as an ABBA song)
11. A childhood friend (Leslie Frederick, still a friend even though she moved away in FIFTH GRADE!)
12. The street on which you grew up (Brookside Avenue)
You can write in any form, meter and rhyme scheme. Your title will be the answer to #1 + the second random word in #9.
This also appears at Poets United’s Poetry Pantry and on the sidelines at my “pad,” Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
NOTE: The story is essentially true, but I altered the timeline to accommodate the poem. This didn’t happen on my watch, but many years before – when Mom’s moods started pingponging like those of her mom, my Grandma Blanche. Charlotte was never diagnosed, but she did pull off stunts like this while on a self-medicated high. The red kitchen with black ceiling? YES, IT WAS TRUE! She later told me, “I don’t know what I was thinking, because that kitchen made me feel claustrophobic. Bud finally repainted it after three days because he couldn’t stand the colors, and he was really scared by then of my moods.”
Charlotte. Mama. Never a dull moment! Peace, Amy
Living With It
I live with manic depression
My constant companion
Reflecting my moods,
flexible in social situations
Always ready for conversations
At night, as I lie in fetal position,
it spoons my spine
It dances in the rain with me; it’s
my partner trolling homeless venues
People say my brain ain’t right
I say, “Wrong”
I see things wide awake they
cannot conjure in dreams
Hear music of another world while
their ears are stuck in this one
Feel the breeze blowing
through my soul, sweet and
filled with love.
If all that’s wrong, well,
like the song says,
I don’t wanna be “right”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
‘Bipolar’ sounds like you’re either up or down. It can be that way, but I prefer the term manic depression, rooted in depression with frequent upswings in energy when left untreated. Yet here I am, with proper treatment, claiming the best part – that “other-mindedness” of which I often write. I feel God has blessed me (God can be quirky), and I hope my gratitude is reflected in this poem. For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday.
Peace, Amy
UPDATE: This was just reblogged by The Real Cie at The Cheese Whines. Thanks, Cie! Click the link
to check out more Cie-mantics!
No Blame, No Shame
(a different kind of coming out)
The LGBT tradition of admission
(sometimes to family derision)
is called, “Coming out of the Closet”
The closet, a cloister of treasures
like Jimmy’s high heels and
Ellen’s bow ties: Sanctuary
Once declared, closet is aired,
fairly cleared, faintly scented with
lavender or motor oil, and shame
Mental disorders, the discordance
of synapse each to the next, need
same mother/father confessions
Nowadays, they call it “coming out,”
but why steal a feeling so specific,
resulting in either terrific or horrific.
I call it, “NO BLAME, NO SHAME”
when I get around to telling confused
but Amy-supportive family, friends
Once, we were “possessed by demons,”
the spectre of exorcism (still practiced
by propagandist sects, ignorance exalted)
Later we were ruled by La Luna,
hence, Lunatics, Loony, Moon-tuned
with no room for self-love
Then we were Frankenshocked
thru electric sockets into submission
A rotisserie for the hotheaded
Now we are diagnosed, presupposed
unless war and gore have inflicted
all-too-visible, invisible wounds
No blame, no shame. Nobody can
tell us anymore that we are “less than”
To hell with stigma, guilt, and hiding
I’m simply seeking help to become
the most authentic Amy I can be,
more in control of the blogroll
No blame, no shame. Say it loud,
I have manic depression and PTSD,
but they don’t have me.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Went to the Wisconsin State Conference of NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. Did you know NAMI started around a kitchen table, as some moms discussed their children’s problems and diagnoses? Once again, proof that I am in a good place. Geographically speaking. Peace, Amy
Stone Cold
In the Psych Annex
My new Rx
Diagnosis, Bipolar
Prescription, Lithium
Hideously heavy
Slogging through my bloodstream
Soupy, sluggish, songless
Stone didn’t skip on water
It simply sank
Muses’ broom
Artist’s doom
Lithium
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, 33 words, including the word “stone.” The prompt showed a Periodic Table of the Elements and mentioned that the element lithium is from the Greek word, lithos, or stone. It was not lost on me that the drug Lithium made me LIKE a stone!
True story: While “in the Bin” years ago, I was finally diagnosed manic depressive. The doctor was extremely old-school; she prescribed Lithium, claiming it was the only drug that really worked on bipolar disorder. For me, Lithium became cement for the soul. Fortunately, after discharge, I found a wonderful psychiatrist, Dr. Rao. He weaned me off what I called “Mister Sluggo” and began a careful balance of anti-depressants and anxiety meds. “Whoever says psychiatry is not drug experimentation is full of it,”Dr. Rao said. “The idea is tweaking until you get it right, and every person’s chemistry is different.” I have a new doctor here in Madison. He’s great, but Dr. Rao had wry humor and a calm, reassuring way… plus he didn’t accept samples from drug peddlers, and I admire that.
I know some folks don’t believe in psych meds, and I understand why. Whatever floats your boat; however, in cases like mine, where the chemistry is complicated and the dips and peaks extreme, my little boat would SINK without meds. I’ve lived life both ways, and I know what keeps my pencil sharp. Peace, Amy
Corner Shelf Onstage
Young: First round on me
Stay ‘til last call
Partied hard,
some success
Now: Wiser,
ready for rowdiness, revolution
Dichotomy:
Shy, depressed or
Manic, obsessed with
peace, poetry, politics,
my past
And always singing…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the whimsically titled Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, the challenge was to write a poem about yourself in 35 words or less. Peace, and please do come to the Garden – you’ll meet interesting poets and photographers and other artists!
