Third Eye of the Sightless Woman
Deprived of what doctors call normal vision,
she still envisioned worlds beyond worlds;
seeing each person beneath their form or color,
she possessed the gift of sight in her ears.
She heard beauty, shame, promise of each person
and saw their auras while listening to their stories.
Behind the vague stare was a screen of inner vision,
and here ran a constant stream of color and shape,
as all things passed her acute field of hearing.
Dogs barking in sharp blacks and whites.
Birds whirling in dissipating pinks and ochres.
Breezes green with promise of pale cyan rain.
But music – ah! music held the entire palette.
Symphonic orchestras, brilliant watercolor fields.
Strings pulling rakes to mingle azures and apricots,
brass spotting canvas with dots and long sturdy lines
of coral and dust, the silverfoil tingle of cymbals.
Jazz was denser; oils, perhaps, a thicker base.
Saxes hacking crimson into piano’s sepia lines.
drums ticking tapping low, inking ebony onto the canvas.
The singer could be violet, Ivy Anderson; sapphire,
Ethel Waters; or Julie London’s burgundy midnight.
And Billie: Dry-brushed for texture, always blue.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse poetry asked for poems about opening one’s third eye. My best vision has always been heard (synesthesia adds to this; because of my condition, I often hear sight patterns). And so I gifted my subject with a different kind of sight. This is also posted at my poetic heart, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Sunday Scribblings asked for thoughts about each poet’s muse. I believe I was one of the lucky ones; I also believe this may account for my poor grades in school! No blame at all, only gratitude for being so blessed. Peace, Amy
PS This is also at Poets United, the poetic collective.
I Met My Muse When I Was Two
Dancing, glittering over my playpen.
Sweet music singing when the record player was silent.
During school, whispering secrets to me
(so much more enticing than scribbles on the chalkboard).
Winding in a scenting breeze, gentle on my nose as I
walked the streets of a smelly, gritty city.
Capturing the intake of my every breath,
flowing through my body, creating peace within my harried soul.
Inspiring luscious, ludicrous, outlandish, lovely thoughts…
my Muse.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
With The Sunday Whirl, wordler-in-chief Brenda posed the words in bold – a baker’s dozen. Also, Sunday Scribblings wanted us to write on the word “Captivate.” These are both Sunday-based poems, the second being a haiku. Also posted at my poetic home away from home, Poets United.
FOR THE SUNDAY WHIRL
Sunday Praise Service
Hot coffee to stir the ominous ache in her weary bones.
She chooses an emerald empire-waist dress;
the illusion of a full front covers
the void of her shrinking frame.
Time to observe the celestial, to worship the Divine.
As her sandals flip, flop, flap into the sanctuary,
a kid jostles past her up the balcony stairs to sit with his mom.
She smiles, remembering her own scrambles up there;
the rhythm of life is upbeat and present
here in this church.
Church services are usually holy pantomime, but
not here. The sermon moves her – and the music?
It rocks like the ages!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
““““““““““““““““““““
FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS
Televangelists Are Full Of Crap
Captivate
with delusions of riches,
Joel Osteen.
Captivate
with tales of earthly wealth,
Graham Junior.
Hold captive
those prisoners of Rapture,
who crave flight.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about “opportunity.” This is actually destined to be a country=tinged song when I finish it, but the beginning seems made for the prompt. Also, Three Word Wednesday used the words Grip, Thread, and Prefer; this is my second poem for that prompt! Click on the poetry site links to read many more poets.
Also found at my poetic home, Poets United. Peace to you all, Amy
FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS
That’s How it Goes
Here’s how it goes, once in a while
The boy takes a shine to the girl with the smile
They waltz ’round the dance floor, and he takes a dare:
Says the sun was created to shine on her hair…
And her eyes seem to say what her heart already knows,
and that’s how it goes.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
FOR THREE WORD WEDNESDAY:
Open Mic (haiku)
Caught in the grip of
uncertainty’s clenched fist
Sweat pearls on her brow
At the podium,
words threaded into poems…
Fight or flight? She thinks:
“I’d prefer to flee
but I’m already up here.”
Breathe. Exhale. Give out.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
And now for something completely different, song lyrics. You can hear the song at my music link below (sorry, can’t upload it here.)
