Life is Good When…
Life is good when children smile, their bellies full.
Life is good when girls play rough-and-tumble
after their tea party.
When boys are allowed to cry without ridicule…
Life is good when all folks have a home, however humble,
with food on the table and friends to share it.
When community clinics offer free health care
to those who need it most: addicts, women facing choices
that men don’t think twice about, prenatal care for those
who choose motherhood, help for those who don’t…
Life is good when handguns are melted to forge plows.
When women can wear hijabs and not encounter
disapproving looks from unveiled Anglos.
When Mom can choose to stay home because Dad
makes enough and has Union protections, or when
Mom decides the kids are all in school and can work
at something that exercises her mind and passion…
Life is good when the Christmas tree has more ornaments
on the tree than overpriced Chinese- made toys under it.
When the family gave more to charity than to Wal-Mart…
Life is good when every couple can hold hands and love
their lives together without condemnation from straights.
Life is good when the National Guard is back on US soil
and enlisted troops are all home, receiving VA care and
using their GI benefits to get an education…
We’re waiting for the day when life is good.
Until then, this dream is brought to you by your sponsor,
the Creator, who reminds us all that life is a gift…
use it wisely and with love.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, an alternate take on “Life is Good.” Also at my poetic heart and hearth, Poets United.
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.
Taxed to the Max
After rising on Sunday morning
at the hour of stupid o’clock
to ensure The Pastor gets
to the church on time…
After sifting through music for
two services – one traditional and
sedate, like my childhood church,
the second rowdy and electrified…
After chatting with seniors who
ply me with homemade treats
and holding babies who always
want to play with my glasses…
After worship, when everyone has left,
save the pastor and spouse, I’m
perched by the back door as he
fumbles for keys and outens lights…
After trading our holy attire for
holey jeans and brewing tea, we
collapse on the couch, spent as
post-coital lovers, limp as lox.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday’s Poetic Bloomings, with thanks to Marie and Walt for an interesting prompt. Also at my poetic lifeline, Poets United.
Artistic
(For Riley)
She was a quiet, hidden way about her.
She may seem strident to some
but her shell protects her from
the piercing lens of the world.
Girl. Canvas. In the perfect light of a
beachside studio, her energy
is reignited. Perhaps warm, salty
air emits creative power.
She pitches in: Cerulean and Sand,
Viridian, a hint of Ivory, a
swish of vivid Magenta, a few
Ebony-dappled accents. No one can
imagine the sublime delirium,
this torrid tango of perfect partners.
Part duel, part puzzling rendezvous.
Her brow furrowing into a pleat
as she is lost in the swirl of brushstrokes.
She’s found a new way to express
what she feels, her profound nature.
Longing becomes art.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl and my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
The Wordle included: Reignite, emit, delirium, air, piercing, swish, dappled, pleat, seem, strident, pitch, shell.
O, Men!
O, singers of songs
O, strummers of strings
O, penniless artists
O, bearers of rings
O, givers of gifts
O, takers of souls
O, promising poets
in watering holes
O, hot high school boys
we pined for in lunchlines
O, struggling comics
who later were punchlines
O, lovers of mirrors
O, football fanatics
O, sexy-ass hippies
O, hunky mechanics
O, what would we do
without mem’ries of men
as we nestle in Now
…remembering When
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Scribblings prompt, Omen, with certain liberties taken!
Also at my poetic Magnetic North, Poets United.
Pastor Hellevangelist
Sunday morning funnies aren’t in
the newspaper but on
TV, toupeed and pancaked
Those televangelists put on
quite a show, preachin’ ‘bout
all the horrible sins they know
will send YOU straight to Hell
Then the preacher’s healings they show
Miss “Mah sinuses ache” WHAM!
The Holy Spirit is there in his hand
She’s on the floor, flailing, flattened
Now he’s singin’ solo with the band
Amazing, grace has graced this man
with abundance straight from God:
Mansion, limo, trophy wife
Teleparishioners are awed
and send him money to keep up
his cathedral lifestyle
A few bucks to Darfur, but most
keeps up his shiny white smile
He’s quick on the drawl, sending
other folks all to Hell
‘til he’s caught with this mistress
at the local No-Tell Motel
or taking young boys under his wing
and under the covers
under cover of righteousness
Then his wife discovers
So Sunday, tune in, turn on to
the big show: The Satanic versus
the squeaky-clean teleGod man
He knows all the curses
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter P. Also at my cornerstone, Poets United.
Skin Like a Cloak
“The truth is,” said the professor,
“we wear our skin, each one of us,
like a cloak. Some feel fervently
that the color of the cover matters
greatly; others see only history.
“The residue of the bad old days,
‘black’ and ‘white.’ Vessels swept
into the harbor, offloading human
cargo. For these battered souls,
no breeze could refresh their sad
brokenness. Scores of years later,
for the Confederate flagged and
South Will Rise Againers, these stories
are muted, revised, considered
best stored in a trunk, hidden away.
“But we,” she continued, “can get to
the heart of injustice by unlocking
that attic door, dusting off the trunk,
prying loose its locks, and delving into
its heart of shame, of inhuman cruelty.
“Whites start by remembering.”
“By humbling ourselves to the truth.”
“By understanding the depths to which
‘entitled’ Anglos can sink when led by
minds filled with ignorance, greed, and
cruelty.”
