Acrylic on canvas, 9×12 by Amy Barlow (Liberatore)
Determined Swimmer
She’s good in water
A determined swimmer
An athlete going for the gold
With each stroke, determination grows
Hope flows with coursing blood
(a flash of daddy’s face)
Swimming for her life
or because of it
Because water will wash away
traces of THAT
Wash her clean of past, passed
(what happened, over and over again)
Almost there
Air collapsing from her lungs outward
The sea, an effervescent bubble mass
of inside, now outside
(he’s dead yet alive, too alive and too strong)
The picture fades from view
Her eyes shine in a wide-awake stare
A limp doll sleeping
on solid ground
at last
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The painting says it all, if you understand her determination. I have felt like this, too many times. May all who have been abused find peace… peace that does not need this kind of plunge. 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!
Memories of His Dad
Antique, the shaving brush atop his side of our bathroom counter.
Memories of his father come forth,
back when Dad used soap and an old-fashioned razor,
how the blade grazed his flesh with precision.
Later, his father lost that control
as Lou’s legacy sent him flailing
Hard for a WWII vet, an engineer, a man of science,
to revert to unexpected infancy, utter dependence.
The badger-hair brush reminds his son
of happier times, watching Dad pull up his nose
to stop that mustache from gaining ground.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Razor, Flesh, Control; also at Poets United.
Image courtesy of http://www.tjrakowski.com
Lindy at Poetic Licensee wrote a lovely poem today, memories of her mother. I promised her I’d blog a poem I wrote a year ago about my mom, because we had some bits in common, so here it is… This was also part of my chapbook, Dance Groove Funhouse. Thanks, my new friend Lindy, for reminding me of this one! Peace to all, Amy
THE WRINGER
I was the baby so I
spent a lot of time with Mom
watching her perform the mundane tasks
of suburban housewifery
that would eventually lead her to alcoholism
But back then they were fun
The radio was always on
Roger Miller singing King of the Road
We’d sing along
She taught me to harmonize when I was four
Downstairs to do laundry
A humungous circular washer, a wringer
And a clothesline out back
To her this was heaven
having survived the Depression
All these conveniences
meant just for her
In those days, she saw her life as luxurious
And she saw me as company
and the only friend around
After poking a stick into the washing
to make sure the detergent had really dissolved
She drained it and refilled to rinse
Man, she really took the stick to that
Everything had to be clean, perfect, worthy
But the best part
Before the hanging on the line with wooden clothespins
(Someone should invent something with a spring,
she said absentmindedly one day
Her mom was a genius, too)
Was the wringer
The clothes being strangled as they
gave up almost every drop of their being
I pretended they were bad people who were being punished
I prayed for them but secretly relished their fate
Back then it was easy
We’d go upstairs and have coffee (mine was mostly milk)
She light a Lucky and we’d sit
gazing out the window to the fields beyond
Soundtrack by The Lettermen and Peggy Lee
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Poetic Bloomings, scene of my scandalously honest interview with the ever-gracious Marie Elena last week, asked for poems on the theme, “The harvest I reap.” Enjoy, and peace to all, Amy
SEEDS
Years upon years
of mistakes and teary-eyed
talks over black coffee or
beer from the bottle,
swearing the air blue.
Dancing at Fiesta…
I don’t really dance
but if I smile and
show a little leg, todo esta bien.
Staring blankly out the window
in a small town
rain punishing my petunias
(parched, anyway),
wondering if the library
has any books I haven’t read yet.
Watching the baby emerge
from within Massive Me;
everyone is crying. She
latches on. I call her Little Bee.
Seeing Carnegie Hall for the first time…
from the stage at sound check.
Teaching fellow Psych Ward inmates
how to practice yoga
instead of watching
the big-ass TV all day.
All these memories are stored
in a quiet room within.
Open the door, grab a random handful.
Toss onto the fertile loam and see them sprout.
I gather the ripest fruits and
squeeze ink from their juices.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 