Hope you like it! Amy
Tioga Moon (free listen at amybarlowliberatore.com – my music site)
Tioga moon starts her song around eight
High above the maple, the color of marmalade
Spills on the rooftops and dances on the dewdrops
And drenches all the sumac in the glade…
Tioga moon, shining clear and bright
Tioga moon, shining on you tonight
When Cape Cod gets colder
and chills your shoulder,
that old Tioga moon will keep you in her sight
Oh, say…
when the gardenin’s done today
let’s escape the sun, and
run off to a place I know
where there’s shade
a little glade where the jack-in-the-pulpit grows
And then…
we’ll linger on ‘til after ten(derly you’ll call my name)
And then we’ll start to whisperin’ low
While the owls’ eyes and the fireflies
put on their show
Tioga moon, like a big brass bowl
Tioga moon shines like a prophet’s soul
When Buffalo winds blow
snow through your window
that old Tioga moon will make your insides glow
(repeat last chorus)
So stay well, sleep warm;
when the cold starts to bite,
that old Tioga moon will be your blanket tonight.
(Words and Music © 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore)
Cat of Nine
In a cafe on a blissful Madison spring morning.
I sip coffee and poem peacefully.
A harpist sets up his hand-crafted instrument,
intricately carved, and he plays with his heart on his sleeve.
Spying his technique from the side,
I see calluses, thick pads on his fingers
as he deftly navigates the strings
to bring forth delicate melody.
His other hand surely must bear the same scars
of practice, of pursuit of that elusive
perfection – real musicians know
it’s ever out of reach, but the muse still coaxes us on.
I look again at that other hand;
he has only four fingers. He’s a vet
who lost his ring finger in combat but
chose beauty over bitterness on his long road home.
See nine strumming fingers thrumming Celtic chords.
Watch the strings continue to vibrate as sound reverberates.
Feel his joy, throw a few bucks in the tip jar,
and take that love with you as you leave.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Poetic Asides prompt: On the Other Hand; also posted at Poets United.)
Powerful Urge (For ABC Wednesday and Poets United)
Never one to linger backstage,
craving instead gelled red-hot spotlights overhead.
Sustaining me through sickness, divorce, and
freewheeling, full-tilt mania
Yet there lingers within that nauseating self-doubt:
Will I ever be good enough?
The first time house lights went up,
a chill raised the hairs on my neck,
and I gave out with
the best version of “Skylark” I ever sang.
So maybe the self-doubt is actually
my own spirit stirring me up to help me through.
I am the siren who makes sailors crash into rocks (or fall off barstools)
and I love that power.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ignore the racist stereotypes and see true athleticism, artistry and energy. The incomparable Whitey’s Lindy Hoppers, and the poem follows. Watch the video first; I dare you not to be amazed. Band is Slim Galliard and Slam Stewart; Slam spent his last years in my hometown, Binghamton, NY. A gentle, sweet man who never lost his soulful voice and way with a bass.
Lindy Hoppers
Back when jazz was hot
When the drums meant dancin
jitterbuggin, Lindy Hoppin
shimmyin, shakin your sugar…
Lil, Grace, and Fancy
flounced and flirted in the finer clubs
Gracie, she was fine on the dance floor
Lil had more meat on her bones,
made lifting for the Lindy doubtful
Still, she clapped and hooted off on the side
beer in one hand, the other tucked in Slim’s front pocket
Now, Fancy was a flimsy-thin frail
made for stompin at the Savoy
When the band commenced to wailin
she’d be flyin over Jimmy’s head,
flung between his legs and back up again
She shined like a new penny,
bronze and easy rollin
Her real name was Flo
but once they saw her dance
hellzapoppin on that floor
they renamed her Fancy
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Thin, Jitter, Grace, blog
Poetic Asides had an interesting challenge: “A World Without ____________.” Yeah, go figure how this one came to mind (wink)! Amy
A World Without Gay Men (what a bore)
No Dr. Kildare
Nor “Night and Day”
No “Pillow Talk”
‘cause Rock was gay
No Sistine Chapel
Virtruvian Man
No Mona Lisa
No inventions grand
No Karloff’s Monster
(James Whale’s work of art)
No Benjamin Britten
Johnny Mathis, my heart
Gershwin, Sweet
Embraceable You,
the Man I Love
is a classic, it’s true
Greg Louganis’
diving perfection
Leonard Bernstein’s
symphonic direction
The list could go on
til night turns to day
but what a dull world
without men born that way
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, Writer’s Island, and at Poets United.
Three Word Wednesday, one of my regular stops, inspired me to follow a prompt for Day 6 of National Poetry Writing Month. The words were: Adamant, Fabricate, and Peculiar. Hope no one beat me to the bad pun that follows. Thanks to RJ Clarken and Madeleine Begun Kane for keeping my limerick funny bone intact!
All In A Name
Punk rock became famous for rocking rant
For Vicious and Rotten the punks did pant
They needed for fame
a peculiar name;
Stu Goddard fabricated his: Adam Ant
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NaPoWriMo 6, 3WW, blog
Sharp Little Pencil 