Tapestry in Black
Now I lay.
Me, down…
to sleep
the startled, interrupted unrest
of the depressed.
Were it simply tears by day,
then hitting pillow come the light of the moon;
this, people would “get.”
The complicated tapestry
woven in shades of black.
The schedules I lack.
The discipline gone slack.
The coat left on the rack.
The never going back.
The pills I must ingest
to calm the manic distressed
and keep myself on track
My folly is my trolley:
What track?
Where?
Was I s’posed to stop there?
Now I lay.
Me, down.
To sleep?
I gaze at the inconstant moon,
wishing I were of silver hewn.
Morpheus, come, please claim
this shattered, fragile frame.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United Think Tank Thursday, Moon
Photo courtesy of miya.tea-nifty.com
It’s Twofer… Thursday! Three prompts in two poems. Each prompt is listed under the appropriate work. It’s a sunny day, and things are looking up in Amyville! If you want your day to be even better, click on the links for the various poetry sites and look at the astounding work out there in cyberbeautyland! Peace, Amy
Just One Wish
If I could have just one wish…
I’d melt all weapons, from
handguns to tanks
Forge farm tools for land to be tilled by
hands that formerly pushbuttonlaunched drones
Hands that flew off wrists as Hummer hit IED.
Honest work for real pay,
homes for all, bellies full.
The sick tended,
violence ended,
people defended
by reason, not rockets.
By wisdom, not war.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Carry On Tuesday, prompt: Finish this poem, “If I had just one wish…”
And now… sidetracking into true ignorance!
Homophobes
“Deviant” is a concept
born of miniscule minds
and religious cherry-pickers
who have bad translations of the Bible.
They dwell on the trivial
while ignoring real problems
which require substantial effort…
and that are apparently not their concern.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday (Deviant, Miniscule, Trivial) and ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “H.”
Both are also at my poetic hangout, Poets United.
Rich Men Suck
Sheep without shepherd,
Raw thread sans loom…
O, rich white man, is that how you see us?
As ants scurrying to gather your crumbs?
Does this vision strengthen your egos?
Give me your hands,
your fingertips, softer than mine –
pushing paper and counting money all day.
Opalescent nails, polished and perfect.
(I can’t afford a manicure, sorry if I offend.)
In your mind, you picture
raw, thirsting power.
A lion’s heart with the speed of an elk.
The virility of a man’s man (who doesn’t really NEED the Viagra).
But I’ve spied you in the office corridor,
side-glancing in the gilt mirror,
yearning to look like Don Draper.
Real power needn’t preen
nor reassure itself.
Real power was in the humanity you left behind
when you bought your first pair of Guccis.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night and at my poetic hearth, Poets United.
Two, two, two prompts in one post! Nifty. First is from Six Word Saturday, in which you sum up your life at that moment in… six words. Second, The Sunday Whirl: First, read the poem; then, I’ll give you the words we were given to craft our work. Also posted at the collective, Poets United. Peace, Amy
FOR SIX WORD SATURDAY, A NOD TO MADISON IN WINTER:
Rain, snow, Wisconsin – cold as charity!
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
FOR THE SUNDAY WHIRL:
Making Her Way
Coatless in a sea of ermine and chinchilla.
Unaware of the shadow cast by multimillionaires
who bask in the fullness of their coffers.
She knows that, before this night ends…
- Some facelift will admonish her through plump silicone lips,
“See this meal? The veal is tough. Take it back to the kitchen.” - After Happy Hour, a sloppydroolingdrunk day trader will
spill Merlot on her pristine white apron. - After nine, she will be summoned to a table by the wave of
glistening metal – a prawn fork, most likely.
She herself is a daughter of Big Money,
but she prefers to make her own way in the world.
Waitressing pays for her classes and
postage-stamp-cramped room in Brooklyn.
End of shift, she pulls on jacket and wooly cap
to catch the subway home.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The Sunday Whirl Wordle included these words:
White, Returned, Coatless, Shadow, Prefers, Wooly, Daughter, Admonish, Fullness, Metal, Unaware, and Kitchen.
Thing 205
The Monster paid me an unannounced visit today.
It let itself in through the locked and bolted back door
on its way to another grief.
It took me in its arms as I,
limp as linguine and just as strained,
offered no resistance.
