Broken Angel
(based on “Angel,” my poem for Poetic Bloomings)
Back then
Back when Christmas was fun
And it was Santa’s birthday again
We had a tree
Same one every year,
Balsam fir, short needles,
dressed in pure red
A huge Mrs. Claus,
a “mama tree”
Cherry lights strung to perfection
Middle sis righting every
incorrectly placed bulb ‘til it was
PERRRRRfect
Then the satinsheen red ornaments
(a hand-me-down from Aunt Pris,
the holiday window dresser at Fowler’s)
So fragile, handled like dynamite
lest one explode, one wrong move
revealing shards of thin glossy insides
We had no angel atop our tree, though
we three made many in Sunday school
and in every single grade –
back when Christmas was not a whisper
but a SHOUT ON COMMAND: HE IS BORN!
and to hell with the handful of Jews in the hallways
(some wishing they had trees and stockings too)
But angels? Our folks’d have to pick
one of our three… they’d have no trinity
And white would spoil the symmetry
Our angel, last year’s broken one
when a single slip lopped the top off
Stuck on top of the tree, inverted
Blood rushing to its head
crowned by needly thorns
“Lllight it up, plllug it in, Bud!
Girllls, outen the llllights!” slurred Mom
And there it stood
flooding the living room with
every gimmering shade of red
From the street, our tree was
a blazing hearth streaming
light onto snow that glowed
vaguely pink in its wake
“Oh, look,” said a neighbor
as folks strolled admiring
one another’s holiday handiwork,
“The Red Light District,
the Barlows’ cat house is once again
open for business!”
* * * * * * * * * *
That bulb on top
the bloodied, upside-down talisAngel of
all the other 360-some days of the year
Behind perfect suburban clapboard exterior
the heartbeat of interior fear
of inferiority comples flexing
my first scrawny girlish muscles that were
destined to beat up only myself
We’ve grown
Our kids’ angels, our new objects d’nativite
With grown-up arms, we
beat back the Barlow Bordello curse
But Christmas is still sad for me
Those shimmering red bulbs
Cherry ambulance lights on rescue that never came
A cry for help but
Dad’s hand was clamped over my mouth
A broken angel.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This experience is based solely on my own experience and should not reflect on my siblings in any way other than before the asterisks (but middle sis WAS very meticulous about lighting, and I know she’d admit that, ha ha).
I wrote “Angel,” the part up to the “snowflake” asterisks, for Poetic Bloomings (childhood memories), but Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem about a Talisman, and this version goes deeper into the meaning of that ‘little red angel’ on our tree. Also for dverse Poets Open Mic on Tuesday, and as always, stuck in the stocking at Poets United, my “every day is a holiday” safe space. Peace, Amy
Going the Distance:
“Who Do You Think You Are, Amy Barlow Liberatore?”
Let’s hear what everybody else says first:
“You were born 40 and you’re working your way backwards,”
said my mom, when I was 7
“Charmful little armful,”
said my musical mentor
“She can SANG!”
said our African-American piano player
“Get that bitch off the podium!”
snarled the Buffalo cop at a peace rally
“Please don’t say that about your dad,”
cried my mom, when I was 35
“You’re not a dyke, why should you care?”
asked a Fundie at a PRIDE rally (when I challenged their ‘God Hates Fags’ sign)
“Good thing you can sing. Your dancing sucks,”
joked my friend at a big band concert
“You’re not a victim; you’re a survivor,”
said my therapist
“You wear manic depression well,”
grinned my psychiatrist
“You have the soul of a dinosaur,”
said the oracle Sidnie
“Don’t hold back, tell us how you really feel,”
say bloggers (with a wink)
“PLAY ‘FEEEEELINGS’!!”
slobbered countless drunks at my piano bar
“You’re just a gay man trapped in a straight woman’s body,”
said Jeffery, may he rest in peace
“You’re going to hell for encouraging those homosexuals,”
say… too many people to mention
“If you’re going to hell, it’s gonna be in a FABulous handbasket,”
giggled Jason
“Thanks for the lessons,”
said my BFF (and only he will understand that comment)
“I have no dramatic coming-out story because you were so accepting,”
laughed Riley
“She’s a pain in the ass,”
said the FBI agent, flipping through my file
“Take it off! Take it off!”
cried Christopher after I sang a comedic song about stripper envy
“Because she questions my authority,”
said the principal to my mother, as I sat in detention
“You are SO worth it,”
says my husband, over and over again
My life is chaotic peace.
I’m a sharp little pencil, still writing my life.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings (“Who Do You Think You Are?”), for Sunday Scribblings (distance), and for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.
Broken Record
Once I prayed for a lover who would
treasure me, pleasure me, measure me by
no other standard but my own.
Together on the porch swing,
humming that Simon & Garfunkel tune
(and what a time it was, it was…)
Me, the deer who steered clear
of headlights, and he, my
melancholy golden boy.
Long sweetsweat hours of
erotic coupling, rolling, gripping,
souls afire, blinding, shining oneness.
