CINQUAINS FOR dverse FORM FOR ALL
STORMY WEATHER
Cloudy
Chance of teardrops
Possibility of thunder
Hurricanes in season these days
Mood swings
MAGIC MAN
Vision
No magician
Healed the sick; fed the poor
If we follow in his footsteps
Peace reigns
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Tony at dverse presented the weekly “form for all.” I had written some a long while back for Real Toads, but Tony’s explanation of the guidelines – to write with intention; to place meaningful words at the end of a line, rather than a transitional word or hyphenation that makes the 2-4-6-8-2 syllable scheme add up mathematically… these helped me develop a new appreciation of the Cinquain. I hope my poems reflect his guidance!
These will also pop up in the scrolling poetry jam at Poets United, where I always try to be in my best “form.”
Also, today (March 14) would have been the 90th birthday of my mother, Charlotte. I miss her so.
Peace, Amy
Snow Bizness
It is March in Wisconsin
and, any day now,
no matter how green the meadow,
how tawny the wrens who
flew in for Spring,
nor how green
the ivy grows,
we know our TV screens
will sketch the sad
Doppler Crayola scrawl:
One more blizzard.
Snow bury-
ing our lawns,
shunning the calendar,
sticking thick thorns into
Madison’s collective psyche.
As suburban assault vehicles
zigzag on the Beltway
(drivers oblivious to the concept
of SUV rollover ratings),
our guts are twisted and we
tend to cluster in bars,
seeking solace in our famous
Wisconsin micro-brews.
Shallow coping mechanism, I know,
but until we are assured the
stout-stemmed ironweed and
apple saplings are in bloom,
we await our twisted fate…
moods indigo, yet somehow
Madison’s
eccentric
people
never
seem
to
leave.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
De Jackson of Whimsygizmo fame was gatekeeper in the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, and she gave us a huge list of words. A veritable cornucopia; in fact, I was only able to use most of them: Sketch, screen, march (well, March), Snowberry (um, snow bury-ing, groan), tawny, meadow, stout-stemmed, cluster (not tempted in any way, shape, or form to pair an obscenity with that word – see, I’m all grown up now), zigzag, leave, twisted, indigo, shunning, ivy, sapling, and thorns. I didn’t use elder, shallow, or adaptation. Dang!
Thanks, De, for one more chance to comment on the weather here in Madison. I really do love it here, but, dear Lord, would it possible for the snow to melt before June?
This is also posted at my poetic igloo, Poets United. Peace and silky long-johns, Amy
Idiocy Unchecked
Karzai says
the U.S.
is in bed with the Taliban
Bush made him
Bush portrayed him
as the new hope for Afghanistan
Troops dying
Drones flying
Hope dwindles for troops and locals
Speak up now
or this wretched row
will get old enough for bifocals
President
Earn your rent
Time has come to stop it
Tell command crew and
grunts, “It’s true,
come home!” Champagne? We’ll pop it
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Headlines bled before my eyes. “Karzai accuses US of working with Taliban.” What an ungrateful putz, and yet, it’s perfect timing. Let’s blow out of there, right?
NOW will you end the war, Pres. Obama? This war is the longest in American history, and it’s been on your watch for the last full term, so it’s your war now, no matter that Dubya started it. Why don’t you “shock and awe” us by saying that since Bush’s puppet Afghan president no longer respects us, we’re out of there. Every IED is meant for either American troops or the Afghan police who work with them.
Call the White House at 202-456-1111. CALL EVERY DAY. And don’t forget to tell the volunteers it’s not their fault that Pres. Obama is messing up. Thank these kind people for their service, giving up their time to, as one vol put it, “Get one nice comment from you for every 12 people using the “N” word to describe the president.” Peace, Amy
PROMPTS:
The Trifecta 33-333 word challenge was the third definition of TIME (noun)
3a : an appointed, fixed, or customary moment or hour for something to happen, begin, or end
b : an opportune or suitable moment —often used in the phrase about time
Meanwhile, ABC Wednesday is on the letter I. “Idiocy” seemed apropos. Also at my very intelligent home away from home, Poets United, where I am proud to be a member!
