He Was Eating and Drinking
(Click to play with ITunes or Windows Media Player)
He Was Eating and Drinking
Not like a thief in the night
Jesus came down
Walking his disciples
Straight through the heart of town
Even when he whispered
You heard about it for miles around
(Chorus)
‘Cause he was eating and drinking
With the sinners and the slaves
He was healing and praying
With the rich and the depraved
He was suffering and dying
So we could be saved
(Chorus)
No one expected to see
A king with no crown
Riding on a donkey
Straight through the heart of town
The fat men in their fine robes,
They couldn’t wait to put Jesus down
(Chorus)
How could this Messiah be
Beaten and broken down?
Dragging his cross
Straight through the heart of town
‘Cause God knew his suffering
Would lead his followers Heaven-bound
(Chorus and rowdy out!)
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Song published © 2009 Beehat Baby Words and Music
This prompt was found at Margo Roby’s Wordgathering Free-For-All Friday, where she generously supplies a whole lot of prompts. The fabulous Mary Kling at Poetry Jam wanted the usual/unusual or anything else… You can find Mary’s site HERE. Also, as always, it’s at my poetic haven, Poets United. If the song doesn’t work on your computer, please email me at my blog name @gmail.com, and I’ll send you an mp3!
I have to say, the contrasts in this story of Jesus’ ministry seem to go against the grain. He was more than unusual; he was radical, discomfiting, altogether loving, and nondiscriminatory. He was a prisoner of conscience, executed by the Roman State. Amnesty International would have been all over his case if he lived now, right?
This song was produced in Binghamton, NY, at a very, very cold studio in March 2009. I’m on keys, Scotty Compton is on bass, and Mike Ricciardi is on drums. (Drums were added later, then the song was mastered.) Someday I’ll get this praise and gospel stuff on a CD, when the dosh is ample and the corn is high… and the moon is blue! Blessed Pesach and Easter to my Jewish and Christian friends, and to everyone else, peace. Amy
“Strong Dream” by Paul Klee (1879 – 1940)
Healing the Wounded Womb (an ekphrastic poem*)
Years ago,
the midnight cramps
the passing of the piece
One whole fetus
in the palm of my hand, and
calling the doctor,
was told that, if in fact
the baby was intact,
I should take it to his
office tomorrow.
Sorrow wrapped it in plastic,
stored in the egg cutouts
of the fridge door
(irony thick as blood clots)
‘til morning came
Years later, at an
est Training** (the one
where you couldn’t pee),
I offered up a vision
of a blood red moon
The moon was
that perfect,
imperfect egg;
the red, my womb;
and beneath all
a sheltering golden arm
holding my heart
holding my soul
holding me as I wept
for my long-gone loss
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Ekphrastic poems come from studying a painting and creating a poem based on your own impressions. Paul Klee, along with Kandinsky, certain Pollocks, and the Blue Period of Picasso, all favorites. I used to be strictly Impressionist, but then my mind exploded upon seeing some Picassos at the Met Museum of Art in the City. (That would be NYC!) In a single moment, I got it. I also developed a knack for reading Gertrude Stein’s Toklas book and Russell Hoban’s classic, Riddley Walker! Major synapse release, I suppose, and all for the good.
**This is based on (shudder) an attending est (Erhard Seminar Training) a mind- and money-control project cobbled together by a former used-car salesman who changed his name to Werner Erhard. (Who remembers him now? Ah, yes, a much-deserved obscurity for that money-grubbing pseudo-something, although he continues to lecture and has posted all positive reviews from former esties – obviously, he neglected to ask me, but who can blame him? He ripped concepts off from the best… Gibran, the Buddha, the Dalai Lama; as well as the worst, like Wayne Dyer and other then-motivational speakers, creating a synthesis of New Age bullshit and timeless quotes used to his own advantage.
I managed to have one good revelation there, and this Klee reminded me of that… Thanks to Margo Roby’s prompt, which I discovered via Joseph Harker’s Naming Constellations – brilliant blogs, both! Peace, Amy
Skinny-Dipping
Sixteen, never been sexed
Sipping pilsner pilfered from the basement fridge
Sssssh, out the back door
Stripping down to go skinny-dipping with… Johhhhhn
Time, place, the most potent of opportunities
We slip into steaming midnight summer water
His member more sumptuous than tight jeans ever hinted
My breasts afloat, begging to be bobbed for like juicy ripe apples
My ache, my throb – will he sense it,
and act on this rhythmically pulsing moonlit mystery
I always craved what was not mine for the taking
Swimming naked
with gay boys
© 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Margo Roby’s Wordgathering: Summer Tryouts and my little swimming pool, Poets United!
Today is the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the Gay Rights Movement in New York City. Gay men had finally had enough of being beaten and sodomized by police; one man picked up a cobblestone in from of the Stonewall Bar and threw it, and calamity and justice began with that one brick. (I know some say that riots were technically in the wee hours of June 28, as the bars closed… but get real. Do you wake up from a hangover on a Sunday and say, “Wow, I really drank too much at 2 this morning?” It was very, very late the night before.)
So why this poem today? Because my very proud and OUT Best Friend Forever, John Bickle, with whom I share many skinny dips and much mischief in our early days, also celebrates his birthday today. He said, when he saw the TV reports of the Stonewall Riots, he thought to himself, “It’s an omen.”
No, Stonewall didn’t make him gay. God did.
But anyway, happy birthday to my BFF, and may you continue to play piano bar and wow Philadelphia for many years to come! (His usual gig is at Knock, so you Philly friends, get you butts over to their Piano Room and hear a phenomenal tenor – and great pianist!) Love, Amer
Sharp Little Pencil 