Cronifiscence (For Rose)
Used to be, we rough and ready, time-tested but never bested
full-breasted, not-begging-your-behested ladies
were frowned upon, looked down upon as
past our prime
‘More to be pitied than sensualed’
But now we gather in pools of lactic estrogen
to reminisce about dime phone booths
penny candy and two-bit boyfriends
our first quarter centuries marked by
debauchery, doubtless laughter
the ember of roach-clip glowworm
impromptu meetings on the streets
so far below downtown, we were crowned by
halos of cannabis smoke rings
Might be on city subways with melted portraits in windows
crashhurtling then lurching to stinky stop stations
Or southern streetcars harvesting magnolia scent
sliding over tracks greased by funk and fancy
We hail from many lands, form a tribe that
transcends countries of origin, societal strata
We are crones in the best sense of
that beleaguered term – we defy restrictions
Protest “wrinkles as afflictions”
Deny quaint references to “women of a certain age”
We ARE Women of a Certain Age
Certain that we have been there
Certain that we burned our bras and will do so again
if our daughters and all fertile women are denied
choices and voices – we will make noises, so watch out, boyses
We are certain that the world is better with us in it
Our experience has honed us into
magnificent, beneficent, sensible, sexy creatures
We have earned our crowns
We don’t do boundaries or borders
We are found art
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Just in: Added to Poets United’s Poetry Pantry for Sunday!
Rose Preston is a jewel. She lives in New Orleans, born in South Africa. She’s the kind of woman who will save a lovely object d’art for years until she finds the person who needs it… in this case, a lovely card with shining giraffe for her girlfriend’s birthday. I, too, collect bits of this and that (often sending to my old buddy Sidnie), just waiting for the right time, the right hands into which I place that little treasure.
Rose lives. I mean, this woman is traveling home in two weeks, then she’s going on SAFARI! Holy schmoley, that’s living. She was once charged by a baby elephant and, defying odds, snapped “my National Geographic photo,” only to later accidentally delete it… when she was high. I mean, really, kids, this is my kind of girlfriend. God willing, neither of us (nor any of the other fantastic women I spent time with in New Orleans!) will ever grow up, never stop ranting and raving and reveling in our lives.
Now if only I could download the damned pix off my “smart” phone, I’d include her picture. Later, I shall have to edit her image in. Peace, Amy
At the Great American Food & Beverage Co., Wilshire at Sixth (1979)
Joe’s behind the keys
Doug, Lisa and I singing backup until
others join the fray, Carolyn on cabasa
This restaurant is like nothing ever
Ever
EVER
Smells mingle and linger
Rib sauce, beer, whipped cream
Sweat and hot chocolate
Sounds bounce and dervish
Music: Tambourines, guitars,
ivories, voices of every color and timbre
It’s late, so Jamie takes to the piano
“Heartbreak City” in the key of frenetic
Climbing on tables, raising hell, crazed
Chuck on “Takin’ It To The Streets”
We gather around him, the army of
musicial pacifists, guitars the only weapons
No mics, just naked acoustics, so I have to
wait for a lull and take the piano with great
intention to render “Skylark” as it should be
People wait for hours outside
Munching veggie trays, waiting for
two hours just to get in
The floorboards harbor stories
of naked piano players, cooks banging
fudge pots, making fun of musicians
Of after-hours massage lines, practical
jokes magic serving starving
The life of a singing waiter or host
Poppy stops in, baby River bops in his arms
He laughs when he smells the Divine Weed
wafting from the kitchen
Enrique the dishwasher knows three words
in English: “E-spread ‘em, babeeee!”
Kitchen staff schooling him
Late nights playing pinball for free
Greggie found the key and we laugh and
drink and sing the old songs, it’s quiet now
Lights out, don’t have to go home
but ya can’t stay here…
Farewell, my youth, my touchstone
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Fireblossom wanted poems about a specific place. How about a specific place and time, with specific people? For those of you who never experienced the Great American Food & Beverage Co. in Santa Monica in the 70s, this is only a taste of the wild, wickedly fun, wantonness that was the G.A. A place that holds me fixed in time and space, a place where I went from girl to woman – and from beer to beyond. Peace, Amy
Playing Bongos in Topanga Canyon
Several members of our tribe are
breathing slowly, exhaling with tenderness
the holy incense of the day
Shakha opens tent flaps and
scurries to exchange the
stinky bong water for fresh
Empties grimy slog into
Topanga Canyon’s stream
without fear of discovery
We are in the back of
the deep woods now
Our prayers answered
Don strums his twelve-string
as singers attempt the dazed
yet sweet harmonies of ambivalence
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl, click to see Wordle and other folks’ posts. Thanks, Brenda, for some words that almost gave me a contact high… but that was the 70s for ya. The memories do linger after all these years. Some flashbacks are quite sweet, and so are the people.
Also at my poetic all-time clear-headed high, Poets United!
Parking Lot
The Golden Arches aglow tonight
Aglow every night as
teens collect, connect
Giggles, yo mama jokes
A squeal, somebody got tickled
Waitin’ for Bruno to get off shift
Scent of sensamilla
snakes through blades of my fan
I peek out; their shadows pass the joint around
Outside, they pack into someone’s car
squeal out of the lot in a cloud of exhaust
leaving a trickle of oil and a trail of fun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is for dverse, “Meeting the Bar.” Claudia asked us to write as though we were Impressionists, with quick brush strokes and hints of lighting. My inspiration was the early work of Edward Hopper, who is not known as an impressionist but had a brief foray into the style with such works as “Soir Bleu.” He is simply my favorite artist, and the humanity of his work informs my eavesdropping on this group of kids last night. Also at my poetic canvas, Poets United!
GRASS
To legalize or not to legalize pot?
That is the question I was sort of
pondering while preparing a
killer omelette this morning after
imbibing my usual cup of coffee that’s
so strong you can stand a spoon up in it.
Now, the secret of my omelettes
is in the herbs…. when they’ve been dried
you toss them in after the chopped onion
and garlic are just beginning to sizzle and
that opens up their flavor, their savor,
and their real power.
Then the rest, the squash, the whatever is
residing in your crisper and not all
squishy and globbed from the humidity
man it is hot outside and even the A.C.
won’t keep the molecular damp from
seeping through the cracks and crevices and
oh, yeah, the omelette. So last thing, you add your
favorite cheese, but what really turns my creation
into a work of art is not the presentation because
it usually falls apart before it hits the plate, and
I’m like, you’re just gonna chew it up anyway,
what’s the big deal about presentation?
Cheese. Cheeeeeese. Oh yeah. Wisconsin aged
cheddar we get at the co-op, so dry it crumbles.
But if you get off on brie or swiss, like the song says,
Love the One You’re With.
So anyway, I finished my omelette and booted up
the puter and the Poets United prompt was GRASS!
How fortuitous! Coincidence?
I THINK NOT. It was simply the universe
whispering in my ear about
sharing my love of creative cooking!
What a grooved-out day to daydream (too!) about my
lovely brunch (I got up pretty late today) and
the secret of its blissful herbalicious goodness…
Bon appétit. Buen provecho. Happy eating, y’all!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 