Click on link to play. Amy on keys and vocals, Riley on drumset, Rob on tenor sax. Photo by Donna Dajnowski, used by permission of photographer.
FAMILY AFFAIR
Mother and daughter
Keyboardist and drummer
Our yearbooks diverged:
Mine said, “You are so weird,”
and her entries were all about
her coming out and being cool.
Years ago, the dissolution of
the marriage of her parents
put Riley in a tricky spot.
Years later, rarity of rarities:
Her dad, a great saxophonist,
joined us on a session.
Vintage jazz cut with
a medium beat, but
vintage Amy to the core.
We all felt vibes surfacing.
Felt the delirium of healing.
Created a legacy of friendship.
Sessions are not just for
the psychologist’s office.
Jams are not only spread
on whole wheat toasty bread.
Jazz has that knack of pushing back
what’s in the way; music, here to stay.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Jasmine Calyx, who printed an amazing list of words, including some of the above: Songwriter, surfacing, yearbook, drummer, keyboardist, rarities, delirium, legacy, dissolution, and vintage. She has a knack for highlighting the blogs of other poets… a truly selfless blogger. I dig her style – check her out! Also for Wonder Wednesday at Poets United (proud to be a member!), asking for poems about wonders of the world. I think that two exes and their daughter performing in one space, making great jazz, is a WONDER!
Riley, Rob Weinberger, and I did record this piece in a Binghamton, NY studio. Rob’s wonderful wife, Donna Dajnowski, took some pix. Lex was stuck upstate, but he thought it was a great idea. The cut needs some editing, but you get the idea. Peace, Amy
ARMED
Put yourself in his position.
The kid was always odd.
Mom got knocked up but
some guy married her to
keep her off welfare or worse.
He grew up. Spoke loudly
at worship when he should’ve
kept quiet, now they thought
he was more disturbed that ever.
Roamed around with a bunch of
homeless dudes, got kicked out
of his hometown, they booed him.
“Crazy,” they whispered. Harsh.
He gets in big trouble and
hides out in the woods, but
one of his gang gives him up to
the authorities. He is cornered.
If Jesus had had a gun in Gethsamane,
would he have taken aim at the guards?
Nowadays, it would barely make the crawl:
“Middle Eastern man, 33, guns down cops.”
Jesus would never own a gun; he shunned
violence. He preached unconditional love,
and that’s not shown with assault rifles.
Even when betrayed with a kiss.
Even when tortured by Roman soldiers.
Even when people screamed at him
on the long, laden perp walk to Golgotha.
Even bloodied, he forgave those who
drove nails into his body.
Even as he was raised up on the cross
and set up for display like a sick statue.
Suspend belief in the resurrection
for a moment. He had no idea what
was coming next, and still, he chose death
willingly, for the sake of others.
What if Jesus had an assault rifle or
a high-powered Palin moose killer?
If you’re Christian, ask yourself:
Whose message do you put more faith in?
The words of Christ… or the lobbyists of the NRA?
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, we are back to Square One: A! I imagine this will ruffle some feathers, but remember, the crux of this not “either/or,” but rather, priorities. One can be a Christian and hunt, go to the shooting range. It’s a personal choice whether you feel safer with a pistol in the house, but if it’s stored and the ammo locked up, as it should be, that’s not a lot of help when, as Rush Limbaugh so eloquently put it today, “Obama’s thugs come to your door to seize your guns.” Ted Nugent would call me nuts, but I don’t think hunting requires Kalishnikovs. People are so fearful (some of that biracial man in the White House), they are stocking up on ammo!
FYI: Despite Rush’s ranting about the Commander In Chief (calling the president Socialist, Muslim, Nazi, racist, a traitor, and TAR BABY… let’s all throw up now), RUSH is the only radio talk show on the Armed Forces Network. This treason goes directly to the troops. Your tax dollars at work, and mine.)
It’s all about choices. And politics. And remembering who, and whose, you are. As for me and mine, I’m with Jesus; Gandhi; Martin Luther King, Jr.; the Buddah… you get the idea. Peace, Amy
THE ROYAL PAIN
He’s had all the royal breaks.
His every wish was fulfilled.
He could go on a bender,
drunk as a skunk, end up
naked in a ditch, and the press
would chalk it up to
youthful royal wildness:
Poetry for the masses.
In a world hungry for virtue,
there is diminishing patience
for the antics of the royals,
living in palaces that have
many suites – but no room
for commoners, nor
succor for the poor.
Perhaps William will rise to lead
a new England. A good start,
taking steps to dismantle
the British Behemoth,
the burden borne by the masses:
Royalty.
Privilege.
Birthright.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(NOTE: This instrument, called the hang, is pronounced “hong.” Click on the video before you read the poem!)
ZEN MAN
Find him in nature
a shaded nook where
trees whisper stories of
the ancient ones.
