Portrait by Edward Lear, poet and artist
I Made a Bu-Bo (and other nonsensical blather)
Snickering up on the biggest owl
on the entire Gaia Marble,
the Eagle Owl
(some are longer than,
some are heavier than,
but the Eagle Owl is
generally considered, by those
ornithologically inclined,
to be biggest, so who am I
to argue with expertations
of the nth degree; their
degrees on their walls and
in their halls of edification
So I am snickering up,
that is, asneak, all the better
to pop the vroom lens on my
Kodak Not A Brownie But
Something Of Great Cost,
the camera, my only friend
since my husbandonment
left me too for spending
so much money on this
gadgetary nonsense
As I said (for I digress,
even upon egress), I am
snickering up sneaky as pie
to take a rotogravurical image
of the Great (if not largest or
heaviest, per said experts)
Eagle Owl, as rendered
(in ink, not in olive oil,
for this bird has little meat,
and the plucking’s torture,
especially if the owl is still
alive and quite ornith… ornery)
I say, as rendered by the Even
Greater Edward Lear, I thus
with my gravuracospity at its
heightedness, do snarkily step on a
bygone Snickers wrapper and oops
The Bubo-Bubo, as it’s called
in Eurasia, yes, boob that I am,
it flies off before I can get a shot
(with said camera, and not with
assault riflage of any repudiation)
My questation, a lost causation…
The owl, gone the way of
other fowl, and growlsome, I
retreat fleet back to my bungaloo,
buggered again by Naturama.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, a tribute to May birthday boy, poet and artist Edward Lear/ I thought he was known only for his doggerel (including The Owl and the Pussycat) but now I know (thanks to the site) that he produced fine artwork, especially his collection of bird portraits. I decided to try the fun doggerel style of Lear as well as writing about one of his portraits. Hope I succeeded! This is also on the rolling right column of my poetic nest, Poets United (proud to be a member!).
The Eagle Owl is arguably (as poem says) the largest owl, found in Europe and Asia. It’s about halfway up the Endangered Scale. I like its expression because it looks like my late black kitty Missy when she put on her “mean face”! Amy
Let Your Heart Take the Reins
In Biblical times, the “heart”
was actually one’s gut.
To “know in one’s heart”
was to feel in the region
of the solar plexus the nexus
of thought and emotion,
an ocean of intuitive knowledge.
If you get that pain
in the pit of your stomach,
stop. Listen to your
better angels; let your heart
guide you, provide you with peace.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Kim Nelson at Poets United’s Verse First wanted a poem, in fewer than 13 lines, about our passions. Mine do not include brevity, so this was a good challenge for me!
Interpreting the Bible to relate to modern-day times is a passion of mine. So many folks use the Bible, as my friend Ben recently wrote, as a weapon… slandering gay folks, denying poor women health care. All the things Jesus decried when he said, “Love your neighbor as yourself…” Loving God brings me closer to doing the right thing. It’s hard, having manic depression and PTSD, to find that quiet place, but the ache in the pit of my gut I always pay attention to! Peace, Amy
A Brief Hello
Fruitless labor
Pitocin-dosed
forced contractions
Tears doubled
by knowing
what’s to come
The final push
The heartbreaking
silence
She holds the baby
who will never
suckle at her breast
Tiny boy, gone
before he arrived
An empty promise
Yet, she holds him
Swaddles him
Kisses him
Strokes him
Adores him
Names him
One photo
Mom and Gabriel
Her little angel
Goodbye
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Well, after the fun with Shakespeare yesterday, I fell into memories of my mom and her telling me about “the one that got away.” Times have changed since then: Even though my mother’s baby was about six months old, she never saw her second girl child. Susan at Imaginary Garden With Read Toads, where I’ve been posting daily since the first of April, asked for a Hello or Hello/Goodbye poem, so this allowed me to put my emotions into words. This will also appear at my poetic birthing center, Poets United.
