BLISSFUL BALM
O, the wondrous healing balm
comforting confectionery consolation
Whether this wellspring of pain
came from a broken romance
a broken promise
or a broken nail
All is made whole and well
by the soothing, sensual touch
of chocolate upon one’s tongue
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, a little something sweet. No ranting today…
Also at the poetic bakery where I needn’t press my nose against the glass, but simply walk in, Poets United… proud to be a member! Peace, Amy
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
Parking Lot
The Golden Arches aglow tonight
Aglow every night as
teens collect, connect
Giggles, yo mama jokes
A squeal, somebody got tickled
Waitin’ for Bruno to get off shift
Scent of sensamilla
snakes through blades of my fan
I peek out; their shadows pass the joint around
Outside, they pack into someone’s car
squeal out of the lot in a cloud of exhaust
leaving a trickle of oil and a trail of fun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is for dverse, “Meeting the Bar.” Claudia asked us to write as though we were Impressionists, with quick brush strokes and hints of lighting. My inspiration was the early work of Edward Hopper, who is not known as an impressionist but had a brief foray into the style with such works as “Soir Bleu.” He is simply my favorite artist, and the humanity of his work informs my eavesdropping on this group of kids last night. Also at my poetic canvas, Poets United!
Birdcage Liner of the TV Screen
Staying at a friend’s house, I switch on the TV. No cable, but
anything will do as I sip my Black Irish heartstrong brew.
My heart sinks… The Evening News. I listen, trying to look past
fluorescent teeth and blonde helmet hair, at the redwhiteblue flag pins, de riguere.
What kind of News Hell is this?
Gone, the anointed news anchor who
actually decided which stories were aired.
No more fastball pitches in interviews, only slow, sliding grapefruits,
and once they get to the nitty-gritty comes: “We’ll have to leave it there.”
Edward R. Murrow dug to the marrow.
Walter Cronkite, trustworthy and true, integrity personified.
The current crop of dopes read from teleprompters
and think they know the story. Or they’re ‘embedded’ (in bed)
with troops and get to wear fatigues and EV-rything!
Unsinkable twinkies at the helm, naifs who
answered casting calls for Wide-Awake 6 am hosts,
all mammary glands on deck. And in the evening,
pitch-perfect choirboys or gruff cuff-linked old smokies
navigate the stern schedule of the 24-hour news cycle.
Rail all we want; Murdoch is Captain of the Stinking Ship.
FOX is the purveyor of FCC-approved misinformation,
but networks are in this way worst of all:
Infotainment silk-and-velvet-clad bobbleheads who
smile as they read you the story of a deadly car crash.
Treat politicians like celebrities and fawn over them.
Never ask a question that cannot be answered by
a sound byte, scripted before the interview started.
William Randolph Hearst is grinning in his yellow grave.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (wordle below, thanks Brenda!) and also at my poetic port of call, Poets United.
No matter what I post, I always make a point of mentioning my poetic hearth, or home, or launching pad, or cafe… I am proud to be a member of Poets United, and all my poems are backtracked there to a constantly updating feed. Today, they had a specific prompt, and so I was thrilled to write something just for them.
HeLa
Blacks abused, a story
that seems to have no end.
Obscure beginning for HeLa.
One woman’s cancer cells were
scraped away as she lay dying, more
from the treatment than the cancer itself.
Johns Hopkins implanted radioactive rods in
her womb until all inside her turned bomb-black.
The cells taken from her uterus, much like a skin shed
in death, were put on the market and migrated from lab
to lab until they were all over the world. But no one told
her family, nor did they give them any of the money… quite
a considerable amount, not to mention the intellectual property.
Henrietta Laks was used, over and over, by whites, for profit.
First, in life, by cruel poverty, segregation, inability to
care for her own, to see to her kids’ well-being, to their
education; one daughter was institutionalized, as she had
married her first cousin, like folks did back in those
days. Her cervical cancer was detected far too late;
she died so young. Then, after her death, her
“immortal cells,” truly a medical miracle,
proliferated without anyone’s say-so,
and only by chance did her daughter
find out Mom had been to outer
space, survived bomb blasts,
outlasted most of her kin,
but only bits of Mom.
Black folks always
feared Johns
Hopkins.
Now
they
know
why.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United’s Think Tank Thursday asked us to write a poem based on a book. Henrietta Lacks is the subject of a book I recently read, called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. On the cover is a picture of a vibrant, fun-loving girl, dressed up to go out on the town. A few short years later, she was dead of cervical cancer… but scientists “harvested” her cells, which seemed to have immortality; whatever they did to them, “HeLa cells” (they used the first two letters of first and last names of all patients from whom they harvested cells, and all without family permission or compensation) survived and proved to be hearty. Of course, members of the scientific “brain trust” also perpetrated other atrocities on Black Americans, including the infamous Tuskeegee sterilization of thousands of fertile men and women, in hopes of narrowing the race to “controllable” numbers.
Henrietta’s daughter, Deborah, eventually teamed with the book’s author, Rebecca Skloot, a white writer who gained Deborah’s trust. Together they embarked on a journey back in time, tracing the history of both the woman Henrietta and the HeLa strain of cervical cells. Read it – horrifying and fascinating history. For more on Henrietta, and to view the picture mentioned in the poem, click HERE. Peace, Amy
Rocket Ship To The Sun
“Last call for boarding the
Sharp Little Special Rocket Ship to the Sun!”