Matthew finds a
perfect perch and
carefully lifts his hang,
its song to share.
Nimble, careful,
deliberate fingers seem
carved from soft wood,
burnished brown.
He conjures chords,
soothing harmonies,
unearthly sounds, yet
so natural: Soul songs.
In this moment there is only
Matt, the hang, and strains
of unrestrained bliss;
the gods conjured his gift.
And we, who were
a moment ago merely
bumps on a log are
lifted to a higher place…
Musical, ethereal, reflective, mindful.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Perfect moment for ABC Wednesday to feature the letter “Z.”
Also, Kim Nelson at Poets United (my poetic shady nook) asked for poems about reflection.
My cousin by marriage, Matt Venuti, is a soulful musician. Please visit his site, www.mattvenuti.com, for more videos and information about his art. He also plays the EVI and a variety of other instruments, but the hang has his heart at present.
He is also one of those musicians who didn’t get into it so he could drink and smoke on the job! He’s a gentle soul, utterly sincere, and wildly talented… yet humble. If you’re lucky, you’ll experience him performing live.
Peace from a lucky cousin, Amy
TWOFER
Two in one
Joined at the skin
within
Yin/Yang twins with
opposing forces:
One, golden innocence
the endless blossoming
of girl to young lady to
woman to mom to
crone
The other, haunted by
events time will not erase,
rusted razors
The miracle is
they both survive
the chaos
One diary; two lives
The perfectionist clips
fraying edges of her life;
her trademark, a lack
of deceit.
The dangerous silverfish
dives endlessly into
threadbare carpet on
the walls, only to emerge
unspooling, unruly,
unnervingly unorthodox
One seeks applause
The other, a pause,
if only to seek a blank sheet,
a mulligan, a cosmic do-over
(and over, and over)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, “Get listed.” Huge list of words, and I managed to use quite a few. Thanks, Fireblossom! Also at my poetic hangout, Poets United. I was too late for dverse Open Mic Night. Drat! Finally, for Trifecta, “survive.”
RE: Life… Finally back among the functional, for the most part. The two in one of this piece are, of course, Amy Before She Knew and Amy After Diagnosis and Realization that her youth was stolen. Both are good people with frenetic days, bad tempers, and other challenges. Many thanks to all who have been sending good wishes during my hiatus. Happy New Year and Peace, Amy
DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE
“Don’t bother with that now,” says he,
that little devil in me, and with a smile.
“The pills aren’t good for you – you, who are
too special to be tamed by doctors’ doses.”
I gaze through cobalt blue glass. It’s all over
our house, in unexpected places and all the
windows. Blue soothes. Blue cools my brow.
She, color of cornflowers and lobelia.
“Don’t look there. And remember,” says he,
“there is so much more fun in dancing without
benefit of discretion, in writing on the walls
before the thought skitterclatters down the hall.”
I do not listen to that voice. Not a voice, really,
that would be schizyfreaky… it’s the pull of
the World, of Things To Be Bought, of Drinks
To Be Drunk (Too Many and Too Often).
He stops, knows he’s been recognized. “Girl,
I’m only trying to help. The meds keep you under
a scripted thrall of ennui. Remember the old days?
You were the good time that was had by all.”
Had and had again, says I, searching for the
new blue top, periwinkle. Blue cobalt strand in
one ear, a blue bejeweled post in the other. I’ll sing loud
the blues. Sing over him. Sing past him and out the door.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A continuation of writings probing the “many-splintered thing,” my depression! Sunday Scribblings asked for “you and me” poems. This poem takes an abstract turn because, as I continue to fight a deep depression, I’ve had an internal dialog of sorts: the relationship between the “devil” of my chemical imbalance (and temptations to go off meds) are tempered by my relationship to the color blue, a healing shade for my blues, and isn’t that ironic? For some reason, it has always brought me solace; hence, the many blue bottles and jars all over our apartment.
Anything that works. And it WILL get better, even though I was born without bootstraps by which to pull myself up… that’s where meds and therapy take over to breach the gap.
This is also posted at my calm blue writing room, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
STOCK STILL
stock still
starting off wrong foot hold
a time to answer
ruler gave little to stand in.
storm threatened, exploded cold shadow
mysteries appear at the door
another burn on the sojourn
bury arms.
conduct friendly first year.
side now up to the clouds above.
For dverse, an erasure poem from Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. Dedicated to the Republicans in our U.S. Congress and the way their “not playing well with others” holds us hostage. They know quite well they hold the keys to our security: At home, abroad, and universally… I keep hoping they listen to what Lincoln called “our better angels.” Lincoln would be ashamed at what his party has become: Obstructionists, secessionists, rich men in silk suits who spit on the poor. I call ‘em like I see ‘em, and depression only makes the lines seem deeper and more entrenched.
