Before the poem, an announcement: IT’S OFFICIAL! I AM A TOAD! The site where I spent most of April, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, invited me to be one of their circle of 20 poets. I am extremely flattered and thrilled to be included in the Garden with so many wonderful poets. Like Poets United, one must be invited to join, so that’s my BIG ANNOUNCEMENT for, like, the year! Now, on we go…
Queer.
She’s queer and
wants me to
refer to her as
gender queer,
androgynous.
I could do no less
than confess:
My generation has
problems with Queer,
hearing it said in
locker rooms and
school, in sports
and retorts spat at
the skinny boys.
‘Queer’ meant
wrong, bent.
Now it means
the whole LGBT
community.
‘Queer’ has found
immunity.
She told me that
I must embrace change,
dangerous as it seems.
She dreams of
a day when ‘Queer’
simply means
‘Not Straight.’
Apples
to
apples.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday and also to be found on my non-homophobic hangouts, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. It’s a generational thing. I remember gay pride movements in the 70s and 80s, and the cry, “We’re Here! We’re Queer! Get Over It!” Then, the word was still used as a pejorative by straights and closeted LGBTQs. The new generation, those who remember coming home from school on 9/11 like we remember coming home from school the day Pres. Kennedy was shot, have taken that word back, flipped it like a coin, say it with pride.
And I say, “Good on them!” Peace, Amy
TO ALL: Whatever your faith, I invite you to read this. You may follow a
different path, but it’s really all about living in love.
In Step With Jesus
(For Bob Gwynne and Monica Wahlberg, with love and thanks)
To be in step with Jesus…
Stop. Wait. Listen.
Allow Jesus to choose your stride.
It may be slower; it may take you
down by the riverside or
wash you in rainfall.
You may see yourself
offering a hand to one whom
you wouldn’t have touched
the week before.
To be in step with Jesus…
Stop. Wait. Listen.
Allow the Spirit inside.
Let your soul be enveloped
by the Divine Sofia, Wisdom.
You may see yourself
in sandals, sharing love,
feeding those in need, even
acting up in the
“Temples of Power.”
You will change.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yes, it’s my 666th post. No, this is not the first horse of the Apocalypse, nor do I believe in “the mark of the Beast,” and I’m not going there with any jokes, either (although 6/66 is when my friend Monica was born, so there you go, one happy coincidence, an early birthday present).
This poem was inspired and written entirely at Sunday morning’s praise and worship service, during which guest “sermonator” Rev. Bob Gwynne (an activist of many years; he and his jubilant wife, Jesse, are respected senior members of our church), gave an excellent sermon about being in step with Christ.
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Also, BIG ANNOUNCEMENT TOMORROW, SO STAY TUNED! (ribit croak gruggle) Peace to all, Amy
El Junque
Small island we called home
Puerto Rico, me encanta
Friends apologized for
the recent visit of Hugo
“El barstardo” tore down buildings,
but the saddest casualty was nature
El Junque, the rainforest
hidden inland, had paid dearly
Now there was but a bit of heaven:
Lush ferns, lantana underfoot
Palms, missing top feathers
but swayin what Mama Earth gave ’em
“Lo siento, Amelita,” said Fran
(I’m so sorry, Amy)
“El Junque is but a, how do you say,
una sombra de los dias pasados”
(A shadow of days gone by)
Yet, as I watched a paradise-painted parrot
linger on bird of paradise, gilding the lily,
I witnessed nature’s sense of humor
And as the juice of a fresh-picked mango
rolled down my chin, all I thought was,
¡Puerto Rico, mi alma! My soul!
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Amy de Barlow y Laughlin, la lápiz pequeño y perspicaz)
Hannah at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted poems about the rain forest. How about having one in your back yard… or at least a few miles down the road from you house? That was the luckiest part of living in Puerto Rico – apart from friends I made and abuelitas (grandmothers) who cooed over pictures of mi nena (my little girl), Riley. Gorgeous island, beautiful people. Peace, Amy
Yes, it’s true. I went back to Friday and answered ALL the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads prompts, to keep up with NaPoWriMo (I didn’t have access to a computer at the hotel, but I did write other poems daily). So here come Fireblossom Friday, Saturday’s International Frog Day (yeah, I know… but I chose a toad!), and Sunday’s call for poems inspired by Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird (I did one about seeing the movie. Hey, it’s Gregory Peck and Robert Duvall as Boo Radley; what’s not to like?) In order, starting with Friday. Enjoy! And WHEW.
FIRST POEM, “inhabit an animal”
Black Kitty Tells All (for Carolyn Bowes, fellow Kitty Voicer)
Why do they hide me on Halloween?