Gorgeous “Goldfinger” Gal: Shirley Bassey
Ah, the Bond movies!
Yes, I thought, let’s sit back and
drool over the biggest misogynist franchise
ever undertaken (overtaking box offices
worldwide, and a great date movie,
if the woman is passive: He can close his eyes
and pretend she’s Ursula Andress later.)
My “blah” goes gaga when Shirley Bassey
Herself takes the stage, clutching a mic
Her first phrase, tentative,
lacking that signature tremolo of
“Gowld-fin-gaaaaaaaah”
But as the song progressed, we
stopped staring at her stifling corset and
listened to the majestic magic spell
cast by a 76-year-old woman,
an icon in every sense of the word
(and a favorite lip-synch of
drag queens back in my day)
By the song’s crashing climax,
she nailed that note. Crushed it.
Grabbed it by the saddle horn and held onto
the bucking broncho of all classic
movie themes. She was triumphant.
Gracious. Luminescent.
In short, Adele could learn a lot from
the great, grand, gorgeous Shirley Bassey!
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Honest to Pete, I was ready to be embarrassed when Shirley Bassey came onstage at the Oscars. I thought, “Oh no, another golden girl who’s appearing in casino lounges now. This is gonna be bad, friends.” Later on, my BFF John and I were texting (throughout), and we agreed: Adele (although the cutest young woman and quite bubbly) wrote a song almost as bad as her rendering of said tune onstage.
BFF and I felt like calling both Bassey and La Streisand up to say, “If you two are feeling generous, please take that nice little Brit under your golden wings. WE BEG YOU.”
And about Affleck not being nominated for Best Director: Directors make those nominations, and I think they’re simply jealous that Ben looks better than most of them.
For ABC Wednesday, Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and dverse Open Mic Night! Peace, Amy
DAD’S DYNAMIC DEEDS (The Talented Mr. Barlow)
“A really good fart should come from the heart.”
So said my dad, with no shame, accepting blame.
He blew more gas than a Guernsey.
A one-man methane machine; each a Homeric task.
Expansive explosions the stuff of legend.
The Cryptkeeper would beg for a match
if Dad opened his hatch for a quick dispatch.
Our eyes would water from the slaughter,
and we’d laugh ‘til we cried over his
lack of knack to hide what was inside
and his singular absence of embarrassment
about the mass of gas from his ass.
My mother didn’t mince words:
“BUD! Did you chew your cud?”
Take all the grazing grain-fed cattle,
every bean-eating buckaroo from Blazing Saddles,
plus the backfire from a battered Buick,
throw in a whoopee cushion (or twelve),
push ‘til you’re blue, and your result
would be an inadequate insult to
the Sultan of insufferable incense
A mere shadow of the Shaman
A whisper on the wind compared to
my dad, The Singing Sphincter.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTES: Absolutely true, and one of the best memories of my dad. Seeing “Blazing Saddles” with him at the movies was a trip. The two of us got to the campfire scene and laughed ‘til we cried. I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack, gasping for breath. But then with the belly-laughs came the wretched gas. He poured forth and I had to change my seat for a few minutes until the cloud cleared.
To this day, I don’t think I laugh at anything more than passing gas. If you are near me and “let one go,” I apologize in advance for my guffaws. Can’t help it. It’s hard wired. Just ask my sisters or my best friend, John; they remember. Hope you had fun… Now open a window, for God’s sake!! Peace and a vanilla-scented candle, Amy
For ABC Wednesday (D), and Three Word Wednesday (Backfire, Embarrass, Task), and my source of poetic refreshment, Poets United.
So obviously I’m lousy at taking breaks; although, truth be told, I’m making much progress on the damned taxes, so I’m back for Sunday Night Funnerific-a-go-go, AKA “Four Prompts in One Poem.” Whew!
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
In the past, a vast empire of
mighty newspapers broadened minds.
The scale of subscribers was enormous;
most papers did not more than inform us.
