Escape Can Be Forever
Authentic, unapologetic
Manic-depressive, chose Meth over meds
Yowling cat-scratch vocals
Wound-up top
Inviting us for a spin
Next to none, under your skin
Energetic, enigmatic
House-high beehive
Outrageous, bawdy “bad girl”
Undulating at the mic
Soul singer to the end
Everlasting, never built to last… Amy Winehouse
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: For ABC Wednesday, took longer to complete than I imagined, but wanted to get it right. Amy Winehouse’s legacy is not just her incredible music. She serves as a symbol of the confusion between addiction and mental illness. It’s true that many times, as with my own mother, people who need other help self-medicate… the difference is, Amy was DIAGNOSED as manic-depressive (bipolar) and refused to take prescribed medicine or stick with therapists.
To say she was an addict and post “Just say no” on FaceBook does a great disservice to many people who might see themselves in Amy’s downward spiral and possibly seek medical help. As a person living with manic depression and PTSD, I wanted this message to go out to as many folks as possible.
Also posted at Poets United. RIP, Amy Winehouse, and peace to her family and fans, Amy Barlow Liberatore
Three prompts, three poems. Enjoy, Amy
FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY (prompt: Home)
Our Big Transatlantic Move
In tropics too long…
Gazing at Autumn’s palette
we know we are home.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION (prompt: Silence)
Silence
Deeply drowsy,
almost asleep,
I am awakened by
silence.
My silence possesses
a certain charisma.
Mood music melts my mind
in the key of D-flat.
As one’s eye might
perceive a heavy haze
on a lazy afternoon,
so I hear my silence.
Whispers, wishes.
Haunting harmonics
pitched aloft like angels, but
with a hint of humanity.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR POETS UNITED (prompt: Third letter of your first name. And no, my first name is not “Sharp”!)
Y Not?
Yawningly waking.
Yearning aching to make love.
Yanking off your T-shirt,
purring, giggling, yowling…
Yelling, “Yes! yes! yes!”
After all these years,
you and I are youngas our first “yowza”!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Lex, with love
Me, Not Me (am etheree)
She
is me
is not me
Ebullient to the point
where even strangers point fingers
at her dancing in the rain
How she sings along with grocery karaoke
Her ass sways as she pushes the cat
grabbing junk food, beer, and tofu with equal enthusiasm
This jitterbug dervish, drug-free hippiehead, the part I keep hidden.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
She is, in fact, me on an old manic high in my manic-depressive cycle. I feel that, once in a while, I have to remind myself as much as my readers what it’s like to be caught in that bubble, flying overhead where all can see you. It’s so eacy to make run of someone in this state on the street – but I was once one of them. I’m managing through my psychiatrist and therapist – but once upon a time, I thought this was simply a facet of normal life, not understanding the embarrassment and possible damage to self I could inflict… did I mention that, when walking about town on a manic high, I never noticed traffic lights?
Posted, as always, at my poetic haven, Poets United, and I remembered to post to dverse poets, a new site with some extraordinary talent, plus open forums. Peace and clear thinking, Amy
Our Navy SEALS and other Special Ops units pay a terrible price for their extreme talent. They are exposed to sights and sounds the normal American citizen never considers. After hearing about a large number of SEALS being killed this week, and knowing a couple of former Special Ops folks myself, these are my thoughts about what they go through, and at what cost to their own mental health as they become vital cogs within the war machine. Peace, Amy
FORWARD MARCH, SPECIAL OPS
He pledges to hold sacred even the most seditious plans of the military.
His head is shaved ‘til every blond tuft falls to the floor.
He will tread the nether worlds to hinder whichever enemy is targeted.
His missions sporadic, vital;
he is enmeshed in that zone of adrenalin and HOO-AH!
Tonight, he’ll get plastered with his buddies to ward off the sting.
Years later, waking in tremor, he is haunted by
horrors executed at the bidding of men
who felt no stigma about
stirring the global pot to suit their needs
and those of their investors.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle words in bold), Sunday Scribblings (Forward), and, as always, the poetic collective, Poets United.
Poets United asked us to meditate on the word, “She.”
THREE IMAGES OF WOMEN GRACE MY WALL
A dog-eared poster hovers near my desk, rebellious wallpaper
Detailed manifesto of the Women’s Liberation Movement
“Because woman’s work is never done and is underpaid…”
Words from a bubbling wellspring of hope and burned lycra
Demand for an equal stake in this country, still unmet
A postcard: Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein
keep me honest in all pursuits, artful and activist
as they stare me down in a loving way, like sisters
heart of depression beside the mother of us all
reminding me that women are worthy of everything
Klimt portrait, foil-embroidered woman
She stands alone, in no man’s embrace
yet framed by flowers, wearing a come-hither robe
Full black hat, ebony halo, distant gaze
Essence of loveliness, an equal part of my soul
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I Heard The News Today, Oh Boy
I note, fascinated, that
TV prophets cheerfully tender
the day’s torments,
as though yesterday left no scars,
no rusty bloodstains on the streets
of Kabul.
The sun has been swept under
a cement cloud.
Why chance a morning walk
when crawling will do?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Whirl words are in BOLD. Try Brenda’s Wordles – they are fascinating!
Also on Poets United, my poetic collective home.
Silken Softness
My mom, Charlotte,
grew up in Iowa.
Council Bluffs, to be exact.
Recession, then Depression
brought the town to its knees,
at least until corn season.
Mom said Grandma Blanche
could make anything
from corn in a skillet:
Corn cakes, corn pone,
corn bread, but the best was
corn alone.
In the field, the poor were
allowed to glean from
Old Man Jones’ field.
Yanking from stalks,
home to shuck the ears.
Corn silk was, for Charlotte,
a miracle, a treasure. She said,
“I hope someday my wedding dress
will be as soft as this corn silk.”
Blanche marveled at
how her girl could always
make magic from simple things.
It’s a Laughlin tradition,
passed from Blanche to Charlotte,
from Charlotte to lucky me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United, my favorite site, asked for food-inspired, home-grown tales. Can’t get more “down home” than this!
Cheesehead
I’m a newly minted Cheesehead.
Wisconsinites call anyone
from the other side of Lake Erie
“an East Coaster.”
They fretted that we would
never make it through a
Madison winter.
I replied with one word: “Buffalo.”
Slowly they realized that, not only is
New York State snowy and cold and
a cheese heaven in itself,
but I have a Midwestern pedigree.
Mom grew up in Iowa.
I’m willing to eat all the ‘pig corn’ they put on my plate!
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “C,” and also on Poets United, my shelter from the storm.
Sharp Little Pencil 