Picture him as he stays to graze,
then strays to the next aster-speckled
pasture, scent of honey drawing him away.
Betrayal, best rendered in coal black,
ebony spray to cover the mirror and the
rosy glasses though which a love
was seen blooming in pale, fragile hues
of pink and yellow, delicate colors
of columbine swaying in our meadow.
Uproot it all now, fling it into the coals
of after the afterglow. Let lost love
crackle until only powdered ash remains.
Once I prayed for a lover who would
treasure me. Golden was he indeed,
and golden still, shining out of my reach.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Triple prompt: Sunday Scribblings asked for Treasure, while Poetic Bloomings wanted Betrayal. Those two concepts seem like star-crossed lovers at times. Then the Sunday Whirl gave me inspiring words: Swing, Gold, Melancholy, Rosy, Pray, Spray, Powders, Glasses, Erotic, Pale, Fling, Strays, and Cover. Also posted at my poetic meadow, Poets United. Also for dverse Open Mic Night!
Well, I’m not one for bragging (and if I am, will someone please let me know so I can stuff some humble pie in my face), but Polly Robinson of Polly: Writings and Witterings posed what may be her first prompt, and I could not resist. After posting, I found out it was one of three favorites! To see her comments, and other winners as well, please see: THIS POST. And now let’s get down to some poeting. Poemizing. Poemization. Er, writing poetry:
Remember Passion
Passion – all-consuming,
glorious blaze of every
sense alive and alight,
every synapse snapping,
a fire for
the belly
the brain
the heart
the hearth that hums beneath
her sheath and his jeans
Passion burns benevolently
for a time, somewhat contained
(but if the team mascot loves the
place-kicker, they head for a
fireproof locker, kissing in shadows
of the homecoming bonfire)
The fire can consume lovers.
The burn doesn’t always hurt.
Passion will wane, but
the reflection will remain
in the rearview mirror of their minds,
glowing on lonely nights,
a long-gone ember of…
Remember?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, a poem about fire, burning passion… and all that follows. Also at my poetic bonfire, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
The Last Time I Danced
Grocery store run
Jeans with a big raggy hole
where my knee protrudes
Tan sneaks with pink shoelaces
(no big panama with a purple hat band…
but then, that’s a long time ago)
Chugging along with a cart full of
healthy foods for our responsible diet
and in consideration that we are both
in our 50s now and then
over the intercom
“Dancin’ in the Street”
Martha and the Vandellas,
none of that Mick and whosis crap
Another woman looks at me from
the cereal section and then we both
lay excited eyes on a dude in
Harley jacket and old boots
trolling the Gatorade
Who’s on first?
As if you have to ask
I take the lead line, inciting the riot
The three of us break into song
and dance like the freaks we were
like the freaks we still are
with every ounce of hippie left in us
She’s showin her tat of Marley on her
left arm, he’s swappin a picture of Jesus
on the back of his neck and me, I got no marks
but smile lines chiseled on my cheeks
We’re reeling in total abandon and
oblivious to the folks at either end of the aisle
Even the vegetable guy left his post
And at the fadeout, we’re fading out too
back to our carts as though nothing happened
The other shoppers burst into applause
and we all run back together in the
middle of the aisle to take a bow and
hug each other like there’s no tomorrow
Haven’t seen them again
Perhaps we were all each other’s angels
if only for that moment
Reminders that you can always let that
freak flag fly high enough to glide
as long as you keep enough freak inside
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, who called for Carefree Hours, or the last time you did something out of pure delight. This is delight, rebellion, and a three-person unplanned flash mob all in one package! Also for “Strange Bedfellows” at Sunday Scribblings and “Walk of Life” at Poetic Bloomings. I don’t walk; I dance, and as for strange bedfellows, I thought it would be nice to have them be total strangers with something in common but NO business dancing in the middle of the grocery store!! Peace, Amy
Garden of Weeds
It can start with anything
A feather caught in a curling freefall
That cardinal pecking at my window
The random assemblage of spices
jumbled on the shelf – one tumbles me
awake, ablaze with cardamom coincidence
Mom’s spirit sharing coffee with me
telling stories from where she now resides
in heaven, and thisclose
Even bad memories stir me
dredge, sift, filtering through
my bones, seeping to the nerves
A prophet once told me that
love is everywhere
So is truth
So is pain
So is amazement
So is amusement
So is romance
So is anger…
despair …
relief
So it’s time
to reach for my journal
and sprout another plant
for my garden of weeds
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, better late than never! Marie and Walt called for poems about SEEDS… seeds to plant, to nurture; seeds of poetry and other art… the beginning little “oomph” that pushes one to action.
Photo from Vishwasaha on WordPress. The PROPHET is named Marques Bovre, who also composed a lovely song called “Dandelion.” He’s been through cancer threatment and half the known world is praying for him. He’s on the upswing, but add him to YOUR list if you’re the praying type. Peace, Amy
Longing Becomes Art (also for Riley)
Longing becomes art.
Art becomes enjoyment.
Enjoyment becomes shows.
Shows become employment.
Employment because aaaargh!