I bin stuck in this room like they
shamed of me or sumpthin
Rest of tha time
I’m
lickin what’s stickin
Clawin up the couch
(got no claws but I
got helldamn hard knuckels)
Oops I did a swear
I tha only cat who LOVE
goin to the vet cuz Dr. Jane,
she luvin all over me
Pritty kitty, she say
Strokin my shiny sleek fur
(I clean it just for her)
Sometime I get a shot
but Dr. Jane is pritty, too
so I don’ mind (much)
At home I get my own treats
This is tha truest story of all tha
stories you ever gonna hear. Reddy?
Mommy say, “Open it!” and I
put my paw around tha handle of tha
Treats For Missy and Not For Gable Drawer
an I pull the drawer open cuz I
smarter than Gable.
But I share him some treats anyway.
I love bein a cat all day
Cept for Halloween, I herd Mommy say
kids do bad things to black kitties then
We don know why.
They must be bunch of bitchholes
Oops, did it agin sorry
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
image from Wikimedia Commons
Fireblossom, Shay, asked for a poem in which you inhabit the skin of another animal. Shay, I know this is not what you expected, but truth be told, Missy was a oner. I could write about her all day and not repeat a line. I used to do her “voice” all the time (my friend Carolyn and I used to do kitty voices at our survival job in NYC – people would plead for us to stop! We’d look at each other, shrink up our shoulders all goofy, and say, “Hee hee hee hee they think they so smart, buttparts!” or some such foolishness.
God, the salad days. I miss ‘em. But I still see Carolyn, her hubby Duncan, and their madly creative daughters, Lily and Fiona, in Chicago. And yes, they have cats, plus a very sweet dog (who is dumb, say the cats). Amy
SECOND POEM: The Toad one.
Tell it to the Marine Toads
Cake gig in Bermuda
Got my own ‘scootah’
(Don’t be a yokel,
talk like a local)
“Watch out for toads,”
warning of the road
Marine toads on street
Poisonous, not sweet
Also quite slow
And that, even though
the speed limit’s lower
the traffic is slower
Fall off your bike
and scrape your chin
Next day you’ll know
the pain you’re in
Even dead, they secrete
poison in their “meat”
Flat as flat, concrete
retains this sad treat
But ‘specially keep them
From dogs, who eat them
Behind the eyes,
their poison resides
and dog will wake
with bad belly ache
Toads on the road, dead
flattened by mopeds
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Bermuda “road toads” (called that because they are usually seen flattened on the road) were imported by some guy named Vesey, in hopes they would control the insects in HIS yard. Like they were gonna stay there. Like they would not multiply. But the genius of the Marine Toad’s anatomy is twofold: They can tolerate and breed in the brackish salty ponds around the island (no freshwater ponds there), and they secret a toxin behind their eyes as a method of self-defense. I flipped off my moped once, slid on the pavement, and got coral sand bits in my elbows and knees, plus some toad poison, which survives long after said toad is squashed. UGH. I do think they’re cute, though!
FINAL POEM, the Harper Lee prompt
Of Mockingbirds and Mayhem
My folks couldn’t afford a sitter
so they’d bundle us three in the back
of our Rambler, girls and blankets
and go to the drive-in, secure in the fact
that we would fall asleep during the
first feature, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Instead quietly we absorbed the movie,
Atticus shooting that rabid dog, the folks
in the balcony telling Scout, “Stand up…
Your father’s passing by.” I cried. Then
came the second feature, when we were
supposed to be sound asleep: Elmer Gantry
Between falling in love with Burt Lancaster,
seeing what cheesy preaching was like
(we were Episcopal, the “frozen chosen”)
And oh! the scenes with Shirley Jones in
her little slip and long hair. You might say
this was our first dirty movie, at our age.
Next day, Mom knows we’re all in our
room, which usually means mischief
She knocks on the door: “Come in, Elmer!”
We’re all in slips, sipping ginger ales out of
champagne glasses. “What on earth do you
think you’re doing?” asked She, horrified.
“We’re Slip Girls,” we replied, in unison.
“We sit around all day, waiting for Elmer.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
True story. This upshot of this free verse piece was not inspired by “Mockingbird,” but if that movie had not been on the bill, if our parents hadn’t drunk all the babysitter money, if
“Mockingbird” had not been so wonderful that three girls (11, 8, and me, 5) actually stayed awake for it… we would never have learned how to dress up like prostitutes! Amy
NEXT:
The Best Bits
Howard’s to be married Saturday
Family watches the Oscar show
Hometown winner claims he’s gay
Howard becomes the town floor show
He insists his loafers are heavy
Sweet, slim bride, a fellow teacher
Media stalks the little town
Finally, before the preacher
He says he’s gay; bride belts him and
his dad says, “Was it that Streisand?”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Izy asked us for a ten-line “Cliff’s Notes” version of a favorite movie, book, or play. One of my favorite movies of all time is a little comedy called, “In & Out.” Kevin Kline is the groom, Joan Cusack (an amazing physical comedian, sister of John) is the befuddled bride-to-be, and Tom Selleck plays a reporter with a secret… Debbie Reynolds and Wilford Brimley are his folks.
