THIS POST IS FOR ADULTS ONLY. PLEASE BE AWARE, IT’S ROUGH.
Bitter Fruits
Five years old
She fears flashbulbs
Finicky about swallowing medicine
“Let it float, like a boat,” frantic mother
urges. Finally, the girl
chews the bitter aspirin.
Flannel nightgown often found wet at dawn.
Fragile, frail, their final filly.
Til forty, fortunate to forget
she was her father’s favorite pet.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
What can I say? Sometimes I have to tell the truth. Peace, Amy
For ABC Wednesday (letter F) and, as always, Poets United.
Abusive Remains
Siblings.
Each has their own version of What happened and How,
but most importantly, Why.
Emptied of shame, I still wonder.
Am I sure in my memories?
Have I scratched theme enough to bleed,
to tear a hole deep through to
the beating heart that still skips a beat
when HIS name is mentioned?
Did HE really hang the moon?
Was HE blameless,
spotless?
HE was, after all,
remorseless.
Should I feel guilty? Was I mistaken?
Perhaps I was demon-possessed after all.
One good exorcism and I’d be like new.
One dip in the blood of the Lamb and I’d be reborn… or so she says.
Except, as I drift off to sleep on some nights,
my head still tilts back slooooowly and
my mouth opens and
I am choked in that brutal rhythm.
It was real.
It happened.
It remains.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides asked for poems on the word “Empty,” and ABC Wednesday, rather than reverting to another alphabet, started over with “A.” Also posted at the STELLAR blog, Poets United. Come to all these sites. Meet my genius friends!! Amy
Teacher Says
There was only one reason really to think about
going into fifth grade and start smiling about it
I was getting Mr. Hansen, the teacher I was hoping for
I’ve seen him in his classroom
so tall
so handsome
that five o’clock shadow always, even in the morning
like Don Draper
(Mom tapes Mad Man and I sneak peeks)
I sat up on hot summer nights
imagining chalk sliding across the board
in smoooooooth strokes
It gave me shivers, wishing the chalk was his hand
and I was the chalkboard
School started and I wore my new earrings
because Mom let me pierce my ears for my birthday
Last Thursday afternoon, I asked for extra help
with math – we’re starting to study all the different angles
(My sister calls me obtuse but I still don’t understand why)
He smiled and I could tell he liked that I asked him
For a few minutes, at his desk, just the two of us
Then he brushed his hand on my leg and said,
You shave your legs. That’s pretty grown-up of you.
I blushed and muttered thank you and tingled all over
We’re gonna do the math thing once a week
He said he’s got a way to show me how right angles work
but I shouldn’t tell anybody because the other girls
might get jealous, you know how young girls are, he said
I said, don’t worry, it’ll be our secret
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Wrote this today, no prompt, just something that was in that huge grab-bag of scraps I keep by my desk. It’s like Felix the Cat’s Bag of Tricks – I reach in, pull out a few scribbles, and expand one of the thoughts into a complete poem. Such is the work of this poet. It will, as always, be on Poets United, the poets’ collective. Peace, Amy
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
At Three Word Wednesday, the prompts were: Dainty, Haunting, and Tantalize. Took me days to get to this place… and not one I relish being in. But some things must be said. Amy
Desserts (3WW: Dainty, Haunting, Tantalize)
Petit fours, marzipan
Dainty cupcakes set
in a tantalizing row
each night for his consumption
Little girls on display
Sleeping delights to his watchful eye
This patisserie from Hell
is haunting me still
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Writer’s Island, the prompt was, “Secret.” Something I know a little about… Amy
Bound
Bound-up little girl
heavy with secrets
she never understood
or could quite remember.
Faint whispers in
darkened rooms.
Shamed feelings.
Questions without answers
danced in her mind
in recesses, shadows.
When her truth
was at last unveiled
and then conquered
the psychic straps
that held her captive
were loosed,
and she unfolded slowly.
A Japanese fan
expanding, revealing
dizzying glorious colors
for the world to see.
“Here I am,” says she.
“Unbound.”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At We Write Poems, we were asked to write about a safe place, a refuge. Sometimes the best refuge is actually more like a foxhole or a bomb shelter… not necessarily bringing comfort, but warding off the enemy who is ever seeking out the vulnerable.
HIDING
When you go to bed,
always keep the covers tucked in
and lie face down between two pillows
with the sheets pulled up over your head,
hands clutching the top seam in a death grip.
He’ll never find you there.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 