BOYCOTT Monsanto (especially RoundUp)
Honeybees have my heart
They toil and twirl
Gather and gossip
Buzz and build
Hive and jive
Dandelions earn my smile
They play and paint
Persevere and pop
Sway and spread
Grow and blow
(..seeds on neighbors’
lawns and then man,
are you in trouble
because EVERYone
wants a super double
pristine green lawn)
Dandelions and
honeybees are
best friends! The
flower provides a bit
of power to the
insect in early Spring
when (if one were to
inspect one’s garden)
there are no other
blooms to help
the bees boom.
Don’t RoundUp!
Spare the dandelion.
Don’t buy Monsanto!
They spray craven
substances that can
blow like snow over
fences into defenseless
organic farms.
You like life on this planet?
You can’t do it without bees.
You CAN do it without Monsanto.
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, freely shared by photographer. View original and license HERE.
For a song by my late friend Marques Bovre about Dandelions, click the player. Hope it works!
I didn’t know until recently that the lovely yellows popping up so early in spring are also practically the only source of bits of pollen for the honeybee, helping it to survive until the pollen-rich flowers bloom. That goes for bees cultivated by keepers as well as wild honeybees.
Without honeybees, OUR species would all be gone within weeks. THAT is how crucial bees are to our environment. So even if you like green, green grass, hold off cutting the lawn until the first dandelions wilt. And never EVER use anything from Monsanto. The chemical glyphosol, main component in RoundUp, has been found in breast milk!
Let the dandelions’ freak flags fly! Thanks to Poets United for the prompt, BOYCOTT. Man, they have my number, huh? Amy
Thunderstruck
Thrill of ozoned air
freshbursting scent
as one slate cloud
butts heads with another
Firmament’s daring exchange
First chains of switchblade
streaks; thunder strikes
from clouds’ loud clash
In love with customary
pelt of hail I walk
To stop me is to defy
another force of nature
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of Scotto Bear (free media use) at Wikimedia Commons, License detail HERE.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Michael (AKA Grapeling) gave us a list of words. To see that list, along with links to myriad original contributors, please click HERE.
City or country, I have always been fascinated with the random, dangerous, glorious free fireworks of thunderstorms. I know it’s probably stupid to walk down the street in one, but I figure with my various brain spasms, a little lightning wouldn’t hurt. In fact, it might help! Peace, Amy
Back and Forth
Sometimes I lean toward the field
Jovial grasses invite me to abandon the chase
grasp grassy terrain, drink in the scent
of lilac, honeysuckle; witness the
fluid flit of hummingbirds
Yet there is a rough road to pave
Real life
Sturdy construction of countless lives
Lunch-houred, launched, propelled into
the known now and
the uncertain future
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
OK, somehow, I found my way back to the Sunday Whirl, and so glad I found this group of words: Lean, Field, Paving, Terrain, Jovial, Sturdy, Launch, Propel, Countless, Scent, Chase, and Fluid. The list seemed to divvy up the two worlds of my years as a single mother… lollygagging in a field with Riley (not often enough) and chasing the almighty buck so my girl could have endless luxury… such as jeans, T-shirts, and a new lunchbox every fall! Peace, Amy
American Prairie
Wisconsin’s prairie blooms in green
with occasional glimmers of silver grass
shivering in soft breezes and
pierced by deep violet clover
Dead trees, grey and
stalkstill as gravestones,
still force a new branch or two
The root of Jesse sprung anew
They refuse to give in to death
Stubborn as Midwesterners,
tough; hard to break, tenacious
Never say die
As daylight wanes and red sets,
we cruise Route 69
Around every bend,
a simple feast of foraging
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Marian introduced us to the music of Tim Eriksen, a uniquely American folk artist, and asked us to conjure poems that reflect Americana. This morning, I would have been stumped, but as luck would have it, we took a day trip to New Glarus (yeah, our favorite brand of beer is made there, and oh, did we have a bit of fun!) and marveled at the breadth of the prairie grasses. Verdant, vibrant, strumming those heartstrings like Tim’s guitar, here in the breadbasket of America. I am so proud to live in Wisconsin (except for the politics, which we took a day off from monitoring for peace of mind).
Peace, Amy
Slowly, Slowly (an ekphrastic poem: inspired by an image)
image: Blondine and the Tortoise, Virginia Frances Sterrett: Old French Fairy Tale
Slowly, Slowly
Dim, the forest
Hushed is the breeze
Stars sing o’er us
Quiet, the leaves
Travel slowly
on her smooth back
through the midnight
rambling, the track
Dodge all fauna,
trees of the ages
Carry me home
in dreamlike stages
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Kerry O’Connor granted me welcome release from events of the past week by gaving us several works by the same artist, Virginia Frances Sterrett, an American artist who died of tuberculosis at 30. The illustrations, so intricate and dreamy, were the antidote, for a while, anyway, to Boston and its nightmarish week. Who can imagine what this wildly talented woman could have produced, had she been granted a fuller lifetime?
I saw this image of the woman riding the tortoise and was thrown into a dream all my own. Who could see her work and not be entranced? To view more of her sumptuous illustrations, click here. Peace and prayers for the same, Amy
(NOTE: This instrument, called the hang, is pronounced “hong.” Click on the video before you read the poem!)
