Image Source: Wikimedia Commons
Flat-out Flustered Philanderer
Long ago, singing days, swinging and swaying to standards
Regulars down with the drill: no dating Amy
This old guy approaches, asking for “anything Gershwin”
His ancient, rheumy eyes focus on my rack like radar
Customers see the sad, familiar scenario
And if they could they’d counsel him to cool it
He’s nearer; breath reeks of bourbon and Bel-Airs
Tells me he’d love to lavish me with luncheon
My friend snickers: Here comes the hard-ass handslap
Old codger grins at thoughts of snowing on my green young grass
“Just ’cause I go crazy getting on my Gershwin
doesn’t mean I canoodle and cavort with his contemporaries.”
With that, he toddles off, tipping me a ten.
Poor old guy, chasing the chastising chick.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trying my hand at dverse’s call for accentual alliteration. It’s complicated stuff, and I’m not sure I have all the rules down, but it was a fun write, and my BFF John will tell you, the story is absolutely true! Also “on the sidelines” at my two poetic piano bars, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United.
Peace, Amy
Sofia (anaphoric poem for a young soul)
Sofia’s sisters will write their symphonies
for the world in their world
Sofia’s song lies within, beautiful, sonorous,
hard to explain, yet unfailingly lovely…
filled with illusions and wonder
Sofia’s favorite pastime is looking in the mirror
God gazes back at her, through her eyes and
in her infectious smile; a face that is
a reflection of the face of God
Sofia’s sisters will have a different kind of freedom
Roaming the world, seeking their separate destinies
But she is the lucky one
Destiny has found her and
God holds her in strong arms
Sofia, your every breath is counted
and you will never be alone
Your name means wisdom and, though hidden,
it is real, a labyrinth that dwells deep and swells wide.
Sofia. Your witness is simply being; your song is of the soul.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I had written this poem for Sofia, the daughter of my friends Daniel and Joy, during a visit to San Antonio years ago, but it never saw the light of day until this blessed move to our new home next to our church. My posting will be sporadic, but I’ll read more than I post for a few days on breaks from unpacking. This is at dverse, Poets United, and the garden I have sorely missed, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
dverse asked for Anaphoric poems, which have repeated words or sounds. I decided to use the name which became a song for playtime: Sofia.
When we were visiting, Sofia, who had a difficult delivery and will never function in “our ways” past a young age, delighted when I played with her. The song was “So-FIIIIII-aaaaa…” followed by long, silly phrases:
So-FIIII-aaaaa sits on the floor and plays with her box of stuff
(giggles)
So-FIIII-aaaaa picks up the box and dumps all the stuff on the floor
(dump and giggle)
On and on through picking up plastic horses and puzzle pieces to dumping it out again. Hers is a pure existence, and the reason she has a happy life lies with her family. Danny and Joy are parents who, when faced with the birth of a child who would never learn to read or write, refused to lock her away. Her sisters, Veronica, Eva, and Carmen, love her for who she is, and Sofia is safe from caring when they pass her milestones; they are all equally loved by their parents and their larger family as individuals. This is a family of deep faith and a strong sense that they have been blessed by God with Sofia. My heart this day is with Daniel and Joy, with their able girls, and with that specially abled young woman, Sofia. Paz, y con mucho amor, Amy
He Was Eating and Drinking
(Click to play with ITunes or Windows Media Player)
He Was Eating and Drinking
Not like a thief in the night
Jesus came down
Walking his disciples
Straight through the heart of town
Even when he whispered
You heard about it for miles around
(Chorus)
‘Cause he was eating and drinking
With the sinners and the slaves
He was healing and praying
With the rich and the depraved
He was suffering and dying
So we could be saved
(Chorus)
No one expected to see
A king with no crown
Riding on a donkey
Straight through the heart of town
The fat men in their fine robes,
They couldn’t wait to put Jesus down
(Chorus)
How could this Messiah be
Beaten and broken down?
Dragging his cross
Straight through the heart of town
‘Cause God knew his suffering
Would lead his followers Heaven-bound
(Chorus and rowdy out!)
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Song published © 2009 Beehat Baby Words and Music
This prompt was found at Margo Roby’s Wordgathering Free-For-All Friday, where she generously supplies a whole lot of prompts. The fabulous Mary Kling at Poetry Jam wanted the usual/unusual or anything else… You can find Mary’s site HERE. Also, as always, it’s at my poetic haven, Poets United. If the song doesn’t work on your computer, please email me at my blog name @gmail.com, and I’ll send you an mp3!