Also at my bipartisan poetry hangout, Poets United… proud to be a member. Peace, Amy
This is really happening. To me. No pity party, please, just listen and understand. It will get better, I know that. More words after the poem.
TURBULENT DISCONNECT
Now I lay me down to weep
A labyrinth, a maze without cheese
Words fail the bruised heart,
the mind made of chalk
Cry. Weep. Moan. Mourn. Keen. Wail.
These words pale. I am breaking down
into actual, definable pieces of self
Synapses unsnapping, flying free but
trapped within my brain
Kneeling facedown across the bed,
arms spread wide, inside outside
The religious lie prone, oblate before God
So I humble myself, keening aloud abstract pleas:
Why? Where are you?
How will I make it through?
What is happening to me and
what’s to come? When? How?
But these phrases do not come all apiece
They are fragmented by disturbing sounds
Eyes red tired sore, cried to dry and then,
having found the source, tears well up again
as my gut contracts (sounds like a business deal)
My face is chapped by The Waterworks
Forcing fluids to keep up with the gushers
A fracked earthquake of emotion, unnatural
Worrying meds, from table to bowl,
Weaning off shame to another Sheol
Chemical soup has ruled my life for years
Maybe The Dark One, sensing instability,
Delights in trumping God at my disability
There’s little more pitiful
than a 55-year-old woman crying clean through
her yoga routine
falling over and wiping her nose on
her sleeve between heaves
and retches between stretches
Now another bout is brewing
so I’ll put this aside
Take off my bifocals so the salt
won’t be dried on the lenses
Cling to the teddy bear
my daughter used to hold fast
Roll over in the dark to sip water
from a cobalt blue glass
It’s coming again… the creek, the river,
the waterfall, the tsunami, the flood
And FEMA cannot help this disaster
The global disconnect in my head
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I have not been on the computer for days, let alone write. Mary Kling, your Imaginary Garden With Real Toads prompt for poems about “connections” led me to rework an old poem into a more coherent form, written as it was during a dark period. I am in an even darker place now, so please forgive my not responding to comments. But if you have even felt something this deep, please leave a comment and let me know, if only so I’ll have company. If you have never felt this way, I ask that you offer a prayer for all of us who live with depression. Don’t worry about me… I’ve dealt with clinical depression for years, and on my mom’s side, the condition drips down the family tree like bitter molasses. It’s been days since I have written anything at all, so I offer these words in the hope that someone else will recognize it, or perhaps understand more fully what their neighbor, their niece, their spouse may be going through. And please, don’t try to cheer us up with JOKES, cuz it makes us cry! (A little gallows humor for y’all.)
Also for ABC Wednesday, where the letter is T… for Time, Turbulence, Trying, Teddy bear, and Trust. And it’s on the rolling scroll to the right on Poets United, my safe haven in times of turbulence. Peace to all, and love, Amy
Interview With Sgt. Davis, Kabul, 2012
“Am I sorry I enlisted? Hmm…”
The reporter waits as the sergeant takes
one long draw on a Lucky. She
exhales her answer in a cloud:
“At first, yeah. I mean, you’re
surrounded by big ole boo-rah boys,
they’re staring at your boobs. Little
whispers, lick their lips, high school shit.
“Faces like little boys opening
Christmas presents: “This one
is MINE!” Like I’m a thing, like
that chess piece? A pawn.
“Then the testosterone starts: A
shove at my shoulder, telling me
I don’t belong here. And that was
in Boot, in the States, you hear me?”
Sgt. Davis falls silent and takes
another drag. “I remember the
final attempt to break my pride.
Three against one: the showers.
“Taking turns, daring me to scream,
saying ‘Call your mama, little girl,’
and I don’t tell the sarge, ‘cause if
I do, they’re gonna do it again.
“Tried to bust me, but they were wrong.
My grandma raised me, she used to say
God only makes beauty; it’s people
make their own selves ugly.
“She’s in my dreams. We’ll be rocking
on the front porch, sipping coffee.”
Pause. A sip of bitter brown hot.
“Here’s the thing. I know they finally
figured out I got as much fire in the belly
as any of them punkass boys. Now I’m
their sergeant. They do what I say, and
women in my unit are safe, protected.
“Well, time to fire up my unit. We’re
outta here at oh-two-hundred, night raids.
One thing… I’m proud to serve, but what
we’re serving up here is bullshit, you hear?
“Write it down: BULL. SHIT. Women’s
life here, worse that anything I ever saw
back home, and we’re doing nothing that
won’t go back to the old ways.
“Nice talkin’ to ya.” She grins and extends
a knuckle-bruised, weathered hand. “Time to
kick some ass in the name of democracy and
Burger King, keep burqas off the women for a while.”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Whirl gave us a baker’s dozen. See the Wordle HERE and check out other poets! Also on the sidebar at my port in any storm, Poets United. PEACE, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 