For my third day of National Poetry Writing Month, I decided to follow a prompt, because it called out to me. Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about messengers. This is for my mother, who beat the devil and was sober the final 10 years of her life. She’s been gone 21 years now, but when I need her, just like Blanche (her mom), she is there for me. In her weakness and in her strength, so many lessons. Miss you, Mama. Love, Amer
Message in a Bottle
For the first time in years
(and so welcome, this occasion)
seated across the kitchen table with Mom.
For the first time in years
(since I had headed west for a spell)
she was not drunk – not even tipsy.
There was a message in
the absence of a gin bottle on that table…
Gordon’s had been her steadfast companion
Now we sat and looked each other in the eye
“Amy,” she said kindly, “there’s a scratch in your voice.
You need to stop smoking pot.”
For the first time in years,
we spoke singer to singer, our voices had always been
our beauty, our careers, our all.
“I sobered up,” she said slowly, “cold turkey.”
It was true – too ashamed to go to a clinic,
knowing so many people in town.
Dad had gone to her door several times each day,
listening to the retching, passing in black coffee
and soda crackers for a solid two weeks.
But for me, quitting a joint a day was easy.
And so the message was clear: No more bottle for her,
no more buds in Buglers for me. Saved my life, she did.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Dedicated to the GAFB/HiPockets/Poppy Star reunion 2010, with love to all, Amers
WITH ABANDON
Abandon hangups
all ye who enter here
Abandon your present
your what-happened-since-then
Embrace the ever-present past
Pick up a tambourine
Beat it til your hands bruise
Sing til it hurts
Play til your fingers remember
where their callouses were
Laugh til you cry
Live like it’s your last day on earth
Like it’s the end of your shift
Grab a cold beer, flop down here
and tell me all about it
We remain gypsies
no matter what path we chose
The world will never see anything like it again
Time and place
Ribs and space
Perrrrrrfection
Amy Barlow Liberatore
Santa Monica, August 15, 2010 (the morning after)
Bobby Francavillo, an old school buddy, turned me on to this young singer/songwriter. She’s phenomenal and so is her story… look her up on YouTube for an interview about how, after a car accident left her unable to walk, holistically working 24/7 on her music helped her neurons reconnect her brain and legs, which has enabled her to enjoy a rich, full life. Her voice is like… if Jean Arthur could sing. I cannot say enough about her talent, nor thank Bobby enough for mentioning her on FaceBook. I’ve bought 2 of her releases, and she saved MY mental health in a crowded layover at NYC’s Penn Station. Proof positive that magic is all around us, healing comes in many forms, and friends are meant to share the best things in life.
MELODY GARDOT
Penn Station cacophony
The really big noise of
crunchy humanity made moist
by lack of air conditioning
Bad tempers, worse hygiene that
fails to be tamed by perfumes
each more putrid than the last
and all available at WalMart
I park my pack, stack my stash
under weathered and weary sandals
Pull out headphones, cause
it’s gonna be a long layover
Wheel the reel of my IPod to
Melody Gardot, she of the
quirky scat, scratched slightly
broken voice, sleek songs
Eyes closed. I serenely
accept this comfort
as it’s offered up
in her lazy tones, slowly
Crabby folks suddenly wash away
in a flood of lush love songs
Colors appear beneath my eyelids
Vivid purples and greens
Audio visual mental lava lamp
undulating, glowing jazz
In the midst of Amtrak chaos
Suddenly, vibrant beauty
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My father could recite whole works of Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling… but oy, when he sang…
REALLY, REALLY BAD SINGER
Dad sang off key
Really off key. Tragically, even.
He dwelt among women who were
descended from sirens
A wife and three daughters
gifted by God with a keen sense of pitch
and an irrepressible desire to sing
Pop couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket
but he sang along anyway
(oblivious to our pinched noses and wincing)
(yeah, we were pretty snobbish, but only where music was concerned)
He also snapped his fingers out of time
as if completely unaware that rhythm had meaning
“You sing like Dad” was a grave insult
tantamount to an accusation of
letting loose a juicy fart in the car
or getting caught picking your nose
But when Dad sang, he did light up
While we suffered for art, mercifully critiquing each other
never satisfied with the result
Dad would burst into “Mule Train” with gusto
or grin as he stumbled through “Ghost Riders in the Sky”
He never knew he couldn’t sing
He just did it anyway
He didn’t care if anybody liked it or not
A life lesson in Q Flat
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We were challenged at Sunday Scribblings to write about swapping lives with someone. I thought about my childhood hero… and what happened along the way! Key of E-flat, if you please…
Barbra Streisand, Only Protestant
I knew I wanted to be
just like Barbara Streisand
when I was six, watching TV
Her voice, her style, her smile, and
her larger-than-life persona
completely captured me
I declare to Mom, “I’m gonna
sing like that, you wait and see”
To grow a Cleopatra nose
a neo-classic profile
To sing in high-class Broadway shows
with quirky, campy style
As Barbra aged, my interest waned
Her voice too perfect, shrill
Her long nails screamed “I’m awfully vain”
I lost the Barbra thrill
We girls have our heroes, true
And mine was quite outrageous
But I became a writer, too
Accessible, contagious
No beefy bodyguards on call
No need to lock my door
Without that fame, I’ve found my all
and still have work in store
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 