Artwork by Amy Barlow © 2015
#cross
#cross
#golgotha
#crucifixion
#deathpenalty
#executionbystate
#sacrifice
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
In memory of Mama, who died 23 years ago today during Lent. Also, for ABC Wednesday: Love, Lent, Loss. Peace, Amy
Summertime 60s
Back in the 60s
Not the Beatles 60s and
before Carnaby Street
and Twiggy and Verushka
The Roger Miller 60s
Peter, Paul, and Mary
Nat “King” Cole
Peggy Lee still made the charts
Radio was on all day
Mom was calmer then
Her heroes had not
been gunned down yet
“Trailer for sale or rent”
Most songs, we’d sing along
Drinking coffee and
listening for the mailman
“Is that all there is?”
Yep. And it was enough
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
dverse Poets asked for the theme about each poet’s hisTORY. I poked along on this one and missed the chance to link this poem there, but do visit dverse and read some amazing poets!
Sure, there were difficult aspects to my childhood. Many of you can relate to parts of THAT story. But this felt right for the prompt, and it’s good sometimes to accentuate the positive. Peace, Amy
From Whence, and Why
(My Poetic Manifesto… because Gay asked for it!)
I write to give voice
to those without a choice
The homeless, incest survivors
Deep-water depression divers
I’ve been, at one time, all of these
I claim it, no third-person tease
Stated as fact, no truth untold
Some wish that I wouldn’t be quite so bold
Raised to speak raw truth to power
Toe to toe with guys who tower
far over my little Irish ass
(Pardon me, but I can be crass)
Give me paper, a sharp li’l pencil
and life’s underbelly I will stencil
Most people in sight of my spigots:
Racist, homophobic bigots
I’m not important, not myself
My poetry rarely graces a shelf
I drop truth bomb after drone
My words, the only weapon I own
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Poets Pub, our host Gay Reiser Cannon asked for “Manifestos.” Reasons why we write, our impulses and drives, where it all first came from. I dedicate this piece to my late mother and my grandmother Blanche. The maternal side of my family, shanty Irish, were always mindful of those who had less, whether people of color, LGBT folks, victims of war (especially troops who died and their families)… perhaps because they themselves had been in a position of being homeless and next to starving during the Depression of the 30s.
They also thought Ayn Rand was full of shit. We ARE our brother’s – and sister’s – keepers, and if you deny that, you supply the world with ZILCH. Hence my manifesto. Peace, Amy
KELLY LUNES
Sad Girl
She lives in the past
Hindsight rules
Her head in the ‘coulds’
Tender Tummy
Gable scarfed cat food
in seconds
Wait, here comes… feed-back
Mornings With Mom
Gin bottles rinsed out
Coffee’s on
Time to wake her up
Tentative taps on
her closed door
Muffled confusion
Soon she will emerge
eyes squinting
hands, shaking and cold
Wrap them ‘round the mug
Warmth stops shakes
Caffeine soothes her pain
All Lunes © 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three-quarters of the way through April’s Poem a Day for National Poetry Writing Month! Today, Grace (AKA Heaven) of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked for “lunes.” I chose the Kelly Lune form, an American haiku form based on syllables (one line of five, one line of three, last line of five; in a single stanza or multiples of same). The Collum Lune is based on number of words: Three, Five, Three; however, that form is for another day!
Thanks, Grace, for another lovely prompt from the Garden. Peace, Amy
Moving Day, circa 1933
I was entranced by my mother’s stories – all about the dilemmas of the 30s, the Great Depression. Never reluctant was she to retell the travails of Little Charlotte On The Ice Floes:
Come the end of the month, Mom would murmur about rent money. Dad answered by mapping out the next dwelling. Late that night, my senses on high alert for footsteps in the stairwell, I was once again loaded by like a burro: Mom’s shedding fox pelt over all the clothes I could manage to put on. Frying pan in one hand, big can of lard in the other, more cans stuffed under my arms, and a colander for a hat.
Our family would disappear monthly into the dense fog or deep snow or sweltering summer Iowa night, carrying our weary, cumbersome life like a sad caravan. The stray mongrel, Tilly, toddled behind, tail between her legs – even she reflected the shame of poverty.
Dad would eventually stop our mule train to light a Lucky, smoke tailing skyward, ashes flicked onto the cement. He’d whistle. Mom would sigh. My big brother, Tommy, never complained about handling three satchels, as long as his beloved sax could be strapped to his back.
I’d struggle to keep up, a three-foot Five and Dime housewares department wrapped in cheap fur. So to answer your question, Amer…
…that’s why I never had a doll. Who would’ve carried the frypan?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil, photo by the inimitable Dorothea Lange
For The Sunday Whirl: Cement, Cumberson, Answer, Reluctant, Murmur, Senses, Dense, Pelt, Smoke, Map, Entranced, Stray
Also at Poetic Asides, for the Poetry Pantry.
I usually don’t revisit the same subject so soon, but Poetic Bloomings had a prompt with such specifics (a great-grandfather, a pocketwatch, a camera, getting film developed) to one I just wrote about my Great-grandpa Dunn that I though he deserved a special remembrance. I’m looking at the portrait as I write this… Mom looks so little, like a puppy standing next to Gary Cooper. So thanks, Marie Elena and Walt, for reading my mind! Peace, Amy
Portrait of Great-grandpa and Mom
Mom told me her Grandpa
died on the tracks
The storied train conductor
lay down to relax
and died as he’d lived
in his suit so fine
Forty-some years working
the Rock Island Line
They found him, right hand flung out
They opened his palm
His prized pocket-watch was
still perfect as a Psalm
They went to the shack
built around his prize
A massive telescope;
Mars seen with his own eyes
and papers lined in ink
detailed her Grandpa’s plan
that someday on the moon
a spaceship we would land
Mom spied a camera
sitting on a shelf
slipped it her in pocket;
this, she’d do herself
Three pictures on that film
One of his cherished Scope
One, her grandma making
homemade lavender soap
The last, my mom and grandpa
Great-grandfather Dunn
In full conductor-timepiece suit…
to his long leg she clung
That picture, now in sepia
hangs upon my wall
A testament to dreamers
no matter how they fall
In death, he chose his exit
In life, he held such hope
Great-grandma washed his broken body
in homemade lavender soap
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Silken Softness
My mom, Charlotte,
grew up in Iowa.
Council Bluffs, to be exact.
Recession, then Depression
brought the town to its knees,
at least until corn season.
Mom said Grandma Blanche
could make anything
from corn in a skillet:
Corn cakes, corn pone,
corn bread, but the best was
corn alone.
In the field, the poor were
allowed to glean from
Old Man Jones’ field.
Yanking from stalks,
home to shuck the ears.
Corn silk was, for Charlotte,
a miracle, a treasure. She said,
“I hope someday my wedding dress
will be as soft as this corn silk.”
Blanche marveled at
how her girl could always
make magic from simple things.
It’s a Laughlin tradition,
passed from Blanche to Charlotte,
from Charlotte to lucky me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United, my favorite site, asked for food-inspired, home-grown tales. Can’t get more “down home” than this!
Sharp Little Pencil 