Amy Barlow Liberatore… stories of lost years, wild times, mental variety, faith, and lots of jazz

Tag Archives: Sex

Dear Straight Guys,

It’s not like darts
Not if you’re smart
Not “point and shoot”

It’s not like b-ball
Not at all
She’s more than a rim to hit
and webbing to fall through

She’s neither mark nor target

The real woman lies beyond
what you’ll see
when you see her

As much as she wants you
(and make damned sure she wants you,
or we’ll have more than words, little man)
she needs even more

What lies within us is a world
An ecosystem
A universe of the delicate sublime,
of intricate, meandering passages

She’s a labyrinth and you must
must must must
caress the key, finesse the lock
with time and care, the kind
you’ve never shown your own

So talk to her
Let her guide you
She has places that need
the same soft kisses you place on her mouth
down south at the delta

And just in case you still think
you hold all the power, here’s a thought

After you don the raincoat to
dance in the lovely dew, think about this:
Whose parts will disappear in the meeting?
Who welcomes in, and who is swallowed up?

She has unfathomable fathoms
of phantom bliss
Remember that
from the very first kiss

© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For ABC Wednesday, we are on the letter F. That’s for “finesse,” you naughty children. Also on the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads! Amy


Yes, it’s true, I’ve joined the “700 Club”! Oh, wait a sec… actually, this is a poem that Pat Robertson would do well to read, since he’s all about putting down anyone and anything he doesn’t understand, and using God as an excuse. He makes the phrase “bully pulpit” come to life in a new way… So let’s talk about love, shall we?

Love is Not/Love is

Love is not the flip side of hatred
Love is not a sexual act
Love is not what your parents told you
or what your friends brag about
Love is not locked up or meant to be hoarded

Love is friendship to the nth power
It’s giving up what you cling to in the world
for the sake of helping another
Turning your back on Honey Boo-Boo in favor of
cradling abandoned crack babies in the NicU
It’s holding hands that are colder than yours

Love is vast as creation
Warmer than bread fresh out of the oven
More beautiful than your granny’s eyes

Each day we are given the chance
to show love to others
Love is the only thing that can heal our fractured world,
and it starts with each one of us.

Fling wide open your arms
Dance to the sacred rhythm
Unlock that latched love and give it to the world

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For Poets United, where Kim Nelson was looking for poems about locks. I wrote this earlier today before encountering her prompt, as though the planets were in alignment! Also “in the margins” at my poetic Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace to all, and let the love begin. Amy


First Time, No Charm

Fifteen
and the only girl in her class
who hadn’t “done it” yet

Sharp gossipy tongues
of her peers rendered her
brittle, an underachiever

Sure, she had the fever, but
no boy had the charm, the
romance she longed for

Fearing she would develop
a discernible crust beneath which
no one would wish to explore

she began to wear shorter skirts,
willowy legs bending, swaying
as a breeze blew through her branches

She spied one guy, gave him the eye
that said, “I want,” and he knew he’d be
Her First, and thus accoladed by his buds

That night, they threw down a blanket
Some pot he’d rustled up for the occasion
dilated their pupils, lazy balloon eyes

A few harsh kisses, some fumbling
some mumbling, but not calling her name
He opened the packet of the sheik sheath

Almost exploding as she put it on him
(like the banana in health class) and then he
crushed her with his weight, piercing her

It was all of ten minutes, leaving her with
the wound that never needs mending
And an unbearable feeling that there must be

more than sex than this, a barbarian invasion
Otherwise, why would musicians bother to write
love songs?

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Sheaths, Explode, Unbearable, Fever, Willows, Crust, Mending, Breeze, Piercing, Brittle, and Rustle. Click on the blog name and see what everyone else got from this interesting group on the Wordle! I am glad to say this is NOT autobiographical.

I’ve chosen this poem for dverse Open Mic Night. Also at my home base for all things poetic, Poets United.


Real Women

Real women have curves
nerves of tempered steel
Watching promotions
granted to men of
lesser talent,
their hearts stolen by
lesser loves
until…

Real women revel in truth,
revive opinions stifled
again and again,
say their piece and
back it up with actions.

Some women shape the future
by giving the world
the next wild, willful
generation of humanity,
nurturing and guiding.

Others act as guides,
spiritual doulas,
friends who also nurture
the character of those children.
The Aunties Extraordinaire.

Real women love.
We love to love.
To make love, to share body and soul.
Even when swallowed by self-doubt,
surfacing with the pliable beauty
of sirens,
assured,
assuring,
ascendant.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo from History Central, archival shot of the inimitable Mae West, who once said, “No man ever loved me like I love myself.”
For dverse Open Mic Night, because real women ROCK!


