Pity Party Marathon
Feels like forever, this situation.
So sure that she is unappreciated.
Confronting the conundrum:
Is it they who take advantage,
or she who is the doormat?
Their insensitivity,
or her need for deeds to be noticed?
Are they stoking the fire,
or has she tied herself to the stake,
begging for matches?
Martyrdom is a foolish pursuit,
one that drag on a lifetime.
Yet she, as fools do, faces it; embraces it,
forgetting Dolly Parton’s immortal words:
“Get off the cross, honey, we need the wood.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Self-esteem is a struggle for so many women, myself included. Hard to know when it’s a valid complaint or too much navel-gazing. For Sunday Scribblings, where the prompt is “Marathon,” as well as at my poetic hangout (where all the outcasts who created the real stuff stuck together in high school), Poets United. Proud to be a member!
FREE SPIRIT SPEAKS 
You knew this about me before we first met
True, I’m your companion, but nobody’s pet
No leash will I wear, nor “She Is Mine” collar
So what, when I wander, gives you right to holler?
Can’t Alpha Male Tantrum me into submission
Rant all you want to, but it’s my tradition
A part of my birthright – we’re radical women
His water is warmer… and I’m goin’ swimmin’
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Form For All: Framed Couplets (first and last words must rhyme in each couplet!)
Also at my poetic hearth and home, Poets United.
Photo courtesy of Superstock.com, providing free images (for the time being!).
Bud is Bummin’
Bud’s buttressing his building,
same as yesterday and forever.
Paper cup kept jingling:
The classic ask.
I’m boy I’m embarrassingly I’m
so damned late,
I buzz by him without blinking;
must rumble through
the crowded sidewalk,
Almost to the conference door.
My heart screams;
conscience bubbles through my bloodstream,
hits my medulla “obligata.”
Turning tail to the nearest café.
Two large coffees, a cup of milk,
a banana (potassium) and bran muffin.
Sugar, yellow, pink, blue packets.
I don’t take sweet, but he might.
Back at the bastion,
Bud’s taking a break, huddled under a blanket
I offer him the tray;
he looks up and mumbles, “What’s this?”
“All for you, sir, except the second cup.”
I blush, grab my portion, bend to share a hug.
I run off.
Blessings abound.
Angels around.
Dependence is a two-way street.
If we want to connect with them,
let’s show respect for them
Let’s interrupt our previously scheduled lives
for a moment of grace.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dependence, Kept, Rumble; for dverse Open Mic Night; and as always, for Poets United, my poetic hotspot!
Guilt Trips (a limerick)
Don’t try to put guilt trips on me
I know when you try them, you see
I find them soul-sapping
There’re merely lip-flapping
And therefore ignored easily
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: Once in a while, I like to have a fun day of poetry. No sturm und drang, no tragic heroes, no political rants, no child abuse… just a little tickle to the funny bone. (Plus I’m a bit manic today!) Have a beautiful day, wherever you are. Peace, Amy
You’ll find this in the right column at Poets United, where they love me whether I’m manic, depressed, or somewhere in between! Check it out.
Billie Holiday
Her story, stuff of legend
Hard to believe a girl
who scrubbed the whorehouse steps
was a child of destiny
Louis and Bessie’s songs, a balm
wafting through the brothel windows
(masking commercial commotion upstairs)
That jazz summoned magic buried in her very marrow
At seventeen, at dusk, she entered a club
The audience, the first witnesses
to a staggering talent, unbroken by
the sorrows of her childhood
Finding her soulmate in sax man Lester Young
Coursing through their veins and blended history,
their addictions: Jazz and heroin
First gave life; second led to early death
Too young, a deathbed. Money taped to her thigh?
A filthy lie, as befits urban legend
The collective force of Lady Day and Pres?
The real deal – raw truth pressed on vinyl
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Destiny, Dusk, Mate, Marrow, Staggering, Buried, Songs, Blood, Addiction, Story, Sorrows, Broken. These words began singing choruses of “Lover Man” to me before I knew what I was going to do with them. Also posted at the Poets United Poetry Pantry.
Image courtesy of www.jacklawrencesongwriter.com, in his photo files. Thanks, Jack!
