Dedicated to the GAFB/HiPockets/Poppy Star reunion 2010, with love to all, Amers
WITH ABANDON
Abandon hangups
all ye who enter here
Abandon your present
your what-happened-since-then
Embrace the ever-present past
Pick up a tambourine
Beat it til your hands bruise
Sing til it hurts
Play til your fingers remember
where their callouses were
Laugh til you cry
Live like it’s your last day on earth
Like it’s the end of your shift
Grab a cold beer, flop down here
and tell me all about it
We remain gypsies
no matter what path we chose
The world will never see anything like it again
Time and place
Ribs and space
Perrrrrrfection
Amy Barlow Liberatore
Santa Monica, August 15, 2010 (the morning after)
TEACUP
Sad Lisa was a hard-headed woman
She was miles from nowhere
on the road to find out
where the father and son had gone
Had they boarded longer boats
Sailed into the night fog, into white
She brews tea for the tillerman and whispers
“But I might die tonight”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore
From Cat Stevens’ “Tea For The Tillerman”
We were asked to write a poem incorporating song titles from our favorite albums. Showing my age here, but…
AMERICAN BOOKENDS
Voices of old people in the park
Old friends haunted by a hazy shade of winter
At the zoo, Punky’s dilemma lingers
as Mrs. Robinson cries, “Save the life of my child!”
Like it or not,
we’re all fakin’ it in America
Our lives are bookends:
Beginnings and overs
but mostly
overs
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore
from all-time fave album (vinyl) Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bookends”
Bobby Francavillo, an old school buddy, turned me on to this young singer/songwriter. She’s phenomenal and so is her story… look her up on YouTube for an interview about how, after a car accident left her unable to walk, holistically working 24/7 on her music helped her neurons reconnect her brain and legs, which has enabled her to enjoy a rich, full life. Her voice is like… if Jean Arthur could sing. I cannot say enough about her talent, nor thank Bobby enough for mentioning her on FaceBook. I’ve bought 2 of her releases, and she saved MY mental health in a crowded layover at NYC’s Penn Station. Proof positive that magic is all around us, healing comes in many forms, and friends are meant to share the best things in life.
MELODY GARDOT
Penn Station cacophony
The really big noise of
crunchy humanity made moist
by lack of air conditioning
Bad tempers, worse hygiene that
fails to be tamed by perfumes
each more putrid than the last
and all available at WalMart
I park my pack, stack my stash
under weathered and weary sandals
Pull out headphones, cause
it’s gonna be a long layover
Wheel the reel of my IPod to
Melody Gardot, she of the
quirky scat, scratched slightly
broken voice, sleek songs
Eyes closed. I serenely
accept this comfort
as it’s offered up
in her lazy tones, slowly
Crabby folks suddenly wash away
in a flood of lush love songs
Colors appear beneath my eyelids
Vivid purples and greens
Audio visual mental lava lamp
undulating, glowing jazz
In the midst of Amtrak chaos
Suddenly, vibrant beauty
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My father could recite whole works of Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling… but oy, when he sang…
REALLY, REALLY BAD SINGER
Dad sang off key
Really off key. Tragically, even.
He dwelt among women who were
descended from sirens
A wife and three daughters
gifted by God with a keen sense of pitch
and an irrepressible desire to sing
Pop couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket
but he sang along anyway
(oblivious to our pinched noses and wincing)
(yeah, we were pretty snobbish, but only where music was concerned)
He also snapped his fingers out of time
as if completely unaware that rhythm had meaning
“You sing like Dad” was a grave insult
tantamount to an accusation of
letting loose a juicy fart in the car
or getting caught picking your nose
But when Dad sang, he did light up
While we suffered for art, mercifully critiquing each other
never satisfied with the result
Dad would burst into “Mule Train” with gusto
or grin as he stumbled through “Ghost Riders in the Sky”
He never knew he couldn’t sing
He just did it anyway
He didn’t care if anybody liked it or not
A life lesson in Q Flat
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We were challenged at Sunday Scribblings to write about swapping lives with someone. I thought about my childhood hero… and what happened along the way! Key of E-flat, if you please…
Barbra Streisand, Only Protestant
I knew I wanted to be
just like Barbara Streisand
when I was six, watching TV
Her voice, her style, her smile, and
her larger-than-life persona
completely captured me
I declare to Mom, “I’m gonna
sing like that, you wait and see”
To grow a Cleopatra nose
a neo-classic profile
To sing in high-class Broadway shows
with quirky, campy style
As Barbra aged, my interest waned
Her voice too perfect, shrill
Her long nails screamed “I’m awfully vain”
I lost the Barbra thrill
We girls have our heroes, true
And mine was quite outrageous
But I became a writer, too
Accessible, contagious
No beefy bodyguards on call
No need to lock my door
Without that fame, I’ve found my all
and still have work in store
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 