Going the Distance:
“Who Do You Think You Are, Amy Barlow Liberatore?”
Let’s hear what everybody else says first:
“You were born 40 and you’re working your way backwards,”
said my mom, when I was 7
“Charmful little armful,”
said my musical mentor
“She can SANG!”
said our African-American piano player
“Get that bitch off the podium!”
snarled the Buffalo cop at a peace rally
“Please don’t say that about your dad,”
cried my mom, when I was 35
“You’re not a dyke, why should you care?”
asked a Fundie at a PRIDE rally (when I challenged their ‘God Hates Fags’ sign)
“Good thing you can sing. Your dancing sucks,”
joked my friend at a big band concert
“You’re not a victim; you’re a survivor,”
said my therapist
“You wear manic depression well,”
grinned my psychiatrist
“You have the soul of a dinosaur,”
said the oracle Sidnie
“Don’t hold back, tell us how you really feel,”
say bloggers (with a wink)
“PLAY ‘FEEEEELINGS’!!”
slobbered countless drunks at my piano bar
“You’re just a gay man trapped in a straight woman’s body,”
said Jeffery, may he rest in peace
“You’re going to hell for encouraging those homosexuals,”
say… too many people to mention
“If you’re going to hell, it’s gonna be in a FABulous handbasket,”
giggled Jason
“Thanks for the lessons,”
said my BFF (and only he will understand that comment)
“I have no dramatic coming-out story because you were so accepting,”
laughed Riley
“She’s a pain in the ass,”
said the FBI agent, flipping through my file
“Take it off! Take it off!”
cried Christopher after I sang a comedic song about stripper envy
“Because she questions my authority,”
said the principal to my mother, as I sat in detention
“You are SO worth it,”
says my husband, over and over again
My life is chaotic peace.
I’m a sharp little pencil, still writing my life.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings (“Who Do You Think You Are?”), for Sunday Scribblings (distance), and for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
TO ALL MY WONDERFUL READERS: If you are uncomfortable with the growing phenomenon of “cutting” among young women, please skip this – or scroll down and learn. There’s a new, hopeful trend among teens and 20s of tattooing the word “Love” on one’s inside wrist as a reminder, either for themselves to not cut, or in solidarity with and compassion for those who do. Peace, Amy
Bleed
Awesome with a razor
She’s straight-edge all the way
Cuts in patterns
Endangering her health
for the sake of
force-feeding her psyche
She sees no hazard
in this habitual ritual
She knows what she’s doing
She gets in lots of practice
She’s waited all day to
be alone with the one…
The blade that understands
her pain and her release
The pain she cannot name
and isn’t ready to claim
Today, perfect lines, sleek
and hardly bleeding at all
Tomorrow, she’ll wear
a long-sleeved hoodie
in the torrid noonday sun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday (B) and for Three Word Wednesday: Cut, Endanger, Hazard.
Girls who are numb to the world because of depression or other mental disorders, may cut themselves in order to feel. The warning signs are long-sleeved shirts in the hottest weather, parents finding an Exacto knife or other sharp instrument under her bed… just know they are in need of help, not irredeemable nor incurable. They are hurting themselves because they were hurt, and getting down to the problem starts with counseling. 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
If you are not prepared to read about sexual abuse of a child, please skip this poem. If you have nightmares of being “invaded,” this poem may help you to seek therapy. Your call. Scroll down for the poem. Peace, Amy
My Turn Tonight
Door opens, cringe-creaking
Covers pulled over my head
Keep still, stay quiet
Someone else’s turn instead?
No, I’ve drawn the unlucky card
Trembling as he turns my face
to face the unfaceable and
endure this sick disgrace
Morning, choking back chalk
Sheets dampened by sweat and the sinner
I’m pretty quiet at breakfast
But he grins like a Derby winner
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dampen, Keep, Tremble
Also at my poetic haven, Poets United.
