BALLOON GIRL
Inside the grey balloon
on its slippery floor
Empty in here
save the very air, and
it’s not even helium
(damn)
Breathing
someone else’s
exhalations of CO2
Crushing my lungs
Hard to breath
to think
I view life though
this opaque barrier
My hands press
against one side
upsetting my
delicate balance
Gerbil in a wheel
reeling around the room
above the carpet
below the moon
Without a pin to pierce
these pale graphite walls.
So I will sit here
wait for the
half/air to seep out
Then I’ll wriggle
through the knot
to rejoin the living
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United’s Wonder Wednesday, the prompt was simply, “grey.” Depression is my grey, and yet, coming out of it is simply another shade. There are no blacks and whites (save ink and sheets of paper). A grey world is what you make of it. And then there is the burgeoning silver in my hair, AKA “God’s free highlights.” Peace, Amy
Mama Zen at Real Toads asked for a 20-word synopsis of the election results; ABC Wednesday asked for poems about the letter Q. Short and sweet today… very sweet, in fact! Also at my poetic polling place, Poets United.
Quick Recap of Quirky Election
Some clues
to amuse:
No horses, only gardens.
Women keep reproductive freedom.
Neither of the First Couple dye their hair
But there’s still war.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
November Dilemma
Conflicted electorate.
Convictions worn like armor
or on sleeves, bleeding
or, better yet,
whispered in the back rooms
of country clubs and
boo-yahed in skinhead bars: Are you
white enough, is the White House
white enough, is the First Lady
blonde enough for you?
If the robber barons manage
to steal this one, we’ll be
back to Reaganomics and
a president who, like Ronnie,
dyes his hair. Just. That. Vain.
The Trickle-Down Theory
will be the law of this land…
once again, the Free Market
(“as opposed to the slave market,”
joked a RedStateNeck who thought
I wasn’t listening), yes, the
Free Market will reign. And rain.
Trickle-Down Economics.
We know what’s gonna be
trickling down on us; we’ll need
lots of toilet paper to clean up
that mess. Should I buy stock
in Kimberly-Clark? It’s bound
to shoot higher than
Mitt’s real hairline.
Ah, but Kimberly is owned by the Kochs,
who invented the Tea Party (ironic,
those initials: T.P.).
Thus, you see
my dilemma.
Shall I profit off
the grief of the majority
or continue to
fight the moneyed minority?
Yeah, like there’s an option!
This year, make “Blues in the Night”
a victory dance,
if we stand a chance
against Diebolt and Hype Finance.
Or will we be finessed
by Salt Lake City’s best,
confessed, silk suit pressed?
(Though his agenda for the oppressed
shows him decidedly undressed.)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday: P is for Politics! Check in a few days to hear it at Buddah Moskowitz’s Virtual Poetry Reading site. Also at the politically non-affiliated hub of activity, Poets United. Adding to the dverse Open Mic Night, too!
Wedding Night Waxes
He carried her over the threshold
of their bridal suite:
Room 5 at the local Super 7
(couldn’t afford the Super 8)
She said she had prepared
a “goodie bag” for their wedding night
“What kind of goodies?” he asked, and
she just winked and smiled.
The Marriage Bed, they called it,
laughing (the baby was due in May)
They sat on the edge, making small talk
by the light of TCM classics on TV
She grabbed the mystery bag
Vanished into the bathroom and
squeezed into the silken nightie
she found on Clearance at Victoria’s Secret
(a bit swollen, but still sexy)
At that moment
the TV flickered off and
lights outened themselves with a snick
“Babe,” he called, “power’s out…
You OK in there?”
Her answer, opening the bathroom door
She held a basket with wine, crackers and cheese
In her long red lingerie, she stood
bathed in candleglow
“When I said I put all we needed
in the goodie bag, I wasn’t kidding”
His answer, a low, appreciative whistle
A single candle, stuck in a precious bottle:
The very first Chardonnay they ever shared
It was in the cab of his truck
They’d traced constellations and snuggled
and the baby was probably conceived
under Venus’ approving gaze
Now wax stribbled down the green bottleneck,
obscured the label, pooled on the night stand
as wick flickered…
a newborn light
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United’s Wonder Wednesday asked for poems about wax, candlelight, and such. Candles are the cheapest accessory for romance, so I thought about a young couple who didn’t have much but each other and took off from there. Peace, Amy
First Time, No Charm
Fifteen
and the only girl in her class
who hadn’t “done it” yet
Sharp gossipy tongues
of her peers rendered her
brittle, an underachiever
Sure, she had the fever, but
no boy had the charm, the
romance she longed for
Fearing she would develop
a discernible crust beneath which
no one would wish to explore
she began to wear shorter skirts,
willowy legs bending, swaying
as a breeze blew through her branches
She spied one guy, gave him the eye
that said, “I want,” and he knew he’d be
Her First, and thus accoladed by his buds
That night, they threw down a blanket
Some pot he’d rustled up for the occasion
dilated their pupils, lazy balloon eyes
A few harsh kisses, some fumbling
some mumbling, but not calling her name
He opened the packet of the sheik sheath
Almost exploding as she put it on him
(like the banana in health class) and then he
crushed her with his weight, piercing her
It was all of ten minutes, leaving her with
the wound that never needs mending
And an unbearable feeling that there must be
more than sex than this, a barbarian invasion
Otherwise, why would musicians bother to write
love songs?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Sheaths, Explode, Unbearable, Fever, Willows, Crust, Mending, Breeze, Piercing, Brittle, and Rustle. Click on the blog name and see what everyone else got from this interesting group on the Wordle! I am glad to say this is NOT autobiographical.