Its cowl became my heavy hood;
the weight of its robe dragged me to half-staff…
lugging laundry downstairs,
crying as I failed to muster strength to open a jar,
wracked with fear I’d be discovered here alone
with Same Old:
Telling me I’m worthless, a drag on my loved ones,
why bother with it all? Run away to a
thin spot on the icy lake…
Only my Boxing Gym of the Soul saved me.
My Trainer whispered spoke shouted in my ear,
“Slough off the robe, ooze off the couch.
Flop to the floor and exercise.
EXORCISE THE MONSTER!”
After my walk outside, the demon slunk in a corner.
Finally giving up, it didn’t bother to say goodbye,
But I make sure the door hit it in the ass
as it left to cripple someone else.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, the prompt was Fear; also at Poets United’s Poetry Pantry.
I’ve changed my blog settings so now, all comments are approved. The backlog was immense and guilt was clouding my creativity. (I’m Black Irish, so that kind of guilt is quite weighty!) I will attempt to figure out how to respond to your comments later… but right now, the burden of guilt lifted from my shoulders, I shall post. Peace, Amy
GUMM… AND GUMMER (A Suite in Two Movements)
I. Frances Gumm
Child stardom thrust upon her
by mother’s demand
Couldn’t navigate a ship
she didn’t command
Crinkles, cramps, crevices
of age came too soon
The voice we all loved:
Judy’s sad, silent tune
II. Mrs. Gummer
You know her
or you feel like you do
That crinkle in her smile
The creases framing her sparkling eyes
She’s a survivor
Bucking the demand that actresses be
plump only in the lips and
possess a Stepford-smooth forehead
She will continue to navigate
the Hollywood torrents with grace,
and if awards come too, that’s fine.
What matters to her is the work.
What matters to her more is family.
Marvelous Meryl Streep!
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday (Crinkle, Demand, Navigate) and ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “G.” Also at my poetic lair, Poets United.
This my 400th post at WordPress! To celebrate, I purchased the official site name, “sharplittlepencil.com” – but don’t worry; your old links will still forward to this address. Here is a song and with it, a true story that resulted from my posting the link on YouTube. My friends and former partners in music ministry, Kathy Smith and Corrine Crook of Our Saviour Lutheran Church in Endwell, NY, joined me at Tranquil Bar and Bistro in an impromptu rendition of “Rivers of Babylon,” as captured by my friend George Bezushko’s phone cam. Peace, Amy
Sister Elizabeth and Babylon
African-American, Benedictine cloistered nun
writes letter to
Anglo-American jazz singer
asking for transcription of a song
she found on the Web.
Most of the sisters, Anglo as well,
sing a capella;
African influences will flavor the praise.
And so singer finds a hand-written copy
Sends it with note: “…and I’m married to a pastor!”
God’s work is never done
so effectively
as when women combine their own desires
with others’ can-do attitudes to create
a new kind of unity, crossing divides.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse poets Open Mic Night and Poets United
Moving Day, circa 1933
I was entranced by my mother’s stories – all about the dilemmas of the 30s, the Great Depression. Never reluctant was she to retell the travails of Little Charlotte On The Ice Floes:
Come the end of the month, Mom would murmur about rent money. Dad answered by mapping out the next dwelling. Late that night, my senses on high alert for footsteps in the stairwell, I was once again loaded by like a burro: Mom’s shedding fox pelt over all the clothes I could manage to put on. Frying pan in one hand, big can of lard in the other, more cans stuffed under my arms, and a colander for a hat.
Our family would disappear monthly into the dense fog or deep snow or sweltering summer Iowa night, carrying our weary, cumbersome life like a sad caravan. The stray mongrel, Tilly, toddled behind, tail between her legs – even she reflected the shame of poverty.
Dad would eventually stop our mule train to light a Lucky, smoke tailing skyward, ashes flicked onto the cement. He’d whistle. Mom would sigh. My big brother, Tommy, never complained about handling three satchels, as long as his beloved sax could be strapped to his back.
I’d struggle to keep up, a three-foot Five and Dime housewares department wrapped in cheap fur. So to answer your question, Amer…
…that’s why I never had a doll. Who would’ve carried the frypan?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil, photo by the inimitable Dorothea Lange
For The Sunday Whirl: Cement, Cumberson, Answer, Reluctant, Murmur, Senses, Dense, Pelt, Smoke, Map, Entranced, Stray
Also at Poetic Asides, for the Poetry Pantry.
Sharp Little Pencil 