TEACUP
Sad Lisa was a hard-headed woman
She was miles from nowhere
on the road to find out
where the father and son had gone
Had they boarded longer boats
Sailed into the night fog, into white
She brews tea for the tillerman and whispers
“But I might die tonight”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore
From Cat Stevens’ “Tea For The Tillerman”
We were asked to write a poem incorporating song titles from our favorite albums. Showing my age here, but…
AMERICAN BOOKENDS
Voices of old people in the park
Old friends haunted by a hazy shade of winter
At the zoo, Punky’s dilemma lingers
as Mrs. Robinson cries, “Save the life of my child!”
Like it or not,
we’re all fakin’ it in America
Our lives are bookends:
Beginnings and overs
but mostly
overs
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore
from all-time fave album (vinyl) Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bookends”
We were prompted to write about a fork in the road; a change in direction; a crossroads, and the path taken – or not taken.
As usual, I took a different path… on the prompt! Enjoy a bit of whimsy. Amy
SILVER WHERE (Writer’s Island, Imagine)
Humid sultry unbearable walking-through-hot-water August midday
Trying to catch even the echo of a slight breeze
Wandering in the shade trees of Topanga Canyon
A glint
A glimmer of shiny something
half-hidden under leaves blown to the side of the road
during yesterday’s languidly moving air
A fork
Did someone toss it out the window with their takeout Chinese
forgetting that it came from a drawer in their home
(the ants feast on leftover Boiled Tripe and Things in a nearby discard0
Was there a fight and it was flung in a rage? From a moving car?
Or was it Julia Butterfly Hill, who takes environmentalism so seriously
she packs knife, fork, spoon, napkin, cup, and plate in her handbag
lest she be served on styrofoam with plastic utensils
Did her legendary self wander this road? Did the fork get tired of wandering?
Did it share tearful, tarnish-inducing goodbyes
with her fellow knife and spoon
before skinnying out a hole in the bottom of Julia’s bag?
The fork is with me today; I shine it often and smile at happenstance
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
We were asked to conduct an interview… here is one conversation I would love to have. Amy
A SEEKER SPEAKS TO THE MAGDALENE (Interview, Big Tent)
(Seeker) To witness your Lord
hanging on that cross
Bloodied, his voice parched
Can you see it, even now?
(Mary Magdalene) Waving crows off his face
lest they peck out his eyes
That vision is burned into my mind
My heart is crushed again and again
(S) They called you crazy
A whore and more
So afraid of you, the men
threw out your Gospel
(MM) Over the years, I was
discredited, my story edited
Details tacked on me
like cheap jewels, it’s true
(S) You used your wealth
to finance the ministry
You learned to heal
Trained, same as the men
(MM) But men had the power
Freer to travel alone in the world
I tried to teach, but without the Rabbi
they berated me
(S) We know your strength, sister
You risked your life to find his grave
He revealed his risen self to you first
You never ran away to hide
(MM) Women are the bearers and keepers
Women understand risk
We bleed; we heal; we wait
We love; we are patient, like the Spirit
(S) Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
The Epistles of Paul
The Revelation of John
But no Gospel of the Magdelene
(MM) I was left out of the Bible
But I don’t need that validation
The Divine Sofia, the Spirit of Wisdom spoke
Her voice is true… I am content with love
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
At Poetic Asides, we’re filling in the blanks: “The Meaning Of _______”
THE MEANINGS OF SUMMERTIME
At three, summertime meant
my sisters stayed home all day
We’d play together, the whole neighborhood
Every mom our mom, watching over us
At five, summertime meant
No more Kindergarten
No more snacks or naptime giggles
I missed my new friends and wondered about first grade
At eight, summertime meant
a nice, long vacation
Swimming in the backyard
Sneaking sips of beer at Mom’s jazz parties
At twelve, summertime meant
the awakening of my body, my first cramps
Denied the pool because I couldn’t navigate tampons
and Mom didn’t want to talk about it
At sixteen, summertime meant
School friends would drive out to see me, the country mouse
I didn’t have to miss them all summer
