RENDER SURRENDER
Give it up
Push it away
that ego, whispering “me me me”
(like a bad soprano warming up)
Let it go
Open your mind
Listen to the echo
(the voice that says the world revolves around you)
Let it in
Breathe it in
Creation, the Creator, who loves you
(and only wants you to give love back to the world)
Come full stop
Close your eyes
Let love catch up to you
(you were running too fast anyway)
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is in response to a challenge from We Write Poems (make up a prompt/form that may be used in the future. I call this Formulaic: 3 + (x) = Poem) and my poetic home, Poets United.
Mirror Grows Up
Girl standing on tiptoe to see her reflection
in the grown-up glass
Teen crying over ravages of acne
on her nose, her neck, her back
Bride at home wedding, same mirror
as this morning, but suddenly she’s changed
Single mom, single crease forming
over her left eyebrow, souvenir of divorce
Second time’s the charm, as she eases back
greying bangs from her smiling face
And just this morning, taking stock
More circles than a box of Cheerios
More wrinkles than a pug puppy
More fire in her eyes than Mrs. O’Leary’s cow ever wrought
More twinkle than Tinkerbell
More love than she thought she’d ever have
All shining back as her husband slips his arm around her,
whispering, “Love how you look today, babe.”
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
From a prompt about mirrors at my poetic home, Poets United.
Quandary
Words haunted her, hounded her
Phrases dogged her footsteps,
nipped at her heels.
Thoughts butterflied about her head,
no shoving them away.
Fanciful images and rhyme
began to work they way
into the margins of her mind.
At work, she inked them on her arm
(transcribing them before nightly oblations).
When at last she found her voice,
the words rejoiced, flutterflapping, then
settling on her desk or clinging to the walls
like hastily taped reminders.
Carefully, she pasted them into a book
in a certain order
(like a ransom note)
and the captive was set free.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
For ABC Wednesday (brought to you by the letter “Q”) and my poetic home, Poets United.
Amending this post because I was a week ahead on the prompt… “spontaneity” got the best of me, ironic, no? The actual prompt was “Addiction.”
Stageheights
Living in limelight
Not fueled by ego, rather
talent to amuse
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
————————
Whoops
Precious sucking babe
Never will she know, born of
Spontaneity
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore
Written for Sensational Haiku Wednesday for the prompt… Spontaneity! Also posted at my heart, my home – Poets United.
Ignore the racist stereotypes and see true athleticism, artistry and energy. The incomparable Whitey’s Lindy Hoppers, and the poem follows. Watch the video first; I dare you not to be amazed. Band is Slim Galliard and Slam Stewart; Slam spent his last years in my hometown, Binghamton, NY. A gentle, sweet man who never lost his soulful voice and way with a bass.
Lindy Hoppers
Back when jazz was hot
When the drums meant dancin
jitterbuggin, Lindy Hoppin
shimmyin, shakin your sugar…
Lil, Grace, and Fancy
flounced and flirted in the finer clubs
Gracie, she was fine on the dance floor
Lil had more meat on her bones,
made lifting for the Lindy doubtful
Still, she clapped and hooted off on the side
beer in one hand, the other tucked in Slim’s front pocket
Now, Fancy was a flimsy-thin frail
made for stompin at the Savoy
When the band commenced to wailin
she’d be flyin over Jimmy’s head,
flung between his legs and back up again
She shined like a new penny,
bronze and easy rollin
Her real name was Flo
but once they saw her dance
hellzapoppin on that floor
they renamed her Fancy
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Thin, Jitter, Grace, blog
Two in a row for We Write Poems: “I do my laundry when…” One fun, one serious.
These are also at Writer’s Island and Poets United. Peace, Amy
Laundry (haiku)
I do my laundry
when I damned well feel like it.
I am self-employed.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
—————————
I Do
“I do.” My laundry: When he needs his lucky shirt
for Dart Night with the guys.
And despite my long hours at work,
I end up cooking every meal.
He reclines his spine on the sofa
without a “thank you” for the chips and dip and beers I
serve his buddies while they sit and swear at the ref’s bad calls
and don’t call it a day until after 10 p.m.
“I do” sealed my fate until the swearing
was no longer aimed at the refs, but at me and
the bowl of dip just missed my head
falling in clinks and plops to the just-mopped floor.
Darts no long reserved for the board:
He’d found a new target.
It wasn’t always like this. In our early days,
kisses and promises of blissful years ahead.
Words I believed until my lips met
with his fist; until sunglasses became basic makeup.
“I do” sounds lovely at the altar, but so hollow when
promises melt and mingle with the salt and blood at my feet
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Brenda’s Wordle at Beyond The Bozone including silver, phrase, forever, scars, crescendo, crude, recount, perfume, message, and bottle; also, this works with Poetic Asides’ “Message in a Bottle.”
Cobalt Blue Bottle
Auntie Ruth’s perfume in a cobalt blue bottle
embossed with the phrase, “April in Paris.”
Twirling open the fluted silver cap,
I’d sneak a sniff.
Stronger than a crescendo of crude
on a Texas Tuesday,
the scent still held a message
of forbidden romance (one that might leave scars).
Recounting those afternoons
I used to while away
in Ruthie’s room…
Memories I’ll treasure forever.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You can also see this poem at my NaPoWriMo site, Writer’s Island, and, as always, at Poets United. Check out these poets!
ABC Wednesday had us up to the letter “M,” while Three Word Wednesday‘s words were: Evident, Illusion, and Tragic. Here is an example of why we must always remember to tell our girls they are worthy and wonderful – and our boys, too. Amy
Megan’s Mind
Her illusion was her reality
That they stared at her in school
That every zit was a tragic flaw
That her muffin-top was the subject of gossip
She had never been kissed (not even at summer camp)
Mirrors served as evidence, judge, and jury:
She was a blight, a sight unworthy of the world
But she had no real friend to share the verdict with
The school was abuzz Monday morning
Why did Megan hang herself Saturday night?
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At We Write Poems, a prompt went out: Write a poem about writing a poem. You never know when or where the inspiration will strike. I’ve long since given up on sitting down and deciding to produce something… and yet, the more I write, the more I want to write!
This poem is also posted at Writer’s Island, where I’m posting daily for National Poetry Writing Month. Amy
Prelude to a Poem
Teapot screams meeeeeEEEEEEEE
demanding attention
Drip of the French Press into the mug
Pressing grounds through as
ground falls from under my feet
taking me back to that cafe in the Village where…
Drifting with the breeze down State Street
Lots of UW students hang and hacky-sack here
Whole lives ahead of them
One potent whiff of a fattie gives me
a contact high and suddenly I’m on Venice Beach…
We march in solidarity with unions at
Madison’s Capitol Dome
The golden statue atop is called Miss Forward
The governor inside is called Mister Backward
My anger at injustice boils inside my gut
I plop down on the pavement and start to
scribble on the back of my sign…
Startled awake, sweating, full-body tremble
recalling those nights when
a little girl was tucked in tight until
HE decided it was her turn
I switch on the light – it’s NOW, dammit, not THEN!
I pick up a pen…
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 