“Only by recognizing the signs of such
wretchedness taking root in the American
mainstream and fighting it… only then
can we ensure it won’t happen again.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for dverse Poets’ Pub and posted to my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
I’m one of the 99%. So are all of you. And I’m sickened by the greed and lack of humanity so prevalent among the super-rich, as well as the toadying attitude of their sycophants, the Tea Party (bought and paid for by the Heritage Foundation). Imagine the scene: a Kardashian clone, dressed to the nines, blinged to the booty, surrounded by security guards, making a “guest appearance” at Occupy Madison…
The Ballad of the One-Percenter
I’m rich and white – I’m on the Right, don’t have to fight
to get what I got, it’s inherited wealth
My portfolio’s in very good health –
My daddy made a fortune back in World War Two
Making planes for Hitler, and his goose-step crew
Hitler ran out of money, so my Grandpa went
to Roosevelt, said, you need ammo sent
to fight the Fuehrer in the British Isles?
Signed the contract, double dealin, all smiles
Racked up the dough while the doughboys went
My daddy didn’t fight, cuz Gramps wrote a check
to his Senator, so Daddy’s fitness was sus-pect…
They sat out the war counting up our money
Daddy never had to work, but he’s got plenty, and
I’m a rich bitch I got more than I need
From insider trading, that’s the trough I feed from…
When I need some…
I pick up the phone and dial Lehman Brothers
Wait – they fizzled, hell, my brother’s in the
energy biz, no sustainable use
no wind or solar, just dinosaur juice
My family’s hydrofracking anywhere we can
You own the land, we-own-the mineral rights
Don’t try to ban us – you’ll lose the fight
We’re making quakes with industrial might
Forget the war on drugs, you bet
We-got-some meth for you that you’ll never forget
Got your lighters ready? Turn the faucet on
FLASH! goes your tap water, gone gone gone
While you suckers stuck in the Ninety Nine
Make little tent houses, and sit and whine
We’re pullin it all out from under you,
sure as thunder, you can’t stop us, can’t topple us
Can’t get the drop on the steamrolling gop
That’s G-O-P and the Tea party too
You’d think that they’d be here with you
But our Koch Brothers made the Tea Party a joke
Ninety-niners, your rights gone up in smoke
Supreme Court has been bought and sold
with cold hard partying in gold’s stronghold
They come palms open and they drink the Kool-Aid
Then back to Washington, so we’ve got it made
We’re the super-rich, who itch for more scratch for another batch
of corruption – no interruption
of our consumption or their presumption
We got gumption – you’re all lazy bums
Bleeding us dry while you’re sucking your thumbs
Why can’t you face the fact – don’t attack the rich
the deck is stacked – the House holds the cards
and the Senate’s in our back pocket,…
rocketing to their next election, no selection, just a cash erection
Your drums can’t drown out my big-ass TV
in my fenced-in compound with security
They’ll Taser your ass if you don’t look like me
So stand your ground downtown but remember:
Another Oakland’s coming, maybe this December
So give it up, don’t try to stop progress,
Congress gonna press till we mine every field in Wisconsin…
Scott Walker pulling out his great big Johnson and
trickling down on the 99, sleeps like a baby, yeah he feels fine
We gave him power to Occupy the Dome
You can’t recall him and he won’t go home cause
He’s got the green, you know what I mean, he’s serene. He’s the Man.
He made a stand for all of us One Percenters,
no renters, no tenters, just the
sweet elite in the catbird seat
Obama can’t fight the gall of Wall Street
And Avenue K will lobby every day to have your camp demolished and the streets all polished of you
All of your crew, who think the
First Amendment was made for your kind
Constitution’s in the shredder, man, are you blind?
The Supreme Court’s mind is clear… the time is here,
Corporations are people and you, the sheep’ll go along with that…
eventually, once it sinks in you can’t flee the domination the determination – the big sensation
of the Corporate Voice Box, make some noise, FOX, it’s such a Rush to have them-on-our side.
And by their rules you will abide.
So pack it up and get on back to your shack
Or stop by McDonald’s for another Big Mac and a giant coke,
don’t choke on the lie ‘cause if you don’t have insurance, you’re gonna die.
If you don’t have a home, we won’t help you out.
Your kid’s school is lame?
Don’t blame us, we bus our kids to private schools.
We’ve got control, and we make the rules, you’re fools if you think otherwise.
Time flies!
I’ve got to primp for the party or they’ll eat all the shrimp, and my pimp the Guv, he’s waiting above in his ivory tower that’s powered by taxes. Your taxes. I-don’t-pay taxes. That’s what the facts is.
So sit by your bonfire, sing your songs, but don’t forget – it won’t be long before we take over like we’re meant to do and all of you’d better realize you’re screwed… dude.
Ta-ta, I have to go touch up my lashes. Have
fun with your unwashed hippie bashes.
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Weirdos In Living Color
Pondering life, parsing a Wordle
at my local locally owned café
Out the window, saw a weirdo
Headed over Starbucks way
Reet suit, silk tie, plus a gadget
dangled on his ear, he talked to it
Rhythm on the street was financial
I could tell – he walked to it
People in hats lug large boxes
with handles they clutch tight as breath
Talking so fast ‘bout Wall Street, K Street
Talking fast as a dealer on Meth
Where’re they going? What’s the rush?
Why is Rush a god and God replaced
by Sunday crosswords, fancy brunch
What’s the point of all their haste?
I’m content with three hots and a cot
Better still, a rabbit-eared TV
Come watch parades of Armani lemmings
dive off a cliff so willingly
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, “Life’s a Little Weird.” Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 