Skinny-Dipping

Sixteen, never been sexed
Sipping pilsner pilfered from the basement fridge
Sssssh, out the back door
Stripping down to go skinny-dipping with… Johhhhhn

Time, place, the most potent of opportunities
We slip into steaming midnight summer water
His member more sumptuous than tight jeans ever hinted
My breasts afloat, begging to be bobbed for like juicy ripe apples

My ache, my throb – will he sense it,
and act on this rhythmically pulsing moonlit mystery

I always craved what was not mine for the taking
Swimming naked
with gay boys

© 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Margo Roby’s Wordgathering: Summer Tryouts and my little swimming pool, Poets United!

Today is the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the Gay Rights Movement in New York City. Gay men had finally had enough of being beaten and sodomized by police; one man picked up a cobblestone in from of the Stonewall Bar and threw it, and calamity and justice began with that one brick. (I know some say that riots were technically in the wee hours of June 28, as the bars closed… but get real. Do you wake up from a hangover on a Sunday and say, “Wow, I really drank too much at 2 this morning?” It was very, very late the night before.)

So why this poem today? Because my very proud and OUT Best Friend Forever, John Bickle, with whom I share many skinny dips and much mischief in our early days, also celebrates his birthday today. He said, when he saw the TV reports of the Stonewall Riots, he thought to himself, “It’s an omen.”

No, Stonewall didn’t make him gay. God did.

But anyway, happy birthday to my BFF, and may you continue to play piano bar and wow Philadelphia for many years to come! (His usual gig is at Knock, so you Philly friends, get you butts over to their Piano Room and hear a phenomenal tenor – and great pianist!) Love, Amer


Shot Glasses and Shop Classes

Hammerin down bourbon like it’s
five minutes before Prohibition.

He only looks up when a
been-there blonde rasps,

“Don’t mean to chisel, but
can you screwdriver me?”

He knows she’s talkin OJ and a shot
but his gaze is stapled on her form.

Still staring, he scrapes up a sawbuck
and plunks it down on the bar.

They carve conversation
out of thin air til closing time.

They file out, arm in arm… maybe he
nailed her, but she ain’t tellin.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, asking us to pick a profession and use the “tools of the trade” (in this case, woodworking) and make the nouns into verbs. Wordworking?

Also at my poetic workshop (sawdust and all), Poets United! Peace, Amy


FREE SPIRIT SPEAKS

You knew this about me before we first met
True, I’m your companion, but nobody’s pet

No leash will I wear, nor “She Is Mine” collar
So what, when I wander, gives you right to holler?

Can’t Alpha Male Tantrum me into submission
Rant all you want to, but it’s my tradition

A part of my birthright – we’re radical women
His water is warmer… and I’m goin’ swimmin’

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Form For All: Framed Couplets (first and last words must rhyme in each couplet!)

Also at my poetic hearth and home, Poets United.

Photo courtesy of Superstock.com, providing free images (for the time being!).


Let’s Get Lost

Fingers interlaced
Candles placed, optimum glow,
because we know:

Sex may be the province
of novice lovers
(all sweat and victory)

Lasting love meanders
Loses track
Edges slowly toward lava

Sighs
…and stays

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Inspired by my wonderful husband Lex – 15 years this April!)

For Trifecta: Poem in exactly 33 words, using “Lost” in the title but not within the 33-word poem. A special Hell has been created for poets who refer to the TV show “Lost,” in any way, shape, or form.
Also hangin’ with my crowd at Poets United in the right-hand column.


Pastor Hellevangelist

Sunday morning funnies aren’t in
the newspaper but on
TV, toupeed and pancaked
Those televangelists put on

quite a show, preachin’ ‘bout
all the horrible sins they know
will send YOU straight to Hell
Then the preacher’s healings they show

Miss “Mah sinuses ache” WHAM!
The Holy Spirit is there in his hand
She’s on the floor, flailing, flattened
Now he’s singin’ solo with the band

Amazing, grace has graced this man
with abundance straight from God:
Mansion, limo, trophy wife
Teleparishioners are awed

and send him money to keep up
his cathedral lifestyle
A few bucks to Darfur, but most
keeps up his shiny white smile

He’s quick on the drawl, sending
other folks all to Hell
‘til he’s caught with this mistress
at the local No-Tell Motel

or taking young boys under his wing
and under the covers
under cover of righteousness
Then his wife discovers

So Sunday, tune in, turn on to
the big show: The Satanic versus
the squeaky-clean teleGod man
He knows all the curses

© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter P. Also at my cornerstone, Poets United.


Trick… or Treat?

He sort of eyed her ‘cross the bar
“Have we met?” he pretended

She went along – good-looking guy
His line was comprehended

They went to her place that same night
In heat, their bodies blended

At dawn, he left her fifty bucks
Hoped she’d not be offended

© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems (Trick or Treat) and Poetic Asides (Sort of), and, as always, at my poetic hearth, Poets United.