Sunday Scribblings asked for thoughts about each poet’s muse. I believe I was one of the lucky ones; I also believe this may account for my poor grades in school! No blame at all, only gratitude for being so blessed. Peace, Amy
PS This is also at Poets United, the poetic collective.
I Met My Muse When I Was Two
Dancing, glittering over my playpen.
Sweet music singing when the record player was silent.
During school, whispering secrets to me
(so much more enticing than scribbles on the chalkboard).
Winding in a scenting breeze, gentle on my nose as I
walked the streets of a smelly, gritty city.
Capturing the intake of my every breath,
flowing through my body, creating peace within my harried soul.
Inspiring luscious, ludicrous, outlandish, lovely thoughts…
my Muse.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Men (for We Write Poems, with a nod to Wallace Stevens)
I. They’re different in certain ways, but what’s in common reigns.
II. Through the bottom of a shot glass, darkly.
III. Millions are fathers deserving of respect, when respect is due.
IV. Sometimes, they are bullies or abusive and deserving of no respect at all.
V. As leaders of our nation; therefore, we should elect more women to level the playing field.
VI. Warily.
VII. As warmongers and war profiteers… and troops who actually have to fight the battles.
VIII. While wearing rose-colored glasses (which you will eventually lose).
IX. As friends who are with you no matter what the circumstance, especially if they are gay and you are one of those straight girls who just loves them to death (like me).
X. As husbands or committed partners – in which case, keep your hands off them (straight OR gay!). Monogamy should be honored (and polygamy, well, eeeeeeeew).
XI. As co-founders of our country, along with the mostly forgotten Founding Mothers.
XII. As white/Anglo and born to privilege, never having to earn the money they now fight so hard to keep.
XIII. As people of color who are often overlooked, profiled, or assumed to be criminals, in the US illegally… or born in Indonesia, so he can’t REALLY be president.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetry Tow Truck (thanks to Donna V. for the prompt, What I Did On My Summer Vacation”!). Also at my poetic collective home, Poets United. Peace to all, and may cooler heads prevail this Fall, Amy
Hot Town, Summer in the City
In flannels-and-snow-shoes winter
we marched at Capitol Dome.
You’d think now resolve would splinter
and we’d cool off at home.
Yet, we’re still here with signs
upholding union rights,
Tired, sweaty folks of all kinds
chanting from noons to nights,
‘Cause we remember history
and it’s not just munitions:
Our forebears saw no mystery
in unjust work conditions.
They used their power in numbers
‘til unions were assured,
And, bless them, they were fired on,
but still their words endured:
SOLIDARITY FOREVER!
THE UNION MAKES US STRONG.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
TWOFER! Because yesterday’s poem was such an unbelievable bummer (for me, too), I have two nice ones today. First, I’m flexing some haiku muscle for Sensational Haiku Wednesday; second, Three Word Wednesday gave us: Adapt, Glide, and Lie. These are also posted at my poetry haven, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY
Falling Leaves (Haiku)
Leaves color, then drop
as though staying green so long
has left them weary.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR THREE WORD WEDNESDAY (prompt words in bold)
Heaven Sent
Pregnant teen Kit, big-time cocaine-addicted.
She knew that the baby’d be wholly afflicted
She tried to clean up; she didn’t abort;
but habits and lies and recovery fell short.
She put down her pipe just in time for E.R.
A stranger took pity, drove her there in his car.
He cell-phoned his wife, who rushed down for the birth
(To have their own, they’d have moved heaven and earth.)
Kit wouldn’t nurse baby, pleaded, “Don’t wanna see him.”
The couple, still there, never once thought to flee him.
A tough road ahead for a tough little guy:
a whole lot of tears, in purging the high.
A nurse saw the two, screaming babe in her arms;
“Maybe-Mom” glided over, her touch was the charm.
One look and they knew, so completely enrapt,
that they would not only adopt, but adapt.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
THIS POST IS FOR ADULTS ONLY. PLEASE BE AWARE, IT’S ROUGH.
Bitter Fruits
Five years old
She fears flashbulbs
Finicky about swallowing medicine
“Let it float, like a boat,” frantic mother
urges. Finally, the girl
chews the bitter aspirin.
Flannel nightgown often found wet at dawn.
Fragile, frail, their final filly.
Til forty, fortunate to forget
she was her father’s favorite pet.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
What can I say? Sometimes I have to tell the truth. Peace, Amy
For ABC Wednesday (letter F) and, as always, Poets United.
The Big Change
How to explain the changes ahead of me.
First, Mom needed gin, just a snort
to abort the mortification of
the dreaded subject at hand: Sex.
On a page in her steno notebook,
she drew crude diagrams:
Ovaries, tubes, uterus – utilitarian scrawls,
later to be thrown away in disgust.
“The egg starts in here,” pen on ovary,
“travels down through here,”
tracing Fallopian Lane,
“and ends up here. Once a month.”
Another jigger of gin for courage.
“If the egg gets fertilized, it stays here
and becomes a baby. If not,”
siiiiiiigh, “you bleed and need some equipment.”
She pulled out the mysterious
blue box, used heretofore only by
Mom and my big sisters. Removing
napkin and belt, she trussed me up.
That was the extent of Sex Ed with Mom:
There were eggs (aren’t eggs big?).
There were tubes and a place
you might make a baby (is fertilization about peat moss?)
Later I found out the good stuff…
recalling Mae West’s immortal wisdom:
“No man ever loved me
the way I love myself!”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, a new site – check it out! Theirbeing Change. Also at Poets United, the poetry collective.
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
Strolling
Today, I’ll stroll to Mary’s place.
The patio screen scritchscratches with my departure.
Why lock it? Next Door Nan will be at home.
Sneakers on grass, bristling the sunburnt ground cover
The brush of palm fronts bending to grant me passage
And all along the way, crickets chirping
Now my sneaks scrape along the sidewalk,
past Pete the shoe repair guy, who waves.
“Time for that again?” he jokes.
“Yupper,” I shout, as my finger makes
little circles around my ear. “I’ll bring my
sandals over tomorrow, hope you can save ‘em!”
A profusion of orange flowers, “ditch lilies” they call them here,
but I dead-head the wizened, faded flowers,
pitch them into the fray, mulch for another day.
(Someday, I will be wizened and faded, too –
but if they want to toss me into the mulch pile,
they’ll have to catch me first!)
Finally the clip-clop upstairs, into the waiting room
with the fountain that always makes me need to pee.
Then, the soft inhale of a door opening:
“Amy?” smiles Mary, my therapist.
“Let’s do this sucker,” I laugh, and whoosh!
The door shuts. Tears to be shed, secrets to keep.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems‘ prompt, Walk. Also on display at Poets United! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 