I’ve chosen this poem for dverse Open Mic Night. Also at my home base for all things poetic, Poets United.
Little Lajwanti Lost (Brothels of India)
Plucked from family tree
nowhere near ripe
Sold to brothel
Dignity denied
She aches, lacerated
Beaten if she says “no”
Infected if she says “yes”
Enslaved since she was five
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I saw a PBS special last night that changed my life. Although the perpetrators of violence against women in this film are mostly dark-skinned, it’s not a racist film – those who know me understand I’m open and outspoken about my own childhood sexual abuse, and we have plenty of work to do around the unearned shame of victims and survivors Stateside. This is about girls in Asia and Africa who lack support of any kind, who through no fault of their own are disowned by families after being raped, who are sold by families or total strangers into prostitution… and the brave women and men who risk all to come to their defense.
“Lajwanti” is a Hindi name that means “a sensitive plant.” I chose the name for the specific irony of the fate of mostly lower-caste girls. The sex slave trade in India is protected by local police bribery and fought by a lion-hearted woman named Somaly, who as a young girl was sold into slavery and now runs a refuge for the girls they are able to spring from the brothels. She says, “They are me.”
The PBS special about the film, Half The Sky, is not to be viewed with popcorn and brewskis. It is a brutally frank account of violence against women, from culturally sanctioned rape to girls as young as five sold into prostitution worldwide. From the brothels of India to the rape of girls as young as two years old in Sierra Leone (where to “devirginize” a girl is a matter of pride for the man), this film also shows some real-life heroines who deserve our support. Please click the link above to learn more.
There are stars, beginning with George Clooney’s commentary, along with several female stars traveling to witness and comfort the rescued girls. A tremendous scene: A former prostitute who was rescued, now aged 15, confronting a roomful of men and quizzing them on why condoms are useful. She even shows them how to open the packet without damaging the contents and looks them straight in the eye. Like I said, lion-hearted women.
If you want to help this vital movement on behalf of half the world’s population, visit THIS LINK.
As a “little white suburban girl” who was used for sex by her own father, I can tell you this: Look behind the siding of houses in your own neighborhood. Men who use girls (and boys) without conscience are everywhere, often trusted family friends or family members, scout leaders, upstanding clergy, teachers…
I am eternally grateful for this prompt, from Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, where Mama Zen asked for a poetic drama in 30 words or less, and Roger at ABC Wednesday (L). Also at my safe haven, Poets United.
Peace, Amy
Playing Bongos in Topanga Canyon
Several members of our tribe are
breathing slowly, exhaling with tenderness
the holy incense of the day
Shakha opens tent flaps and
scurries to exchange the
stinky bong water for fresh
Empties grimy slog into
Topanga Canyon’s stream
without fear of discovery
We are in the back of
the deep woods now
Our prayers answered
Don strums his twelve-string
as singers attempt the dazed
yet sweet harmonies of ambivalence
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl, click to see Wordle and other folks’ posts. Thanks, Brenda, for some words that almost gave me a contact high… but that was the 70s for ya. The memories do linger after all these years. Some flashbacks are quite sweet, and so are the people.
Also at my poetic all-time clear-headed high, Poets United!
Thanks to all who sent notes of support during my recent “computer Blue Screen Of Death” crisis. Took a day or so to read the work of others before starting to post again.
To followers of this blog, THANK YOU for your patience. If Sadie doesn’t Blue Screen again, I’ll be happy and she won’t be carted back to the shop sniffling. (OK, I was the one sniffling…)
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about creativity. Seems like a good starting point for getting my groove back, also to post at dverse Open Mic Night, as well as the site that never BSODs me, Poets United (become a member, y’all!) and the whimsical Imaginary Garden with Read Toads for Open Link Monday. The seed for this poem was in a note to my dear friend Sidnie, with whom I share certain parts of the bozosphere.
Creative Juices
In the game of Poetry*
there are no winners, nor losers
Our creative juices flow
sometimes in rhythm and rhyme
or perhaps in chaotic streams of
consciousness
One man’s Keats
is another women’s drivel
So please accept
these dribblings
from the
howling bloodhound slobberjaws
of my
creatively juicy life
(or not)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Shout-out to Buddah Moskowitz, who disdains “Capital P” poetry!! You’re my bruddah from anudda mudda! Ameleh
Sharp Little Pencil 