Nowadays, they take a picture, they do name the baby, they have a funeral, a burial or internment. I think it’s a healthy part of the grieving process that will come no matter what, for the mother with swollen breasts and no baby to feed. I wish my mother could have met her baby girl. May all babies be born healthy – and wanted. Peace, Amy
Forgive me, dear Toads, but I have dissected, line by line, Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be?” soliloquy and have thus bastardized the Bard in such fashion as to concoct complete nonsense on this, the anniversary of his birth, his death, and now his utter humiliation. And so, dear readers, we bring you our humble offering, which shall also be posted forthwith at Poets United.
Tubby or not Tubby; that is the question.
Whether ‘twas nobler in my mind to suffer
the stings and narrow minds of outrageous torturers
Or to shake my arms and see the blubber
and by supposing, to send them to the Y, to sleek—
No more, and by sleek to say we end
the fartbreak, and the thousand unnatural pocks
my butt was heir to. ‘Twas a consideration determined to be wished. To diet, to steep—
to steep—purchased two creams, ay, there’s the rub,
For in that steep of meth what schemes may come
When we have shuffled off to Buffalo for more,
Bust, give us pause. There’s no respect
for my anatomy of so long this life.
For who would bear the rips and tears of seams,
Th’ dresser’s wrong, the frowsy girl’s costumely
The bags of disguised lovehandles, the raw decay,
the insulin they’ll proffer, and the spurs
That patients merit from unsweetened cakes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With her vibratin’ “him”? Who would goutless bear,
to grunt and swear Richard Simmons’ life
Is that dread of aerobics after meth,
My undiscovered bounty, from fat hath born
No lipo rejects, drizzles the swill,
And shakes us farther, bear those chills we have
Than cry to others that we Nutraslim?
This consciousness makes cows of us all,
And this, the plaintive whew! of redistribution
Is stuck o’er with the frail past of night,
An enterprising great bitch who foments
With disregard their comments turn away
And lose the name of active. Soft, I’m now,
Get bare, I’ll feel ya! Wimp, in thy horizons
be all my skin remembered.
Yes, I was overweight and quite happily so for many years. But then my knees started to creak, so I ended up losing 50 pounds… with no help from Nutrislim or Richard Simmons, thank you very much.
And now, TO THE COMMENTS! Have at me, dear Bard worshipers! With a wink and a smile, The Unfair Amelia
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, my April Poem A Day hangout, wanted poems about “melting,” but with an interesting twist: NO use of words like hot, cold, fire, or ice! So my original thought, “What a world! What a world…” a la the Wicked Witch was out the door. Ditto romantic heat. So I turned to… the news. Also at my hearth and home, Poets United.
Boston Meltdown
“We’re stuck in our house,
Diane,” she tells ABC News.
“Trying to figure out what’s
for dinner. My husband’s
defying the cops, going over
to the butcher shop… that guy’s
gonna make a mint, Mike’s
buying filet mignon.”
“And how do you feel
about this ordeal?” intones
Sawyer, safe in the studio.
“What ordeal? This is America,
and yeah, now we’re on lockdown.
My confidence in personal freedom
may be melting around the edges,
but now I kind of understand what
Afghanis go through every day.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Based on an ABC News interview of a Cambridge, MA resident. I am glad they caught the second suspected bomber alive, and I hope he makes it to trial. Peace, and prayers to all in Boston and West Texas, Amy
Susie Clevenger at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, my April Poem-a-Day hangout, asked simply for poems of encouragement. Who deserves more encouragement than a brilliant, beautiful daughter as she prepares to graduate college? This is also at Poets United, a source of endless encouragement for me. Peace, Amy
For My Daughter As She Enters The Real World
Sure, there will be chaotic days,
storms, trials, and simple
misunderstandings.
In the wider world, you’ll see
fights, flights, frights.
(Some people are best at being their worst.)
All these will be moments in
your timeline; some will leave
scars – but those heal with time.
Others will transcend reality with
luminous grandeur, majesty.
Some moments will simply be.
Hold onto patience. Be kind
to fools, for they know not.
Most of all, be patient with yourself.
Be mindful in all you do.
Remember that, no matter what,
there is love even in
crevices of broken bones or
wedged in the cracks of
distortion’s thin places.
There is peace in silence.
There is beauty waiting for
you to bring it into being.
