The Art of the Quilter
(Dedicated to the Waterford Quilters Guild of Loudon County, VA)
She shoulders a bolt of muslin.
So much to be gathered!
Picking through the fabric store scrap bin,
frets while seeking a landscape…
Shallow buttercream border,
bursts of color will drop into place.
Her mind dancing with images, blends,
patterns, plotting her design.
The group assembles for another quilting bee,
one of the longest-running circles in the country.
Someone topples a lamp and is
laughingly forgiven, since she brought goodies.
As with hula hoops and wedding bands,
this circle will never be broken:
The dedicated members of the
Waterford Quilters Guild, Virginia.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Possessing a gift for words and music but none for needlework, I am forever in awe of the quilts my sister has made for me and for others over the years. Every stitch is done by hand; a labor of love. To see some of the fabulous quilts created by the members of one of the longest-running quilting circles in America, visit this link: http://waterfordquiltersguild.org/Gallery.html
This was done for Brenda’s Sunday Whirl: The words to be used were: shoulder, gathered, causes, broken, shallow, drop, topples, dancing, bolt, burst, fret, hoops, forgive.
Poetic Bloomings, scene of my scandalously honest interview with the ever-gracious Marie Elena last week, asked for poems on the theme, “The harvest I reap.” Enjoy, and peace to all, Amy
SEEDS
Years upon years
of mistakes and teary-eyed
talks over black coffee or
beer from the bottle,
swearing the air blue.
Dancing at Fiesta…
I don’t really dance
but if I smile and
show a little leg, todo esta bien.
Staring blankly out the window
in a small town
rain punishing my petunias
(parched, anyway),
wondering if the library
has any books I haven’t read yet.
Watching the baby emerge
from within Massive Me;
everyone is crying. She
latches on. I call her Little Bee.
Seeing Carnegie Hall for the first time…
from the stage at sound check.
Teaching fellow Psych Ward inmates
how to practice yoga
instead of watching
the big-ass TV all day.
All these memories are stored
in a quiet room within.
Open the door, grab a random handful.
Toss onto the fertile loam and see them sprout.
I gather the ripest fruits and
squeeze ink from their juices.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
All of us who know Joseph Harker and read his work are impressed. Floored. Gobsmacked. Delighted. Pick a positive adjective and it fits, including “horny”! His pen name fascinates me; I believe “Harker” must come from Mary Shelley, which pleases me no end. I love her work. Much of Joseph’s work could translate into other times, and so my poem reflects how I imagine him, having never seen him.
I had promised J. a poem for his birthday BUT then that manhole cover was put on top of my head and gravity, oy, gravity… in other words, depression set in and I was unable to write. I wrote this BEFORE the depression. THAT’S how depressed I was; I didn’t even post it.
This form might be a snowball or an etheree, except I believe those are based on syllables, not words. So this may be an Amyball or an etherbarlow, I’m not sure. (Viv will tell me!) So, without further adieu, may I present the inimitable…
Joseph Harker (belated birthday present)
Joseph
Mister Harker
No other wordsmith
can cast his spell
Weaving phrases like spun glass
Each syllable carefully and lovingly considered
Attention to form, his style, so graceful
It takes a kind heart to create art
I can see him, slouched at his rolltop desk
Quill, inkwell, and parchment in place; he conjures a sonnet
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Also on my poetic hearthstone, Poets United)
To all my dear friends,
For the past several days I have been fighting an almost crippling depression. My doctor has adjusted my meds, and my therapist calls to check in on me – a wonderful person. Most of all, Lex is a patient source of never-ending support and strength, even as he handles the day-to-day of a whole church (but then, he has a rocking staff).
So please forgive my lack of catching up with comments – I WILL get to them… and I am in a place where writing is useless, but I keep trying. Lots of balls of paper by my writing space. Please keep me in prayer, thoughts, and meditations (medications?!) as I fight my way back to the surface. I’ll be my snarky, ironic, silly self soon, with God’s grace.
Thanks for understanding, and forgive my little “pity party” post. Ironic, I just did the NAMI Walk, and then fell down the rabbit hole. Peace, Amy
The Knowing*
Extracting mem’ries
with ice picks, frozen in time…
Then, there’s the knowing
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, Letter “K”
Also at the cozy poetic nook, Poets United!
*Redacted: SPECIAL THANKS TO VIV FOR CORRECTING MY HAIKU FORM IN THE FINAL LINE! I mean it when I say “criticism is welcome,” because if I had submitted this to a haiku publication, they’d have a good laugh over my 6-syllable former ending! Amy
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
Sharp Little Pencil 