Eventually “news” skirted the real story
under orders from rich men who tend to
eat the truth raw and spit it out, tattered and
slimy, pro-corporate, inaccurate drool.
The print version has since been scattered
all over cyberspace – in case you haven’t
notices, HuffPost will soon make The Daily News
a ghost (it’s on the edge, like most).
As for TV, I mist over remembering
Cronkite and Murrow, mirrors of our national
conscience (back when there was such a thing).
Now it’s “Happy News,” reported by interns and
delivered by softly curved Barbies with white smiles and
a light-skinned Black meteorologist. They report on
straw polls; they pitch their network’s upcoming
programs. Even the crawl crawls, clueless.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Inhale.) Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem on the word “Subscribe”; Brain Miller at dverse Poets wanted writings on media; Brenda Warren, at The Sunday Whirl, gave us a dozen words, and Poets United (all the poetry that’s fit to print!) has Poetry Pantry. So that’s FOUR prompts in one poem, and it’s still properly snarky, as befits my sharp little pencil.
I do miss real journalism… Moyers is all I have left, except for BBC.com! Peace (and a plea for something more than birdcage liner), Amy
Once again I find I’m lapsing
My brain is not synapsing
quite properly, and still
(as life requires we will),
I must do family taxes.
No time for “poem-relaxes,”
nor room for fun with Wordles
My cocoa sits and curdles
as I, ‘sharp little’ in hand
do battle with The Man.
But… one real poem for the road, what say? I’ll be back soon! This will be at Poets United, where the math is easy… but the social studies can be a bit challenging!
TOOLS OF HIGHER MATH
The utile compass pinpoints
and twirls
Traces my brain
seeking sense in vain
Its sharp center
pierces a fold and
the golf pencil
circumnavigates
in search of principles
and edicts, only to find
bloody rivers of
flowing memory
Streams of unconscious longing
Thwacking rhythms of
a gutbucket blues
Tintype verses
Blowfly curses
Meandering forgetfulness and
a singular kaleidoscope
filled with broken shards
of a life
and a city and
things that happened
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Psychiatry, according to my former practitioner, is in fact experimentation. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit,” he said, explaining that the details lie in the psychiatrist’s ability to listen, to ask questions about how the counseling is going, and to be sensitive to the patient’s vibe. I imagined what it would be like to look at my brain from a clinical, almost forensic, standpoint… except the practitioner is Tim Burton. Peace, Amy
Burnout
How could one who was
once so delightful, dancing,
brimming with cheer,
turn out such a burnout?
Was a time I was wickedly
comely; some said it was
a certain spark
that lit me from within
A blaze of glory,
my euphoric past…
Now I’m worn down,
perhaps a bit dimmer
Please give me a chance
to shed some light on
my matchless existence
until, used up, I
f
i
z
z
l
e
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Haven’t planted in quite a while, but Poetic Bloomings asked for poems that personalize an inanimate object. I looked toward the first thing I saw for my inspiration… one of those old hippie candles with the psychedelic patterns! Also at my favorite point of light, Poets United. Peace, Amy
At dverse, Hobgoblin asked us to attempt a poem in a foreign language. While I did spend years in Puerto Rico, my Spanish is a mite rusty; that’s why I buy bilingual volumes of Neruda, to strengthen that connection. Let’s see what you think (the English translation follows).
San Juan por la noche
Noches en la playa
de mi Borrinquen querido
Con mi amor, sin abarcas en la arena
y la aroma del mar
Besos dulces, cervezas frias
Manos entrelazarse
Estrellas bialando
por la cadencia de nos corazones
Muchos anos pasados,
yo recuerdo este amor… suave y eterno
TRANSLATION
San Juan at Night
Nights on the beach
of my beloved Puerto Rico
With my love, barefoot in the sand
and the scent of the sea
Sweet kisses, cold beer
Hands intertwined
The stars dancing
to the rhythm of our hearts
After so many years,
I remember that love… tender and eternal
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at “la casa de poecia,” Poets United!
Sharp Little Pencil 