Dallying on Writer’s Island is a pursuit every poet should indulge in. This week’s theme, “Improvise.” Yeah, like I’ve never done that! Amy
Fill In The Blank (Writer’s Island, “Improvise”)
So I arrive at my gig, hauling my rig all by myself.
I snag my stocking on a stack of speakers,
speaking in a pitch only a poodle could discern, “!!#*$!!”
Into the Ladies’ cause I don’t wanna start late,
I rummage through the rucksack that
passes for my purse.
On my thigh, one big hole in my black tights…
a dollop of whipped cream on an otherwise
dark-chocolate-frosted plane.
Dredging up a Sharpie, I fill in the blank, then
sketch in the run, the pen climbing
up and down a ladder.
I’ll deal with scrubbing it off tomorrow;
for now, it’s beg, borrow, or steal my way to the mic
with as much dignity as stinky ink can afford me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Writer’s Island, the prompt is “Foretell.” This is my second of two! Enjoy a true moment… Amy
PROPHESY
Five-year-old
pulls up an ankle sock and
turns to the grown musicians
“In B Flat,” she whispers, “one-two-three-“
and launches into “K-K-K-Katy”
Two choruses, much applause
She’s found her spot:
Face to the crowd, in front of the band
Selling the song
No fortune teller could have read her palm
Nor Tarot deck have been laid
any better than this
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Another take on the Writer’s Island prompt, Embark. The journey many of us would love to undertake.
TIME TRAVEL
O, to travel through time…
To the Harlem of Langston Hughes
To feel jazz wash over me and see
faces reflecting the culture of America
To the never-was Wessex of Hardy
To view broad expanses of countryside
and drink warm ale wearing home-sewn clothing
To trace the footsteps of Jesus, follow his sandals
to the lake share, witness the dropping of nets,
the spark of belief in a widow’s face
To occupy even the worst seat at a concert
featuring Jacqueline du Pre or Glenn Gould
To see Billie at Carnegie; Judy at the Palace
To hear firsthand Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”
echoing through every hidden corner of
streets in the Beats’ Greenwich Village
O, to travel through time!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Writer’s Island asked for a poem about Triumph. Can’t think of anything more triumphant than a great gig with the right crowd and my voice in good shape…! Click on the link and check out the comments section to read other takes on the prompt! Amy
JAZZ AFIRE
Spotlight’s hot tonight
Fresh coffee on the side table
My fingers touch the cool ivories
and all hell breaks loose
Thumping the bass line
Reaching deep, drawing out
the raw fire of jazz within
Souls of legends aflame as I call to them:
Feed my soul, strike the match
Light a fire under my piano bench
til I burn with desire to shout it true
Til the keys melt at my touch
Hellzapoppin at this piano bar
Crowd heats up and calls for more
Coffee’s cold, neglected
but I’m a pyre of pure jazz afire
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Anyone who’s thought of writing poetry should check out Three Word Wednesday. That’s the heart of it – you get three words to play with, once a week. If you have a blog, link your poem to the site and get visits from other poets, then visit them back… if you don’t have a blog, click on the names listed, and you’ll see what they have done! It’s a nice way to get started in poetry. Also: Leave a pad and paper in three places: In the bathroom (!), by your bed, and next to where you usually waste time watching reality TV! You just might come up with something! Peace, Amy
IN LEANER TIMES
We the hardscrabbles
etched our names on our forearms
lest we be found in a ditch
with no one to utter our names
The nights in dim pubs
speaking easily of all we intended to do
dabbling in art, thinking youth and inspiration
would always be on tap, like Guinness
Those were the leaner times
Now most sit in cubicles or
stand in unemployment lines
remembering the joy of possessing nothing
…save inspiration
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My dear friend George emailed me a link with recent pictures from The Strand, one of many grand old theatres in our hometown of Binghamton, NY. Those images inspired this poem. Thanks, George!
THE STRAND THEATRE, BINGHAMTON, NY
She was what they used to call A Grande Dame:
Stately, opulent, inspiring awe and delight.
Follow me back in time…
Look up: Tiffany crown.
Look down: Plush carpet.
