Last day of Poem a Day, or National Poetry Writing Month. It’s only fitting that I should “pass the torch,” in the form of a poem about our girl Riley, the artist. I’ve included one of her recent works, so PLEASE respect her copyright on this. For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, an “A to Z” write. Enjoy! Proud Mom Amy, who also took the picture years ago, when she was three.
Portrait of the Artist as a Little Girl
Artist, budding
Crayons, drawings,
echo from goodgone hours
I just kindled logical moppets’s
newfound outlet
(preference, quietude)
Riley, shading timber umber
Visioning whales,
xysts, yurts… zebras
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Painting by L.R. Weinberger © 2013, all rights reserved.
Used by permission of artist.
Susie Clevenger at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, my April Poem-a-Day hangout, asked simply for poems of encouragement. Who deserves more encouragement than a brilliant, beautiful daughter as she prepares to graduate college? This is also at Poets United, a source of endless encouragement for me. Peace, Amy
For My Daughter As She Enters The Real World
Sure, there will be chaotic days,
storms, trials, and simple
misunderstandings.
In the wider world, you’ll see
fights, flights, frights.
(Some people are best at being their worst.)
All these will be moments in
your timeline; some will leave
scars – but those heal with time.
Others will transcend reality with
luminous grandeur, majesty.
Some moments will simply be.
Hold onto patience. Be kind
to fools, for they know not.
Most of all, be patient with yourself.
Be mindful in all you do.
Remember that, no matter what,
there is love even in
crevices of broken bones or
wedged in the cracks of
distortion’s thin places.
There is peace in silence.
There is beauty waiting for
you to bring it into being.
There is God in everything,
especially you.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ted and Riley, back in the States, 1993
She’s Gotta Have It
Just after Daddy flew back
to the States and I was hiring
nannies so I could sing at the
casino lounge each night…
Riley and me in Plaza de las Americas
(translation: da mall). She spied
a toy so huge, brown, sweet,
huggable, fuzzy… and pricey
“¡Mamí, es MÍ oso!” The teddy bear
to beat them all. So tall, big as Riley,
a faint smile, Hershey-Kiss eyes,
just like my beba’s eyes…
“Maybe another day,” I sighed after
checking the price; in a trice, she
sneezed, spewing snot all over
the poor bear’s head. ALL over.
I scraped the boogers off with my
credit card in the checkout line.
He’s mine, for now, as she
gypsies her way around L.A.
Ted sits on a small rocker, with a
tiny bear on his lap, waiting for her.
When I miss Riley most, I find Ted.
Sit on the bed, hug him, and smilecry.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My sister says that once a child has peed, pooped, puked, or deposited any bodily fluids on a blanket, it’s theirs forever. And so it went with Ted. True story – I’d never seen a two-year-old put out that amount of mucus in my life. She really wanted that bear! This will appear on the side bar of Poets United, and it’s my NaPoWriMo #12 (National Poetry Writing Month: A poem a day!) Peace, Amy
San Juan Beach, 1990 y 2011
Ai, mi nena Riley, two years old and growing like a weed. Her father on a plane back to the States, and me here in San Juan, adjusting to single motherhood. Around the corner she comes in her Little Mermaid bathing suit.
“Mami, yo quiero jugar con Daniel. ¿Esta bien?”
“Sí, beba. Con cuidado. Take it easy. I’ll take you both to the beach, a la playa, en un poquito.” I’m trying to keep it bilingual, but my Spanish is abysmal…
———————————
Ah, la playa… San Juan beaches are sunny, filled with naked babies running amok. Radios blare with competing salsa and rap stations; their owners oiled up, brown, and horny. They take no notice of most of the mothers, holding out for “Let’s Get Physical” bikini babes.
From the water’s edge, there are two worlds. Looking seaward, the Atlantic, churning at a faster pace here on the north side of the island; to the south lies the Caribbean, the true waters of Puerto Rico, lapping toes, warmer for swimming, perfect for gathering shells. Look toward the city, and brightly colored houses line the shore, while in the distance, the hotels and casinos loom over this strip of sandy paradise, reminding everyone of where they work, who really runs things.
The ocean is calmer than usual today, and in the distance, and angry iron steam engine of a storm is headed our way. We’ve had our hour, and now it’s nature’s turn. Soon, one huge clap of thunder will announce the current Apocalypso, dancing its way through town, ripping fronds from palms, chasing the parrots and finches back into El Junque, the rain forest. We gather our belongings like parachuters pulling in silk from the edges and, children in tow, laugh and chatter as we make our way back to our houses… but no farther. The bright lights and constant ding ding clatter spindlecircle of the casinos can wait.
