Pastor Hellevangelist
Sunday morning funnies aren’t in
the newspaper but on
TV, toupeed and pancaked
Those televangelists put on
quite a show, preachin’ ‘bout
all the horrible sins they know
will send YOU straight to Hell
Then the preacher’s healings they show
Miss “Mah sinuses ache” WHAM!
The Holy Spirit is there in his hand
She’s on the floor, flailing, flattened
Now he’s singin’ solo with the band
Amazing, grace has graced this man
with abundance straight from God:
Mansion, limo, trophy wife
Teleparishioners are awed
and send him money to keep up
his cathedral lifestyle
A few bucks to Darfur, but most
keeps up his shiny white smile
He’s quick on the drawl, sending
other folks all to Hell
‘til he’s caught with this mistress
at the local No-Tell Motel
or taking young boys under his wing
and under the covers
under cover of righteousness
Then his wife discovers
So Sunday, tune in, turn on to
the big show: The Satanic versus
the squeaky-clean teleGod man
He knows all the curses
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter P. Also at my cornerstone, Poets United.
Skin Like a Cloak
“The truth is,” said the professor,
“we wear our skin, each one of us,
like a cloak. Some feel fervently
that the color of the cover matters
greatly; others see only history.
“The residue of the bad old days,
‘black’ and ‘white.’ Vessels swept
into the harbor, offloading human
cargo. For these battered souls,
no breeze could refresh their sad
brokenness. Scores of years later,
for the Confederate flagged and
South Will Rise Againers, these stories
are muted, revised, considered
best stored in a trunk, hidden away.
“But we,” she continued, “can get to
the heart of injustice by unlocking
that attic door, dusting off the trunk,
prying loose its locks, and delving into
its heart of shame, of inhuman cruelty.
“Whites start by remembering.”
“By humbling ourselves to the truth.”
“By understanding the depths to which
‘entitled’ Anglos can sink when led by
minds filled with ignorance, greed, and
cruelty.”
“Only by recognizing the signs of such
wretchedness taking root in the American
mainstream and fighting it… only then
can we ensure it won’t happen again.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for dverse Poets’ Pub and posted to my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Lost Soul
He shuffled by, jeans grazing the sidewalk
I caught a whiff of
part bottle of cheap wine,
part bloody confrontation from
last night, carved on his cheek
As his garbage-bag suitcase thumped behind,
he spat in the gutter.
DTs setting in, he twitched
in a crooked gait, a gurgle
singing from deep in his gut.
Before I could stop him to offer a breakfast,
he vanished through a paint-shredded doorway.
My mom would’ve said,
“His porch light’s flickering.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (with thanks to Brenda Warren for assembling the Wordle and Mike Patrick for the words): Gutter, flickering, twitched, vanished, crooked, bottle, bloody, gurgle, sidewalk, thump, carved, caught. Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Weirdos In Living Color
Pondering life, parsing a Wordle
at my local locally owned café
Out the window, saw a weirdo
Headed over Starbucks way
Reet suit, silk tie, plus a gadget
dangled on his ear, he talked to it
Rhythm on the street was financial
I could tell – he walked to it
People in hats lug large boxes
with handles they clutch tight as breath
Talking so fast ‘bout Wall Street, K Street
Talking fast as a dealer on Meth
Where’re they going? What’s the rush?
Why is Rush a god and God replaced
by Sunday crosswords, fancy brunch
What’s the point of all their haste?
I’m content with three hots and a cot
Better still, a rabbit-eared TV
Come watch parades of Armani lemmings
dive off a cliff so willingly
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, “Life’s a Little Weird.” Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Boulevard Noir
I was a crumb, out of a job again,
feeling fallow, hanging out with the other writers at Schwab’s.
An obsolete automobile, titanic and shiny as a new penny,
pulled up; we were slack-jawed, admiring the grandeur.
In front, a bald chauffeur; his passenger, a forgotten icon, Silent era.
She offered me a job, plus room and board.
(Around repo time, one swallows one’s pride and hides
one’s rambunctious side, replacing it with unctuous politeness.)