Backgammon with my best friend John til dawn
At twenty-five, summertime meant
lots of gigs – weddings, bar mitzvahs
Sweating out Village piano bars for extra cash
Saving money because August is dead in the City
At thirty-four, summertime meant
Puerto Rican beaches with my baby girl
Her first swims were off the shore, in my arms
We were always salty, sweating, smiling
At forty-nine, summertime meant
hard times for my girl as she
battled disturbing trends of mindset
She, solitary; me, worried; doctors, experimenting
Now it’s my fifties and summertime means
Hot flashes accentuate the humidity
My days are my own and so is my illness
Tricking myself into getting outside for sunshine
No matter the person, summertime means
different pleasures at different ages
different pressures at different ages
Seasons are like mood swings, summertime having the advantage of sun
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
FUNDAY
Today she will wear pjs to the market
part her hair on the other side
run a teabag through the coffee grinder
and put orange juice on her cereal
Today is a turquiose-eye-shadow kind of day
A braless Wednesday
as The Girls dangle near her belt
A day for Dollar Store shopping
She’ll buy a Liberace DVD
and two cans of Beefaroni, even though she’s vegan
Barefoot on the sidewalk
Deliberately stepping in dog poop just to feel the squish
and leaving human pawprints behind as she
heads for the library to read Ayn Rand
backwards
Today is a day for yodeling
on Main Street
And writing lesbian love letters to Sara Palin
Wednesdays are made for fun
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
If you are manic-depressive, you’ll understand. If you’re not, try to understand… and ‘walk a mile in my Keds’! Amy
ON A DIME, IN A FLASH
Flopped on the couch like a road toad
flat as flannel
Brain accepts invisible code
BING! A channel
goes live – I’m up and about
Pop! Goes the manic
Look! The sun’s shining after all
Outside in a panic
Walking so fast my mind can’t keep up
Store. Buy. Food.
On the way walk home, starting to slip
home… not so… good…
Now that was one fast-cycling episode
Food barely to the kitchen
I’m back on the couch, potato load
Bipolar bitchin’
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thoughts about the Obama presidency and the dearth – not the death – of activism. Time to wake up!
CHANGE 2009
He stood to take the oath of office
Both the white guy and the biracial guy blew the oath
but an Asian cellist became a rock star that day
Miles of humanity surrounded the Capitol
Standing as one and chanting,
“Yes we can! Yes we can!”
Now, a year later, half are disillusioned and
too damned lazy to call their legislators or take action
They should have been shouting, “Yes HE can!”
He can’t do it alone
The road to change is long, deeply furrowed and
littered with sharp stones (lest you cut your foot)
Change doesn’t come from a place of comfort
especially your own smug armchair in front of a plasma TV
Change comes hard. Raise your voices. Get off your asses.
YES. WE. CAN.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
While I don’t view abortion protesters per se, I am pro-choice for the simple reason that rich women will have and have always had access to safe, doctor-performed abortions. Why should the Karadashian sisters be able to have an abortion when they have an OOPS!, while a girl who was hit on by daddy, or a woman worn down by dealing with the eight kids she already has, and bound by her religion to not insist her husband wear a condom, have less? Opponents of abortion should also put themselves in the shoes of those poor sisters. Amy
ABORTION PROTESTER (WWP, walk in the shoes of enemies)
Man and women together in mutual embrace
create life within the woman’s womb
At first it looks like tissue, merely a cyst
but so quickly it assumes human form
How can a woman who created in love
vacuum away this baby like so much flotsam?
How can a man stand by with no opinion
as this precious fruit is torn ruthlessly from the vine?
A doctor who swears to “first, do no harm”
is murdering an innocent child
and, offering no counseling to the mother,
calmly points her toward the desk so she can pay
Small wonder I’m out here with my sign
and a fake fetus in a jar, here in the hot sun
I’ll scream til this profitable industry is ended
I don’t believe in the death penalty, but then again…
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 