Although the rumor of money taped to her thigh was false, police did arrest her on her deathbed for possession. Lester “Pres” Young, who nicknamed Billie “Lady Day,” was in fact nicknamed by Billie as the President of Sax Players. Wish I could have included the video on YouTube of her TV session in her later years on “Fine and Mellow,” but the cut was too long. Look it up; you’ll spot Gerry Mulligan, Coleman Hawkins, Pres on the second sax solo, Mal Waldron on piano, and more. When Pres Young died of self-abuse (alcohol and heroin), Billie was not allowed by Young’s wife to sing at the funeral. Billie said bitterly, “I’ll be next,” and she was, four months later.
Loathsome Lothario
Lordy! Ladies loooooove Lenny,
lackadaisical, lame-ass loser.
Looks: Lethal.
Leaver? Likely.
Lovelorn, leftover lasses
lament losing Lenny:
lemmings
leaping
l
e
d
g
e
s.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “L.” Also at my poetic café where the chairs are really comfy, Poets United! Check out both sites for contributors and you’ll find some groovin’ work, including photographers and storytellers.
PAD April #7, and all while getting ready for Easter Sunday worship tomorrow. Peace, Amy
A peaceful Good Friday to Christians, and Happy Pesach to Jews. To Muslims, a moment’s breath… and to all, those who follow a path of faith and atheists alike, I wish you peace and love. Amy
Order in His Court
His growl is worse than his bark
His bark is worse than his bite
He’s hyped to the max on drugs
He’s free to spread bile and spite
To justify his self-hatred
He takes it all out on “girls”
Who’d marry such a foul swine?
(She hates sex – but does love pearls)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Growl, Hype, Justify. Also on the “sidelines” (right column) of Poets United. I’m so proud to be a member! Amy
Folks, I’m amazed I’m even posting, but PAD means exactly that – a poem a day for the month of April. I KNOW I HAVE NEGLECTED RESPONDING TO YOUR COMMENTS FOR THE PAST FEW DAYS. I humbly ask for your patience: It’s Holy Week. Tonight, I am coordinating the ritual portion of a Seder at Lake Edge UCC. Soon I’ll respond, I promise.
Today is a special day for a very special friend. This is her story…
SOJOURNER
She’s moving again
Unsettling – like the trap door
fell out from under
her well-worn sandals
How many times has she
Called Two Men & A Truck?
They know her by name
But this time is different
New, her own sweet space
New keys, placed in her palm
by friends who love her
Feels like coming home
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads… too late to post there, but the prompt was: Find four words and create a poem out of them. My words were Home, Keys, Feels, and New. Also posted with my buds at Poets United, as always. Peace, and happy moving, Monica! Amy
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
Bring Back My Heart, copyright details below
The prompt at Poets United’s Thursday Think Tank is “Music.” Hey, what an opportunity, right?
Here is a song from my CD, Jazz Baby Hits Her Stride.
You can hear me sing it if you click on the link above.
Hope you enjoy this little love song, recorded at the studio of my dear friend Jon Randel. Peace, Amy
Bring Back My Heart
Thank you for the visit, it really was sublime
To catch up on the news after all this time
I packed in such a hurry, some things got left behind
So if you wouldn’t mind…
My toothbrush and my dental floss, I left them on the sink
And a lone Peruvian earring, in the living room, I think
Some pictures of my daughter on a table by the door
And my lingerie we left scattered on the floor
It’s really quite the laundry list
But there’s one more thing I missed
Bring back my heart, return it to me
At the first convenient opportunity
It had just come off the shelf
And I had planned to keep it for myself
I didn’t leave it in the bedroom – I’m not blasé
That’s not the place where hearts are given away
Perhaps it was the restaurant where you took my hand
And told me life had not turned out exactly as you’d planned
You asked me whether I had hopes to share my life again
And I told you God had plans for me, but wouldn’t tell me when
My heart was mine alone
And until we kissed, I thought it had turned to stone
Bring back my heart, we’ll see what’s in store
Make my office gossip when you show up at the door
Bring back my heart, but until you do
I know it’s safe with you
So put it in your pocket, keep it close
Hold it with the treasures you love most
And when you return it, here is what I’ll do:
I will scent it with roses, wrap it in lace
Lay it in the lining of a golden case
And I will give it right back to you
© 2004 Words and Music by Amy Barlow Liberatore
Published by Beehat Baby Music, all rights reserved
Sharp Little Pencil 