There is God in everything,
especially you.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Skipping Rope at the Threshold
As often as we might come here
We are never skeptical of the weather
Even a slight shower will not control
our bold urge to unwind en la parque
I am the first of eight; I control the sign to
go or stay. Mama is home; the ninth hermano
almost here. At the threshold of womanhood,
I wield my sword of power gracefully.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Painting by Joaquin Sorolla, Public Domain
Day 14 of NaPoWriMo finds me once again in the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, where Hedgewitch suggested an ekphrastic piece based on the artwork Joaquin Sorolla y Batista, a Spanish painter whose works emphasized the natural light of his homeland and the people who dwelt under that light.
Also for the Sunday Whirl, where I managed to get the dozen words in two stanzas. Whew! Thanks, Brenda, for the prompt. Also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where the weather’s always fine.
Two-Gear Gal
Got two gears
Speedy and Gonzonked
Today feels orange, time to
RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNthunk
Mind did a hit and run
Curse, put ‘er in reverse
Survey the carnage
which looks like me
Time to drive
to the station
and on my knees
confess, I guess
But then this lass
Runs out of gas and
smack into my barcalounger
Time to
f
a
a
a
a
d
e
.
.
.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads pays homage to the poet Billy Collins (for more on him, click HERE). He often uses humor to mask the deeper meaning. Can you guess my vehicle in the poem above? Also for NaPrWriMo (two #13s today), and appearing in the side margin of my favorite rumble seat, Poets United – proud to be a member!
Ted and Riley, back in the States, 1993
She’s Gotta Have It
Just after Daddy flew back
to the States and I was hiring
nannies so I could sing at the
casino lounge each night…
Riley and me in Plaza de las Americas
(translation: da mall). She spied
a toy so huge, brown, sweet,
huggable, fuzzy… and pricey
“¡Mamí, es MÍ oso!” The teddy bear
to beat them all. So tall, big as Riley,
a faint smile, Hershey-Kiss eyes,
just like my beba’s eyes…
“Maybe another day,” I sighed after
checking the price; in a trice, she
sneezed, spewing snot all over
the poor bear’s head. ALL over.
I scraped the boogers off with my
credit card in the checkout line.
He’s mine, for now, as she
gypsies her way around L.A.
Ted sits on a small rocker, with a
tiny bear on his lap, waiting for her.
When I miss Riley most, I find Ted.
Sit on the bed, hug him, and smilecry.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My sister says that once a child has peed, pooped, puked, or deposited any bodily fluids on a blanket, it’s theirs forever. And so it went with Ted. True story – I’d never seen a two-year-old put out that amount of mucus in my life. She really wanted that bear! This will appear on the side bar of Poets United, and it’s my NaPoWriMo #12 (National Poetry Writing Month: A poem a day!) Peace, Amy
What Color Am I?
In the burbs growing up
I was browner than the other kids,
Black Irish, but still “white.”
In NYC walking about
I was one of many shades of brown,
but lighter than most.
In Bermuda, I tanned and
matched the other workers;
they called me their Little American Onion.
After Riley popped out, she
compared our “skins” and asked,
“Why am I darker than you, Mommy?”
I told her she was descended
from desert people, the Jews, who
were used to more sunlight than the Irish.
She went to high school and
her favorite teacher was Mr. Fuller, AKA
FullDogg; his dreds up in a knot, proud Black man
She only called him Mr. Fuller, and
I was pleased that, before I met him, she
hadn’t said, “He’s Black” or anything at all.
I don’t think the world is ready for “color-blind,”
but we are ready for “palms up,” for viewing
commonality and remember the truth:
We are all from Africa, and I am not “white,”
I am Euro-American, born of a race who dwelt
in colder climes… I am beige and melanin-deprived.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from mnsu.edu (Minnesota State University, Diversity Office, used by permission)
“Colored” was the prompt from the fabulous Kim Nelson at Poets United, and I decided to take it head-on.
Try this: Line up all your friends,or your kids’ friends, all ethnicities, and have then put their palms up.
Without exception, unless they’ve been playing in the mud, the palms are white,
as are the soles of the feet. Then, for a beautiful array of browns, hands down! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 