The first drops of rain splat like water balloons, an assault on flowers but heaven for the kids, who now run “nakey,” whooping in English y espanol, each child learning from the other. A salamander takes refuge around the corner from her usual front wall and welcomes me with a blink.
—————————-
“Riley, do you remember Puerto Rico?” I ask, slopping mochaccinos onto the table at a Madison café. “Do you remember little Daniel?”
“Yeah, but that was years ago,” smirks the seasoned traveler, the product of a broken home that Mom stitched together to shelter only two. “Oh, the salamander, I called him Eddie. But mostly, I remember you losing your sunglasses all the time.”
I sip hot cocoacoffee and exhale. “That was a tough time, you know.”
“Yeah. My only regret is losing all the Spanish I learned. And I miss the helado man… that ice cream was the best ever. Tasted like heaven. Oh, and the finches we had, Migdo and Pigdo. Will we go back someday?”
“Sí. beba, otro día. Cuando hay bastante tiempo, y mas dinero.” Teasing her with forgotten language.
“Wait, I’ve got it!” she squeals. “Yes, honey, another day. When there’s enough time and… more dinner?”
Hell, that’s close enough for jazz.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo of Riley and Amy and an ice cream cone from the Barlow/Dunn vaults, rights reserved by poet
Heretomost at Real Toads wanted a description of a bit of scenery, sandwiched in between two pieces of dialog. This starts with Riley as a two-year-old child and ends when she was 23, looking back. She remembers little of our time in San Juan, and almost nothing of her father’s deep troubles that ended our marriage. Just as well. Remember the good times, the warmth, the mingled scents of salt air and jasmine, the… salsafied satisfaction of Puerto Rico. Peace, Amy
How to Raise a Valedictorian
Study together.
She, homework.
You, Woolf.
Release her from school for
antiwar protests and call it
civics lessons
Ban video games
Tell her God gave her beautiful,
but smart takes work
Love unconditionally
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trifecta’s Weekend Challenge was 33 words of advice. This worked for my daughter Riley, who is currently a top student at Laguna Beach Institute of Art and Design. Did I mention she doodled in the margins of her homework? That she came out to the entire student body’s parents during her speech? (She was already out, “gender queer,” to all her friends, and didn’t lose one of them.) Can you tell you much Lex and I love this young woman?
The picture was taken by Lex as we were being goofy after the ceremony. Silver becomes her, but her heart? Pure gold. Peace, Amy
Life Cycling
First come the three little words
Then, “I’ll love you ‘til I die”
Vows to share a lifetime as one
Down the aisle into Real Street
Change begins to take hold
She feels faint over nothing
After a march to the drug store, she
Places calls to her doctor and OB
Family planning worked, a baby is on the way
To create life within is a special calling
She doesn’t mind the stringy stretch marks
Nor the RR train to La Maze classes
in order to master the art of patience and breath
while bringing new life into the light
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I remember being pregnant with Riley. Ask women who’s ever been pregnant, and they’ll probably say they felt like the most powerful person in the world. Submerged, cradled within, this growing child… I am getting misty because my girlfriend and bandmate Karen’s daughter Amanda is in hospital just now, dilating and all that good stuff.
Riley is the best thing I ever did. Not just giving birth, but raising her, watching her tap out complicated drumbeats from the age of four; seeing her first pictures – and for years to come, finding manga characters scribbled on the margins of homework. Startlingly smart, easy to be with, and wicked talented… she’s a force to be reckoned with, and, as you can see by this photo shoot (body painting, not tattoos), she’s gorgeous. Love you, Riles. Mom
For the Sunday Whirl, the wordle can be found HERE. Check out the other poets as well! Peace and soda crackers for the first trimester (!), Amy
Click on link to play. Amy on keys and vocals, Riley on drumset, Rob on tenor sax. Photo by Donna Dajnowski, used by permission of photographer.
FAMILY AFFAIR
Mother and daughter
Keyboardist and drummer
Our yearbooks diverged:
Mine said, “You are so weird,”
and her entries were all about
her coming out and being cool.
Years ago, the dissolution of
the marriage of her parents
put Riley in a tricky spot.
Years later, rarity of rarities:
Her dad, a great saxophonist,
joined us on a session.
Vintage jazz cut with
a medium beat, but
vintage Amy to the core.
We all felt vibes surfacing.
Felt the delirium of healing.
Created a legacy of friendship.
Sessions are not just for
the psychologist’s office.
Jams are not only spread
on whole wheat toasty bread.
Jazz has that knack of pushing back
what’s in the way; music, here to stay.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Jasmine Calyx, who printed an amazing list of words, including some of the above: Songwriter, surfacing, yearbook, drummer, keyboardist, rarities, delirium, legacy, dissolution, and vintage. She has a knack for highlighting the blogs of other poets… a truly selfless blogger. I dig her style – check her out! Also for Wonder Wednesday at Poets United (proud to be a member!), asking for poems about wonders of the world. I think that two exes and their daughter performing in one space, making great jazz, is a WONDER!