ZEN MAN
Find him in nature
a shaded nook where
trees whisper stories of
the ancient ones.
Matthew finds a
perfect perch and
carefully lifts his hang,
its song to share.
Nimble, careful,
deliberate fingers seem
carved from soft wood,
burnished brown.
He conjures chords,
soothing harmonies,
unearthly sounds, yet
so natural: Soul songs.
In this moment there is only
Matt, the hang, and strains
of unrestrained bliss;
the gods conjured his gift.
And we, who were
a moment ago merely
bumps on a log are
lifted to a higher place…
Musical, ethereal, reflective, mindful.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Perfect moment for ABC Wednesday to feature the letter “Z.”
Also, Kim Nelson at Poets United (my poetic shady nook) asked for poems about reflection.
My cousin by marriage, Matt Venuti, is a soulful musician. Please visit his site, www.mattvenuti.com, for more videos and information about his art. He also plays the EVI and a variety of other instruments, but the hang has his heart at present.
He is also one of those musicians who didn’t get into it so he could drink and smoke on the job! He’s a gentle soul, utterly sincere, and wildly talented… yet humble. If you’re lucky, you’ll experience him performing live.
Peace from a lucky cousin, Amy
The Sweetest Presence
A gift from her sister, I was
oooohed and aaaahed over
Now I hang on a rusty hook
near the back screen door
Listening to kids running
in, out, in, out, slam, slam
Her husband complains that
I’m in his way, bang
(He is too tall, but
I won’t be the one to say)
I was once a variety
of leftover spoons and forks
Then, refiner’s fire made me
flatware that’s really flat
Now comes a quiet breeze
breathing through me
and the gently moving silverware
makes music to soothe the soul
I may not chime the hour
but I have my own charms
She hears my call and
joins me for a cup of tea
Always remembers her sister
when she listens to me
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My dear friend Sherry Blue Sky turned me on to this prompt. Hannah Gosslein (known to many of us as “Sweet Hannah” offered a prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, to inhabit the spirit of a forest plant or creature. I made a detour and chose something that is affected by nature, the humble wind chime. A friend had some that were indeed forged and flattened forks and spoons, leftovers from an old family set, and it left a definitely impression on me. Thanks, Hannah! Peace, Amy
This is a twofer Wednesday for me. (Woofer Wednesday? Dog days of summer?) Both short poems, each for a different site. Peace to all, Amy
FOR WE WRITE POEMS
Gathering
Birds shelter
Squirrels, helter-skelter
Leaves reveal silver underbellies
Thunder
Hallelujah!
Rain
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We Write Poems requested a poem employed brevity: no more than 12 words. Suffering through a prolonged drought, I’ve prayed constantly for some rain to help our small farmers here in the Midwest. Hooray, it rained twice this past few days… even now, a fresh, ozone-tinged breeze brings the good news to my window. (Viv, I hope your rain is coming my way!)
FOR MAD KANE’S BLOG
Semantics vs. Values
The Right don’t mind sweatshops in China
So what’s the big deal ‘bout “vagina”?
There’s no room for maybes
They cannot make babies
Without women’s penis combinah
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
With all the problems in our country, the Right chose to censor two members of Congress for uttering the word “vagina” in speeches. But they still reserve the supposed right to legislate what I do with mine. Maddening! For Madeleine Begun Kane’s Political Madness, because she loves limericks and is my acknowledge queen of that genre. Do yourself and favor – click on her link and get ready to laugh. Really hard. And maybe be a little outraged! She’s a gem! 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.
The Balancing Act of Life
Hovering before a feeder full of suet,
the hummingbird’s wings beat so fast,,
she appears motionless. Magic.
Nearby, a birdhouse swivels on its chain
in the autumn breeze, abandoned for
the rapidly approaching winter.
The bees are past “Last Call,” so drunk
they’ll sting anything. They dawdle near
the last bloom of a faded coral rose in
a pointless quest for long-gone nectar.
Geese overheard, perfectly aligned,
their kazoo music a comic horn section.
Yet, behold their strength in numbers,
their impeccable, strategic teamwork.
They know travail; they seek only survival.
The eloquent, full-throated conversation of
lark and sparrow, cuckoo and crow
owl and cricket, long since stifled by
the reality of the season. One misses
their conversation over morning coffee
or evening cabernet. Now we watch the mist
mask and reveal, mask and reveal the Moon,
pee-a-boo in the night sky.
We’ll take in the birdfeeders soon, our fingers
deftly cleaning all crevices before storage for Spring.
We will look for the few creatures of the deep freeze:
Deer, gratefully nibbling apples we left on the
low-hanging branches, rabbits scavenging
what they can, squirrels twirling in the trees.
This balancing act of life serves as show and
as life lesson: Hard work and beauty are equals
in Nature. Symmetry. The dance. The point.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl, with thanks to Brenda for the Wordle: Bees, balance, cleaning, coral, point, strength, finger, motionless, eloquent, rapidly, swivel, safety. Also at my poetic home away from home, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 
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