Poets United asked us to meditate on the word, “She.”
THREE IMAGES OF WOMEN GRACE MY WALL
A dog-eared poster hovers near my desk, rebellious wallpaper
Detailed manifesto of the Women’s Liberation Movement
“Because woman’s work is never done and is underpaid…”
Words from a bubbling wellspring of hope and burned lycra
Demand for an equal stake in this country, still unmet
A postcard: Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein
keep me honest in all pursuits, artful and activist
as they stare me down in a loving way, like sisters
heart of depression beside the mother of us all
reminding me that women are worthy of everything
Klimt portrait, foil-embroidered woman
She stands alone, in no man’s embrace
yet framed by flowers, wearing a come-hither robe
Full black hat, ebony halo, distant gaze
Essence of loveliness, an equal part of my soul
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hay(na)kus are a curious little form I found at Poetic Asides. It’s a variation of the haiku: Three lines; one word, two words, three words. No other rules. My kind of form! Also at Poets United, our poetry collective. Amy
As Seen On TV
Drug
It’s new!
Ask your doctor
Squandered
Money
is wasted
on the rich
Like a Mighty Stream
Justice
is ensured
only through action
Jesus, Gandhi, King
Peace
cannot flourish
without unconditional love
Mel Gibson’s Passion
Jesus
was not
an action figure
America
Hatred
is not
the new Normal
All poems © 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I Heard The News Today, Oh Boy
I note, fascinated, that
TV prophets cheerfully tender
the day’s torments,
as though yesterday left no scars,
no rusty bloodstains on the streets
of Kabul.
The sun has been swept under
a cement cloud.
Why chance a morning walk
when crawling will do?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Whirl words are in BOLD. Try Brenda’s Wordles – they are fascinating!
Also on Poets United, my poetic collective home.
Silken Softness
My mom, Charlotte,
grew up in Iowa.
Council Bluffs, to be exact.
Recession, then Depression
brought the town to its knees,
at least until corn season.
Mom said Grandma Blanche
could make anything
from corn in a skillet:
Corn cakes, corn pone,
corn bread, but the best was
corn alone.
In the field, the poor were
allowed to glean from
Old Man Jones’ field.
Yanking from stalks,
home to shuck the ears.
Corn silk was, for Charlotte,
a miracle, a treasure. She said,
“I hope someday my wedding dress
will be as soft as this corn silk.”
Blanche marveled at
how her girl could always
make magic from simple things.
It’s a Laughlin tradition,
passed from Blanche to Charlotte,
from Charlotte to lucky me.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poets United, my favorite site, asked for food-inspired, home-grown tales. Can’t get more “down home” than this!
For Poetic Asides’ prompt, Normal, I opted to tell it like I see it. As on my haven, Poetic Asides. Amy
Normal Is
Normal is the everyday stuff
Normal is eating McDonald’s for breakfast
and Arby’s for lunch and Pizza Hut for dinner
Normal is going to work at a job you hate
Normal is stopping off for a couple-five drinks
to cool off from the job you hate
Normal is shlepping home and sitting in front of
the TV computer IPad video game
Normal is shopping for crap from China
that used to be made by your neighbor whose job
was outsourced, and he’s about to exhaust his unemployment
Normal is watching silk-suited fresh-water sharks
swimming in the the DC pool on Avenue K
as they rape the economy and hold the future ransom to
a whim, a personal profit, a new McMansion
Normal is ignoring homeless Americans begging
Normal is meth-addict soccer moms, the super-achievers
Normal is Asian kids winning spelling bees and science fairs,
but children of Anglos winning legacy admissions to Ivy League schools
Normal is Black kids, Hispanic kids, all those “little brown ones”
sentenced to the street or “would you like fries with that”
or being coerced into developing a taste for Afghanistan sand
Normal is no longer single moms, but two parents
kissing hello/goodbye in the hall as one goes to sleep
and the other goes to work at WalMart with no health benefits
Normal is skipping worship to work a crossword puzzle or to
see your kids’ soccer games or whatever else the school scheduled
for Sunday morning, thank God Blue Laws were repealed
Normal is one appendectomy in a 14-year-old ends up
with the whole family living in a camper or a car
Normal is abnormal.
The American Dream is no longer the norm.
The American Nightmare has taken charge.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Cheesehead
I’m a newly minted Cheesehead.
Wisconsinites call anyone
from the other side of Lake Erie
“an East Coaster.”
They fretted that we would
never make it through a
Madison winter.
I replied with one word: “Buffalo.”
Slowly they realized that, not only is
New York State snowy and cold and
a cheese heaven in itself,
but I have a Midwestern pedigree.
Mom grew up in Iowa.
I’m willing to eat all the ‘pig corn’ they put on my plate!
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “C,” and also on Poets United, my shelter from the storm.
Outstanding WHAT?
Why am I limping around a hospital
in a gown open to show the whole world my ass
with a belly as big as a piñata
screaming “ICE CHIIIIIPS!!”?
Ah yes, the joys of birthing
in 98-degree September.
The baby will be born on Labor Day,
an ironic detail…
That’s what I get for
outstanding ovulation!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(For Sunday Scribblings, variation on “Standing Ovation,” also posted at Poets United.)
Poetic Bloomings, a new and interesting site, wanted poems about “lost and found.” Then Brenda’s Sunday Whirl gave me words that culminated in the poem below (those prompt words are in bold). Give these new sites a whirl yourselves! And, of course, I’m on the right sidebar at Poets United! Peace, Amy
Lost in the Weeds
She is lost in the weeds.
She’s good wheat, but what sprouts near her
possess voices that pierce and keen.
No matter how strong her fortress,
an unfamiliar, frightening force
rattles the bars of her gate.
She needs an image to cling to,
wholly holy, distinctly divine.
A steadfast vision beyond this
jangling jungle of fear becomes clear.
She shakes off the weeds, uproots them,
and splinters the yoke of despair.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A new friend, Lafemmeroar, who inducted me into The Crazy Chicks Club, needed to see this poem, written back in 2010 but never published on my blog. It’s a serious problem in our society, and, as you all know, I take these issues head on. Also at my haven, Poets United. Amy
The Practice
There’s an old warehouse downtown
where they meet in secret
Sneaking down alleyways alone or in pairs
through the backdoor of an old meat-packing plant
It’s quiet; it’s remote; no one will discover them there
as they open drawers full of potions
creams and lotions and pallored paint
They pull robes and silky clothes from rusty hangers
Readying themselves for the ritual
Preening with great care as giant hooks swing over their heads
remnants of the enterprise this building once housed
Hideously masked, garishly garbed, in hats with small bells
They frolic as they practice their ancient art
Every movement coordinated, they caper and careen
The thought of their doings makes my blood run cold, even now
Grown men in clown suits, rehearsing a new routine
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 