I approached a mansion at the address she gave me. Rang the bell;
the stately old house echoed, hollow, eerie.
Her butler took my coat and placed my fedora on the hat-rack.
Who could know that, within one month, I’d be
avoiding her embrace in the palatial garden and
waltzing her around the grand ballroom at a party
“Just for the two of us, my darling…”
And who could predict I’d end up face down her in “cement pond,”
blood lacing the water around my bobbing, lifeless body?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl and at Poets United.
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
The first is for Sensational Haiku Wednesday (yeah, it’s Saturday, I know!), and the second was written for my friend Kelly’s blog but never posted. This is also posted at my poetic hearth, Poets United.
Peace be with you all. Amy
FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY: “Anticipation” theme
Red leaf shivering
ready to drop to fertile ground
Life cycle complete
——————————————–
FOR EVERYONE, so they may understand what some call “crazy.”
THE OTHER-MINDED
I am one of the “other-minded”
We filter truth through a lens tinted by our mood
or lit by the fullest moon
to create art, to fulfill our promise
Who else will capture the infinite loneliness
of the slab mattress in the suicide ward?
The blurred visions of panic in a grocery store,
surrounded by cardboard people
blithely stuffing their carts with Cocoa Puffs?
Who else will bear witness to
the undulation of one’s naked self in a mirror,
mesmerized by the sheer loveliness reflected?
Who but we have days we celebrate
for their sheer boredom
Walking the fields of home
while ceiling-gazing in midcity?
We endure darkness, yet we bathe in
the glorious light that follows
We stumble, then venture down a path
the “sane” would never dare.
Our words, our artwork,
our songs and poems
breathe both bleakness and dizzying victories;
improbable stories of
real people they’ll think we made up
(if only it were so…)
We are labeled misfit toys
but we dance on the edge
of a rolling coin
that never comes to rest
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
THE TRAIN CONDUCTOR
“End of the line,” called out the conductor, roaming car to car
Rail-thin and rangy, dignified in the spotless black uniform,
his timepiece gleamed at the end of a long gold chain.
Will was a good conductor, one of the best on the line.
He knew precisely the timeline, all destinations
His resonant voice calmed riders during bumps, holdups
and especially during inclement weather
He had a way with children; could recognize kids on their first ride,
fear and fascination dancing in their eyes
Will treated all workers with the same respect.
Never saw the color of their skin, only the quality of their service.
The last of a dying breed in the 1950s, both Will and the Rock Island Line,
as autos took to the highways and trains fell by the wayside,
rusting gravestones, remnants of the past.
He kept to himself, rarely shared stories about family.
Seemed troubled, standing off in a corner by himself on breaks.
But when tapped on the shoulder, came down to earth, immediately engaged.
The porters worried about Will, and the maids
saw his uneasiness; they prayed for him in church.
No one was surprised when, one foggy night
the man who knew the clockwork of each train, the routes of every line
was felled on the tracks and died.
“Accident,” read the report, thus ensuring widow’s benefits
for the wife he never talked about.
But she knew in her heart that for Will,
it was simply the end of the long, sad, lonely line.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Magpie Tales asked for poems about our ancestors. My great-great grandfather was a train conductor, amateur astronomer, introverted, extremely depressed man who help out my mother’s family during the Midwest Depression of the 1930s. I figured out the puzzle of his death, which the rest of the family never discussed.
LAKESIDE CONVERSATION
An autumn breeze caressed my cheek.
A moment with no words to speak
aloud, but softly, with great care:
“The end of this; we know it’s there.”
The carefree days, each careful kiss;
I know that life holds more than this
for me,” I sighed, and waited for
response from him. Then, this he swore:
“I’ll like you ‘til my dying day.
Please be my friend, although we’ll lay
apart, and in the arms of others.”
This is the love time never smothers:
The gift of letting passion go
because true friendship deems it so.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Bloomings was the first to inspire me after my break, with a lovely photo by Walt of lovers lounging by the lake. Please click HERE to see it, as I am unable to download from the site. Thanks, Marie and Walt! Also at Poets United, the poetry collective that rocks! Peace to all, and I’m SO relieved to be back! Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 