(now that’s what I call a red-eye flight)
(They’re all showing up because
it’s free, no matter the destination
That’s how dense they are, accepting my invite)
“Your pilot, George W. Bush (in a codpiece)
Co-pilot, Marcus Bachmann (he’s submissive)
Flight attendants, catering to your every whim:
“Britney Spears, Michelle Bachmann, that preacher who
keeps predicting the end of the world” (I just want to help)
“All the Wiggles (sorry, kids, it has to be done)
“Your mechanic, Ted Nugent (resume too long, see below)
Your super-secret incognito flight security man
will be Tom Selleck, replacing Charleton Heston
“The guys who checked you all in but will skip
the actual flight: Scooter, Glenn, Rush and Dick”
(should get those last two too close, it’s Dick Cheney)
“As for the passengers: Neo-Nazis, skinheads,
bullies, homophobes (too bad Anita Bryant didn’t
stick around for this one, she would have loved it),
“Christians who think anyone who’s not ‘their brand’
is banned from heaven, from America, and of course
from their church of undesignated affiliation…
It’s a mighty big ship, so there’s room for everyone.
No need for safety precautions; just sit back, sip
a martini, and enjoy the music, which will be
428 hours of Slim Whitman, plus an in-flight movie,
First Class’ Tom Cruise in “Rock of Ages” (barf bags provided)
After that, your final destination will be a relief
Enjoy your flight!
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, who wanted us to use the world “flight” in a poem, as in: a trip made by or in an airplane or spacecraft; a scheduled airplane trip. Also at my poetic launching pad, Poets United.
My dear friend Jason Ward introduced me to the concept of planning his “rocket ship to the sun.” His roster changes from time to time, but mine is startlingly similar.
NOTE ON TED NUGENT: He’s a darling of the Right now because he offers his ranch to Iraq/Afghanistan veterans, mostly amputees. He gives them assault weapons and lets them shoot animals he’s imported for their killing pleasure. (Mind you, many of them have PTSD and this is the last thing they should be doing… if Ted really cared, he’d pay for their counseling and psych meds.) Yet the same TED NUGENT, when it was his turn to serve in Vietnam, smeared himself with feces and pretended to be mentally ill at the draft board. Anyone who avoided Vietnam, hooray, it was another stupid White Guys Know How To Rule Everyone war… but to come back years later and claim solidarity with people who actually served and were wounded? Please.
If you don’t see your favorite purveyor of hate and would like to have them added to the passenger list, feel free to mention them in your comments. I will review the list before issuing final invitations. (When Pres. Bush heard the pretzels were free and we’d have N.A. beer, he said, “Hell, yeah, when do we take off?”)
Yeah, I’m going to catch heck for this one, but somebody’s gotta say it. Amy
One of my favorite prompting sites, dverse poets, put Brian Miller in charge (look out! Backs to the wall… wink). He asked us to write a history poem, and it reminded me of that question we always ask one another: “Where were you when…?” Excellent prompt, and I’m looking forward to reading everyone else’s work at dverse. This is also posted at my favorite time machine, Poets United. Peace, Amy
ELEMENTARY SCHOOL LESSON
I knew a lot by the second grade
The alphabet, counting to one hundred and beyond
How to write my name in cursive, and quite perfectly
What not to flush down the toilet
(all my broccoli smuggled in via dinner napkin)
How kittens are born, because I watched
Even how to make a dry martini
(kids learn a lot from alcoholic parents)
How to spit water between my front teeth and
how to get real distance spitting watermelon seeds
One thing I didn’t know
and never expected to
was something the whole class
learned at the same time
The grownups were outside our classroom
mumbling something about
President Kennedy
A grownup was sobbing in the hall
and Mrs. Darrow almost fainted
Until second grade
I didn’t know teachers were allowed to cry
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image courtesy of http://www.scootutopia.com
Hello, friends. I have two pieces of good news. First, my entry for the Trifecta “Week 35 Challenge,” which ran an entire month, was cited as the second-place winner – check out all three Trifecta winning entries at THIS LINK, including my friend Misky (Da winner and still champeen!!), and a new friend, Lucy Robinson Miller in third place.
Also, another great friend, Lady Nimue, edited the latest edition of the ezine, Fried Eye, and one of my poems is in there as well! So a big week, and truthfully, I needed the lift, so thanks, Nimue, for asking… and thanks to the folks at Trifecta for always having a wonderful challenge.
Detour Ahead? (an etheree)
Where
he leads
she follows
Whether he’s right
she dares not question
If she does, usual
answer, the back of his hand
Unfortunate girl, brought up by
a mother whose own questions were rare
Mirrors mock them both: Their “normal,” scarred, scared
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United (Follow/Lead and Usual/Rare).
NOTES: An etheree is ten lines with the first line having one syllable, the second two, and so on until you have ten lines with then syllables. There are variations. I only use form when it comes easily to my theme, and I hope Viv is proud of me! (She’s seen me struggle.)
The song “Detour Ahead” was (in my opinion) best sung by Billie Holiday, and best played instrumentally by pianist Bill Evans. Just in case you were wondering where the title of the poem came from. One of my favorite songs when I was in jazz clubs.
Canvas
Clotted mottles of burnt ember
anchor spindled legs: beige, green, bearbrown
From these spring tangled weaves in shades of
olive, speckled moss, faun tendrils
dodging one another, cat and mouse
Then triffidian horror movie monsters
crowned by iridescent tangerine, muted lavender,
or snow white as biblical innocence
First rains dribble weaker petals back to clay soil
Garden in bloom
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems (unexpected descriptions, with thanks to the inimitable Joseph Harker for leading the way!) and ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “C.” Also at my poetic garden (the one without the toads), Poets United.
NOTE: The adjective “triffidian” is made up in honor of one of my favorite sci-fi movies, “Day of the Triffids,” original story by British writer John Wyndham, about root-bound plants that suddenly become mobile after a meteor shower. The story is every bit as good as the movie, which starred Howard Keel as an American in London, one of his few non-musical roles. Read more about the story HERE. Peace and firmly rooted plants, 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.
Sharp Little Pencil 