Best moment: After being jilted at the altar, Joan Cusack emerges from her hiding place and yells at the congregation, “Do you have ANY IDEA how many times I’ve had to watch “Funny Lady”? Loads of Streisand references, great for little “fruit flies” (LGBT allies) like me. See it. Glenn Close almost steals the show with a single scene.
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 25, still going strong! Amy
A Brief Hello
Fruitless labor
Pitocin-dosed
forced contractions
Tears doubled
by knowing
what’s to come
The final push
The heartbreaking
silence
She holds the baby
who will never
suckle at her breast
Tiny boy, gone
before he arrived
An empty promise
Yet, she holds him
Swaddles him
Kisses him
Strokes him
Adores him
Names him
One photo
Mom and Gabriel
Her little angel
Goodbye
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Well, after the fun with Shakespeare yesterday, I fell into memories of my mom and her telling me about “the one that got away.” Times have changed since then: Even though my mother’s baby was about six months old, she never saw her second girl child. Susan at Imaginary Garden With Read Toads, where I’ve been posting daily since the first of April, asked for a Hello or Hello/Goodbye poem, so this allowed me to put my emotions into words. This will also appear at my poetic birthing center, Poets United.
Nowadays, they take a picture, they do name the baby, they have a funeral, a burial or internment. I think it’s a healthy part of the grieving process that will come no matter what, for the mother with swollen breasts and no baby to feed. I wish my mother could have met her baby girl. May all babies be born healthy – and wanted. Peace, Amy
Forgive me, dear Toads, but I have dissected, line by line, Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be?” soliloquy and have thus bastardized the Bard in such fashion as to concoct complete nonsense on this, the anniversary of his birth, his death, and now his utter humiliation. And so, dear readers, we bring you our humble offering, which shall also be posted forthwith at Poets United.
Tubby or not Tubby; that is the question.
Whether ‘twas nobler in my mind to suffer
the stings and narrow minds of outrageous torturers
Or to shake my arms and see the blubber
and by supposing, to send them to the Y, to sleek—
No more, and by sleek to say we end
the fartbreak, and the thousand unnatural pocks
my butt was heir to. ‘Twas a consideration determined to be wished. To diet, to steep—
to steep—purchased two creams, ay, there’s the rub,
For in that steep of meth what schemes may come
When we have shuffled off to Buffalo for more,
Bust, give us pause. There’s no respect
for my anatomy of so long this life.
For who would bear the rips and tears of seams,
Th’ dresser’s wrong, the frowsy girl’s costumely
The bags of disguised lovehandles, the raw decay,
the insulin they’ll proffer, and the spurs
That patients merit from unsweetened cakes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With her vibratin’ “him”? Who would goutless bear,
to grunt and swear Richard Simmons’ life
Is that dread of aerobics after meth,
My undiscovered bounty, from fat hath born
No lipo rejects, drizzles the swill,
And shakes us farther, bear those chills we have
Than cry to others that we Nutraslim?
This consciousness makes cows of us all,
And this, the plaintive whew! of redistribution
Is stuck o’er with the frail past of night,
An enterprising great bitch who foments
With disregard their comments turn away
And lose the name of active. Soft, I’m now,
Get bare, I’ll feel ya! Wimp, in thy horizons
be all my skin remembered.
Yes, I was overweight and quite happily so for many years. But then my knees started to creak, so I ended up losing 50 pounds… with no help from Nutrislim or Richard Simmons, thank you very much.
And now, TO THE COMMENTS! Have at me, dear Bard worshipers! With a wink and a smile, The Unfair Amelia
Hamlet and Juliet in A Midsummer Twelfth Night’s Sonnet on Shakespeare’s Birthday
(with apologies to Will)
In my salad days, when I was green in judgment,
not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty,
I was a dish fit for the gods.
Now I’m in my prime, set up with a posh little Upper East Side co-op and a hefty trust fund from Daddy… plus a live-in honey who’s fast losing his sweetness. Nothing in his life becomes him, and nothing will come of nothing.
He awoke, rounded with a little sleep. “Ay, me…”
“I have not slept one wink,” I bitched, rubbing my sore bottom. “What a piece of work is man! Do you think I am easier played on than a pipe?”