NOTES: Through therapy, I made the journey from remembering to understanding it wasn’t my fault to shrieking truth at the long-dead man in the empty chair to acceptance, and ultimately, forgiveness. Once I forgave, the whole thing became a bubble over in a corner of my mind, where I could examine it on my own terms. The journey took 15 years, and I write about these events to help others connect. May incest, child abuse, child pornography… all die away, and love prevail.
If you suspect a child you know and love is being sexually abused, whether by their father, uncle, brother, teacher… be it a boy or a girl, let that child know they can talk to you about anything at all. Tell them that no matter what, grown-ups should never make a kid keep secrets, especially secrets that scare them. You could save a young person from suicide. Trust me. I was almost there. Peace, Amy
monday’s forecast
thick, ornery clouds gather
on my mental horizon
chasing my fanciful birds into trees
sending all manner of wild wildlife
into hiding, seeking sanctuary
even the chipmunk on the edge plays
“duck and cover” under the back stoop
it’s coming, the lack of light
of life as I like it
a tunnel, an abyss where
bliss is forbidden
and bright eyes dim to
an absent stare
a slackened jaw, a slacker me
i turn to my bible hoping for answers
“even though i walk in the
valley of the shadow of death
i will fear no… no…”
no words for this condition
no balm in this gilead
no spirit to comfort me
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was “Storm.” This poem started out as a real, physical storm and ended up, as with many of my offerings, with the onset of a bout of depression. Not so much a storm as a sea change, I suppose, but the warning clouds feel the same – and once the faucets open, it might as well be raining. Buckets.
Omaha, Nebraska
Seated in the squalor that was
Council Bluffs in those days,
the big city seemed far away.
Even if she got there, someday
how would she find a job
that could pay? Really pay?
She dug up some money,
got a gown downtown and
she could pass for 21 (at 16).
She knew she could sing, then…
She dipped into Mama’s purse
and cursed herself for doing it, but
Mama wouldn’t miss the compact
as she was currently in the mental ward.
“I’m gonna look older, live bolder.”
And Dad was using his daughter
in ways that would not win him
Father of the Year awards.
So she packed up her pack,
left before Dad got back,
and boarded the ferry one day.
Hotel Blackstone hired her
at first sight and first song,
and yes, they would pay, hooray!
In years to come, she would
travel around, by bus, by car,
by train (not by plane).
She owed her start in large part to
Omaha. And Council Bluffs?
Only if there was a funeral.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “O.” Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United.
Image courtesy of “Heaven’s Gates,” but DAMN! This singer in the photo is an absolute ringer for my mom, Charlotte, in those days, when she sang as Patty Long and later as Jan Long (Binghamton already had one Patty Long!).
TO ALL READERS: Not for the squeamish. I have used another John Rainsford photo (credits below) because one was not enough. Thanks, dverse, for turning us on to an amazingly talented photographer, web designer, and all-around artist.
THE LOOK
He enters my bedroom; 
I raise my eyes slowly
The unspoken message
unsettling, unholy.
Dad went and filled
his Viagra again.
What am I in for?
And how bad? And when?
No use attempting
to pull up the cover.
I wonder if Sue’d mind
another sleepover?
Cause I’m in the crosshairs
and he’s got the gun.
The battle is lost –
I am Dad’s “little one.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo © John Rainsford, courtesy of dverse poetry.
For dverse Open Mic Night.
Remember When
There you are again,
curled up, pretzel-thin.
Still wondering why
he won’t say goodbye.
Daily you’re a doubt.
Half laughter, half pout…
Therapist listens.
Talent glistens,
but for whom?
Since the womb
you’ve been easing
into people pleasing.
Why not relax?
Reconsider Xanax?
You think it’s almost over?
Baby, run for cover.
Hate to burst your bubble,
but you’ll be causing trouble
long after you’ve gone grey,
long after this dark day.
Looking at your through
this mirror of new,
I see you back then,
knowing you’ll remember when.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings: Let your future self advise you in the NOW.
Also for Sunday Scribblings: Suspended reality or fantasy.
Sharp Little Pencil 