HOW I LEFT IT
Shall I compare thee to a summoning day?
Wherefore art thou, morphine drip?
Death, be not proud… nor painful.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high, I.
How that corpse got into my pajamas, I dunno.
Don’t forget your parting gift as you exit
the chapel, a little bit of Amy as a souvenir.
Am I still bipolar now that I’m dead, and does that mean
I can spend half my time haunting people who sucked?
Reports of my death will be greatly exaggerated, because
I’m just THAT special.
Rock stars die in plane crashes, but poets die with a phrase
that just came to mind, whispering, “Where’s my journal…?”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems, asking for our epitaph. (Also at my poetic “resting place,” Poets United!) I’m having my ashes put into doggie bags and distributed to mourners on their way to the post-funeral party at a cheesy bar, with notes to each on where to scatter bits of me. Part to Blanche’s stomping grounds, Council Bluffs. Part into the confluence of the Chenango and Susquehanna Rivers in Binghamton, and a pinch of me dumped into the spiedie sauce at Sharkey’s Bar… Matt Sweeney will get that assignment, no doubt. Carolyn will have Duncan to varnish a bit of me onto her harp used in playing at hospices. Christopher will sneak me into the old Pavarotti dressing room at the Met. Joseph will toss me off the Brooklyn Bridge; Colette gets Venice Beach duty. Walt will sift me onto the floor of the Anchor Bar in Buffalo; Nimue will keep me in a little pill box until she feels a good sneeze coming on, while Viv will sew me into the batting of one of her quilts.
Lex and Riley will be sent on a voyage to San Juan, to Bermuda, and to other places far and wide, so they will have time to talk about stuff. Marcia and Jesse will join them for the Venice Canal tossing; Greggie will take me to 6th and Wilshire, the site of the old Great American Food & Bev. Co. I’m thinking of sending my Republican relatives tea bags filled with… no, that would be mean. And it would taste nasty! Peace, Amy
Quick note: I’ve been quite vocal (well, I AM an activist, right?) about the “auto-check” option that WordPress foisted on us without notice, flooding our (and our followers’) email boxes because “Keep me posted on follow-up comments via email” was now automatically checked. Complaints flew this way and that; I posted a series, including a “fix” for the “glitch.”
Apparently, many WordPress followers made their voices heard, and together (go, WPbloggers) we AFFECTED CHANGE. This was a wonderful, peaceful activist movement. Y’ALL DID IT AND Y’ALL ROCK! Next time you feel a call to action, take it. You’ll be amazed at what happens. As Margaret Mead said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” Amen, ma’am.
AND NOW, ON WITH THE SHOW!
Song of Psychiatry
Paperwork presentation
plus insurance information
Explanation of condition
(that part really saps ambition)
Process of elimination,
might need “bin” incarceration
Finally, the prescription(s)
matching your description(s)
(If you didn’t tell it well,
your mental health goes straight to hell
Then you end up in “The Bin,”
feeling like you’re lost again)
Follow-up examination
Tweaking meds, anticipation
that he’s found the incantations
to relieve these odd sensations
(Ennui and extreme malaise,
lasts for weeks or only days;
MANIC, I could climb a tower
but that wears off in an hour)
Diagnostic confirmation:
Bi-Po PTSD-ation,
winter bluesy affectation…
Happy Light, a true salvation
(All these meds for downs and panics!
I may Kafka into Xanax…
Lex will look for me until
he finds me, morphed into a pill)
Don’t skip therapy’s vital function
Psych meds only, mental unction
Counseling’s for exploration,
finding roots of situation)
Now shrink gives me medication
Spirit gives me meditation
Thus my balance has been struck
(Thanks to doctors, God, and luck)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “S.” Also at dverse Open Mic and my poetic haven, Poets United.
NOTES: I have a generally productive, sometimes difficult life, a fantastic husband and daughter who understand all the facets of my chemical imbalance, great friends and a supportive faith community, and I’m not on public assistance – because I have solid mental health coverage. WE NEED UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE. It would half-empty our prisons and save many homeless people from the isolation of despair. I’m an advocate for Health Care For All. How about you?
An Unquiet Mind
Virginia Woolf
catching life by the throat
time and again
An unquiet mind:
Dark star, wings of madness
Tender at the bone
The words, the testament.
Far from the madding crowd
the shallows,
weeping waters
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
All titles of books from my shelves – everything from “the” book on manic depression (An Unquiet Mind) to volumes on religion, collections of poetry, and my favorite book: Time and Again by Jack Finney. For the Books On Your Shelf prompt at Rhymes With Tao. Also at my poetic place for peace of mind, for creativy, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Tapestry in Black
Now I lay.
Me, down…
to sleep
the startled, interrupted unrest
of the depressed.
Were it simply tears by day,
then hitting pillow come the light of the moon;
this, people would “get.”
The complicated tapestry
woven in shades of black.
The schedules I lack.
The discipline gone slack.
The coat left on the rack.
The never going back.
The pills I must ingest
to calm the manic distressed
and keep myself on track
My folly is my trolley:
What track?
Where?
Was I s’posed to stop there?
Now I lay.
Me, down.
To sleep?
I gaze at the inconstant moon,
wishing I were of silver hewn.
Morpheus, come, please claim
this shattered, fragile frame.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United Think Tank Thursday, Moon
Photo courtesy of miya.tea-nifty.com
Sharp Little Pencil 