Riley, Rob Weinberger, and I did record this piece in a Binghamton, NY studio. Rob’s wonderful wife, Donna Dajnowski, took some pix. Lex was stuck upstate, but he thought it was a great idea. The cut needs some editing, but you get the idea. Peace, Amy
After a weekend of seeing our brilliant youth and their adult mentors in the church’s summer musical, then ministering on Sunday morning with the Edge Band, you’d think I’d be all tuckered out. In truth, it’s those busy weekends that sometimes set me behind the 8-ball of posting to last week’s prompts! Ye,t last night, I was up until 3 writing to a prompt from Joseph Harker (see last post, an ekphrastic poem), bitten by that late-night manic muse.
Here are two poems written for three sites. Enjoy, as I bask in cool air here in Wisconsin, an increasing rarity these days.
FOR ABC AND REAL TOADS:
Depression Hates Sunlight
Cloistered in my corner
Life passes by bay windows
Fresh air beckons
Big sis is on her horse today
Rides her farm, inspects the hives
Middle sis building a new home in the woods
I should be peeking at a wedding at the Gardens
Instead, birds taunt from the broad tree out back
now aglow in the burnt orange hues of sunset
Frozen in place, in space, I remain
tethered to an uneasy chair
Hiding from rays of healing
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday. This, written for the letter D, is about my Big D, Depression. Also for The poem’s imagery comes from Teresa of Razzamadazzle, hosting the prompt at Imaginary Garden With Read Toads. If you’d like to see the images from which this poem arises, please click HERE, as I didn’t have time to write Teresa for permission to reproduce them on my blog… believe me, they are stunning photos. If you’d like to read more of Teresa’s work, try here: Razzamadazzle.
FOR THREE WORD WEDNESDAY:
Empty Nest
A mother nurses her newborn
Emotion wells within me; my aging womb falters
I long to touch the face of my only child
even as she is grown, gone to graze in new pastures
Later, in the night sky
even stars mock me as they glimmerglow,
each seems a crystalline soul out of reach
None will glow within my empty nest.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Breastfeeding.com. I strongly support moms who nurse their babies in public. We have enough “Wardrobe Malfunctions” on TV; why are folks repulsed by what Mary did for her baby, a ritual as old as time, and always practiced tastefully, lightly covered. I also know some women aren’t lucky enough to experience this bonding, and my heart goes out to them.
For Three Word Wednesday (yeah, I’m running behind on this Monday morning!), giving us the words Emotion, Falter, and Touch. Thanks to Thom at 3WW for hosting this wonderful weekly challenge!
Peace be with you all. Amy
Lance at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog (yes, there’s a picture of Fight Club on the home page, but it’s all good fun) wanted folks to write poems, 100 wds, to particular songs he’d picked out. On this Mother’s Day, I HAD to write a paean to my own fave dance song by one of the great bands of the 80s. Listen and imagine me and Riley barefoot on the dance floor, with Lex watching us, rolling his eyes…! Can’t think of a better Mother’s Day post for my girl, who made this particular holiday one worth celebrating when she was born in ’88. Love you, Riles.
BOP ‘TIL WE DROP
Punch out the time clock and
pile in the back of the Chrysler, baby
Don’t need GPS, and I don’t mean maybe
Half a mile away you hear the
THUMP THUMP
Pull up SCREECH my God this is a
DUMP DUMP
But the B52s are locked and loaded
and the room sounds like something just exploded it goes
BUMP BUMP
We shimmy the shit off our shoes
We all shimmy sharp at the Shack
If we’re gonna waste our time
we’re gonna waste it well
waste it wildly, hell bent for leather
Gonna bop ’til we drop at the Shack
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
MOON BEAMS
She called ‘round ’bout 10
Didn’t know that just then
the biggest moon ever
was blooming like never
before… so she stopped
her beater car and bopped
to the shoreline and it
shone as if butterkleig-lit
“Mom, it’s so beautiful!”
And I, the dutiful
mother, in her jammies
ran outside – Midwest clammies
sending shivers… but
how often are you put
in a position
to share this apparition
of synchronicity
nature’s creativity
with one you’ve loved so
from first glance, the glow
of her sweet newborn face
Now she’s in another place
Connected by a phone,
neither is alone
We seize this blessed time
this view, superb, sublime
We cry for happy, ‘cuz
we’re sharing The Night That Was
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mic Night, and for Riley – the artistic, fabulous young woman I am proud to call my daughter.
Photo courtesy of The Times Union of Albany, NY.
Sharp Little Pencil 