Look around: Roomy seats, wide stage, velvet curtain, affording itinerant vaudevillians room to slay ‘em with a joke (told 2,380 times from Omaha to Syracuse, but here, heard by fresh ears, rewarded with belly laughs).
Room for dancers to tap sway meringue swing do their thing.
Singers thrived on the Strand’s perfect acoustics.
As with all perfect miracles on earth,
vaudeville died,
and She, the stately Grande Dame,
found her spacious stage usurped by a screen.
Movies drifted from Keaton to Talmadge
Robert Taylor to Rod Taylor
to Johnny Rodd (“Deep Throat played there;
the Art Theatre was deemed too small,
its floor sticky with patrons’ souvenirs)
Eventually, like even the gamest of girls,
she was abandoned.
Now she’s a shell of her former shined and
shimmering self, laid low by scavengers
and an abortive attempt at plastic surgery.
But within, her heart beats in steady memories.
Echoes of Liberace, who packed the house
(winking at fawning old ladies and
joking about his brother George).
Echoes of Ish Kabibble and Hugh Herbert,
leaving ‘em in stitches.
Echoes of the pit band, all local musicians
earning a decent living doing what they loved.
Echoes of singers whose names are remembered
only by a cloud of witnesses floating in
a plaster-dust atmosphere
or written on peeling wallpaper.
A strand of pearls, unstrung, save in our hearts.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The Lune is an American variation on haiku. The form is: Five syllables, three, five. I don’t often delve into forms, so here are a few for your enjoyment. Hope none of you got trampled in the “Black Friday” creation of every big box store known to humankind. Don’t fall for the hype – give to a charity in your family’s name. I guarantee you a merrier Christmas with simply stuffing the stockings! Amy
SOME KELLY LUNES
HOLY SPIRIT
Calming is her voice
Sofia
She, Divine Wisdom
—————————
HAPPY POVERTY
To be rich like some
No, thank you
Angst, grasping worry
—————————
EMBRACE
Softly his calm arms
enclose me
in safe, serene warmth
————————-
IVORY WISDOM
Of eighty-eight keys
Middle C
is the foundation
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Our Poetic Asides challenge was “Forget What They Say.” My kind of prompt, Robert! Click on the link to see what others came up with. As for me…
AGING DISGRACEFULLY!
Old age ain’t for sissies, said Bette Davis
and she was doggone right
Boobs hanging so low I have to
set ’em in rollers at night
and shoved into “woman-friendly” bras daily
The way they swing wouldn’t make Frank
sing “ring-a-ding-ding”
Took up yoga to get flexible
advice courtesy of my physician
(not “Physical,” thanks anyway, Olivia)
Noticed that, in the Down Dog position
my skin of my thighs draped off my legs
like a curtain valance, but at least
I kept my balance.
That is, until the Salutes to the Sun,
when I grandly and loudly fell on my face,
laughing so hard I snorted at my own contortions.
This got other 50+ women chortling and
soon we were all flat on our mats doing
what older girls do best: Sharing a laugh
about ourselves, on our own behalf.
We finished class and Betsy blurted:
“A latte! Who’s with me?”
Soon around a table filled with decadent desserts
(which we dutifully split, counting calories somewhat)
we decided: Stay with yoga class, stretch at night,
walk in pairs or groups, eat (almost) right.
But never skip dessert: Old age ain’t for sissies,
nor for grumps, nor frumps. Just real women,
having our say and doing it (cue Nelson Riddle):
“Oooooooour Waaaaaaaaaay!”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
From the Poetic Asides prompt, “Setting The World On Fire.” Remembering some great gigs!
JAZZ AFIRE
Spotlight’s hot tonight
Fresh coffee on the side table
My fingers touch the cool ivories
and all hell breaks loose
Thumping the bass line
Reaching deep, drawing out
the raw fire of jazz within
Souls of legends aflame as I call to them:
Feed my soul, strike the match
Light a fire under my piano bench
til I burn with desire to shout it true
Til the keys melt at my touch
Hellzapoppin at this piano bar
Crowd heats up and calls for more
Coffee’s cold, neglected
but I’m a pyre of pure jazz afire
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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