Aaaargh becomes strain.
Strain becomes I Need A Vacation
For My Addled Brain.
Brain senses loss.
Loss becomes lack.
Lack of inspiration.
Inspiration slack.
Slacking, she wonders,
where did it start?
Time gives her longing.
Longing becomes art.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Bloomings asked us to take the last line from one of our old poems and use it as a springboard for a new work. The first line is from “Artistic,” about my daughter, Riley. The final line was, “Longing becomes art.” To see the original poem, head to this link, https://sharplittlepencil.com/2011/11/10/artistic-for-riley/
Day Four of National Poetry Month’s “Poem a Day.” Feeling my oats, thanks to Poetic Blooms (see below for process notes and sites). Peace, Amy
MRS. CLEAN WIPES THE SLATE
Woe to you, lobbyist and profiteer
Avenue K will be set on its ear
Begone, day traders sipping hot
MochaccinoSkinnyNoWhipLattes,
as your fingers scurry over the laptop keyboard,
some letters and most numbers worn off,
scars of fiscal battle
Gird your loins, o members of Congress,
for your days of feasting shall draw to a close
as I focus my wrath on your graft
Whosoever can be bought will be for naught
Sweeping streets and slaving in call centers
(for a living wage, of course)
The payola shall be purged
Elections no longer auctioned to the highest bidder
(or Brother), nor Diebold election machines
glean false numbers from pro-Machine hackers
Even the Supremes will feel my ire for
conspiring to convince us corporations possess
ears, eyes, tongues… and souls
For I, Mrs. Clean, now hold the power:
Contained in the Golden Rule,
affirmed by the Great Commandment of Love
I am trusted by even the crustiest atheist
(because I’ll drink coffee and shoot the shit
with people of every belief or non-belief)
Mrs. Clean will change the scene and proclaim
the mighty truth: Democrats and Republicans
stink of graft equally, and in good measure
President Obama should bring our troops home NOW
And when that is set right, the real work begins:
Mitt Romney will wash windows at women’s clinics
Newt Gingrich will scrub toilets in public restrooms
Hillary Clinton will bake free cookies on 12-hour shifts without
breaks, just like Chinese children work on her watch
Ron Paul will oversee Area 51 but make no more money
than the baristas at the low-cost local cafes
Rush Limbaugh will be bombasting “Would you
like fries with that?” in a little paper hat
Michelle Bachmann will be sent back to middle school
to learn history and how to recognize gay boyfriends
And Sarah Palin? Field-dress THIS
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings – a second take on their prompt, Superheros, which I had answered earlier with “Reflector Babe.” Also at my site of sites, Poets United and that dynamite poets’ cafe, dverse.
Whoa, babe, first day of PAD (Poem a Day, all April), and it’s a trifecta! Process notes below, but first, the poem.
REFLECTOR BABE
If I could have one power
it probably would be
a magic mirror carried
all over town with me.
If someone shouted, “N*****!”
I’d take it from my purse
to hold it up before them
and then they’d want to curse;
for they would see a black face,
they’d stare quite quizzically.
And then I’d asked them plainly,
“Do you see what I see?”
Or bullies shoving gay kids
into the garbage bin.
My mirror’d show them how they’d look
once they had been tossed in.
The rich would see the homeless,
the cheaters, a square dealer.
Oh, with my mirror, I might have
the powers of a healer.
For even if they didn’t change,
perhaps they’d take some time
reflecting on their ways, o Lord!
Would that not be sublime?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings (reflect), Poetic Bloomings (super hero), and Poets United’s Poetry Pantry. I thought about the prompt “reflect” and, rather than render another reflection about politics, child abuse, depression, or whatever the heck was on my mind, I’d use the mirror image. Then Blooms wanted poems about super heros, and since I had already posted “Volume Control Grrrl” (with a flick of my wrist, I could render booming car stereos mute, as well as people loudly discussing their gall bladder operations while I’m trying to eat at the next table), I thought this would be more in keeping with my values. And Poetry Pantry? Hell, I post EVERYTHING at Poets United, because they are my Gang of Many Wonderful People! Peace, Amy
Special thanks for Walt at Poetic Bloomings for choosing my recent poem, Thing 205, as his “beautiful bloom” of the week. I was sincerely flattered and honored. Here’s another for the Bloomers and the Scribblers as well!
Honest Thy Ploughs
Honest thy ploughs 
for the coming of Spring
That fields mayst be planted
their bounty to bring
Honest thy wits for
the work to be done
From fertile ground’s goodness
thy foodstuffs be won
Honest thy soul for
the days yet ahead
For labours be grateful,
no prayer left unsaid
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil (Photo courtesy of http://www.okgenweb.org)
Dedicated to independent organic farms and the farmers who strive to stay small and grow healthy food, while Monsanto, et al., seek to buy them out, blanket fields with chemicals, and cram Frankenfoods down our throats.
For Sunday Scribblings (honest – a bit of poetic license, arcane use of the imperative verb form for “hone”) and for Poetic Bloomings (poems about Spring).
Sharp Little Pencil 