He leapt from the bed. “That is should come to this! Why, only last night you cried, A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”
“True it is,” I countered, “that we have seen better days. Yet brevity is the soul of conscience, and the” (wince) “parting was such sweet sorrow.”
He was pi-i-i-issed. “Tempt not a desperate man, for delays make dangerous ends.”
(Now I’m thinking, “MY end got all the ‘danger’ last night… He hath eaten me out of house and home, and he thinks too much, with a lean and hungry look. There’s daggers in men’s smiles, and… is this a dagger I see before me?”)
I pointed to the door. “Out, damned Snot! Out, I say! Men of few words are the best men, and your tale is told by an idiot.”
“The course of love never did run smooth,” he stammered. “Shall we meet again?”
(Trying to live down the riddle… Q: ‘What do you call a bass player without a girlfriend?’ A: ‘Homeless.’)
He continued, “Don’t forget, dearest, we have a palimony agreement. You’ll pay a great deal too dear,” he grinned, “for what’s been given freely.”
“The game is up.” I stamped my little bare foot and caught a splinter. “This is the worst!”
He tried to rustle up tears as he packed. “There words are razors to my wounded heart. I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for Daws to pick at.”
(I knew that has-been “Mork and Mindy” chick Pamela Daws was after him, ever since the gig at the China Club.)
“In my mind’s eye,” I said, thinking of the money I’d have to pay this jerk, “shall I compare thee to the dogs of war? A borrower with a dull edge? The world is grown so bad, the fool doth think he is wise.”
I escorted him to the door. He shambled out, his bass hanging on his back like a monkey. Then, turning back to me, he whimpered, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s-” SLAM!
Peace at last. “I like this place, and willingly would waste my time in it.” Then, cutting the first of many checks I’d have to pay my new ex, I grumbled, “But first… let’s kill all the lawyers.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It’s the Bard’s birthday! He’d be three days older than water today. This is also (and this is so tragically Shakespearean) the anniversary of his death, so he deserves something special. Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us to have our way with him (well, with his writing, anyway), but I gathered so many snippets from so many plays and sonnets, if I tried to do citations, they would run longer than the piece itself. I leave it to you, my oh-so-savvy readers, to separate the Will from the chaff. This will also be posted to dverse Open Mic Night.
NaPoWriMo #23 and still ticking! This form, which employs lines from other writer(s) re-ordered to create a new poem, is called something or other, but dang, I can’t remember. Paging Viv!! Peace, Amy
The Hourglass
“Like sand through the hourglass,”
so goes the daze of my life…
a hazy mix of meter and mantra:
Shy shy little girl;
emerges from shell
only if she’s to sing.
Singer takes to the road,
works with the rude,
hangs with the rowdy.
Faces the raid of AIDS
on the dearest friends,
the dearest men…
Mentors anxious daughter
from dread-the-world to
worldly wise vixen,
fixin’ to show them all,
to know them all,
to grow from within.
I am all in this timekeeper:
A grain of salt or truth falls,
skims the surface of my past.
Don’t care how much is left
to sift and flow, but the
bottom bits… these, I know.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hourglass image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Day 22 of NaPoWriMo! PAD (Poem A Day) in April…
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads has Open Link Monday, so I will post there a wonderful prompt from my friends Walt and Marie Elena at Poetic Bloomings, “Time Flies.” When I thought of the hourglass, the next “tape” from the Music of My Life was the theme to an old soap opera, along with its catch phrase: “Like sands through the hourglass, so go the Days of Our Lives…” and I was off and running for my pencil.
Hope all had a good weekend. I know I’m enjoying a break in the Wisconsin snow-spits of the past few days. Peace, Amy
KELLY LUNES
Sad Girl
She lives in the past
Hindsight rules
Her head in the ‘coulds’
Tender Tummy
Gable scarfed cat food
in seconds
Wait, here comes… feed-back
Mornings With Mom
Gin bottles rinsed out
Coffee’s on
Time to wake her up
Tentative taps on
her closed door
Muffled confusion
Soon she will emerge
eyes squinting
hands, shaking and cold
Wrap them ‘round the mug
Warmth stops shakes
Caffeine soothes her pain
All Lunes © 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three-quarters of the way through April’s Poem a Day for National Poetry Writing Month! Today, Grace (AKA Heaven) of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked for “lunes.” I chose the Kelly Lune form, an American haiku form based on syllables (one line of five, one line of three, last line of five; in a single stanza or multiples of same). The Collum Lune is based on number of words: Three, Five, Three; however, that form is for another day!
Thanks, Grace, for another lovely prompt from the Garden. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 