I have to say, the contrasts in this story of Jesus’ ministry seem to go against the grain. He was more than unusual; he was radical, discomfiting, altogether loving, and nondiscriminatory. He was a prisoner of conscience, executed by the Roman State. Amnesty International would have been all over his case if he lived now, right?
This song was produced in Binghamton, NY, at a very, very cold studio in March 2009. I’m on keys, Scotty Compton is on bass, and Mike Ricciardi is on drums. (Drums were added later, then the song was mastered.) Someday I’ll get this praise and gospel stuff on a CD, when the dosh is ample and the corn is high… and the moon is blue! Blessed Pesach and Easter to my Jewish and Christian friends, and to everyone else, peace. Amy
CHANTEUSE IN SNEAKERS
From that first jam session, I was
the little girl singing with old dudes
They told me I “brought it”
Caught ‘em by the spiritual heel
Held ‘em with my feeling, healing
No drab days after that debut
Wandering out the back forty
serenading the birds who
sang back like they were answering
Daydreamed through school
Lyrics in mind (not math)
Pondering styles on mental stylus
Teacher would call on me
I’d pulsate from embarrassment
No clue as to question or even subject
Kids laughed and teachers scolded me
about my silly sidetrackedness
But I’d have luxurious revenge
Within two years, the best songs
ingrained in my brain, a tendril of
inspiration connecting song to singer
At the jam, I shocked even my siren mom
when I sang “Embraceable You,”
a pint-sized vixen, meaning every word
Caught glances of awestruck audience
I watched their reserve melt away
Drawn into my world, surreal, transfixed
They left reality behind, escaped the moment
of “I’m guzzling a martini” to float into
a haven of heaven, losing themselves
I was seven years old
when I realized I had the ability
to eat other people’s shadows
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, the final stanza is the first line of a poem by Hamilton Cork; we were given several lines from which to create a poem. Thank, Izy, for a great prompt. Read all poems and a bio of Hamilton Cork HERE.
Also for ABC Wednesday (C) and Three Word Wednesday (drab, pulsate, tendril).
Incantations in Jazz
Back in The Day
jam sessions were serious affairs
Jazz hinged on trust, ears, collaboration, and rotgut
Cat would stay
Play for no pay
‘Til break of day
Strayhorn charts in clouds of smoke or
off-the-top-of -your head bebop
Slammin duels or cozy duets
Soubrettes mimicked Ella, got laid
Torchettes dug deeper, got respect
Getz and Jobim brought bossa to the scene
Miles straight up in any incantation
Trane proclaiming A Love Supreme
but his lover was the needle, the ride
Recording sessions went straight to vinyl
Benny, Lionel, Slam – his high-pitched, mellow voice
doubling his bass lines, so fine, class, no sass
Basie showed Sinatra how to swing
(before the “ring-a-ding-ding”)
All live, driving, vibrant, vital
Women with ample curves strung like pearls
Billie moaning, Ella owning the scat, Bessie howling
Flat-out fine, no whine about the need for pay
Getting laid, getting high, getting by
by the grace of jazz, flowing like honey or
slappin you upside the head like a pissed-off date
He’d make love to her later
after the session cooled off, horns packed up.
Then everyone got down to real business
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “I”; Three Word Wednesday (Need, Hinge, Lethal); the open call at Real Toads, AND Trifecta’s word, “Ample.” Also at the place where I’m always jammin, Poets United.
This is the soil from which I spring. Call it a dangerous environment for a young girl, but I was right at home with the old cats, the ones who gave Art Tatum driving lessons (he was blind)… the ones who ruined their voices on bathtub gin and took up the drums to keep bread on the table. Imagine my luck, a little white girl who could sing blues, accepted by musicians of all colors and lifestyles! Peace, Amy
GOTTA GO!
Gotta go now
Wanna sing but day job pays bills
Run to catch the ‘bway
Pressed against other cogs in the car
We’re a movable beast
You can taste the air in here
and that ain’t a good thing
Gotta hurry up
Stop by coffee shop, grab a bialy and
some hot dark that speeds through veins
and makes brains go pop
In my cube 7 x 7
Hamster Heaven but Human Hell
Gotta run to help fix the copier
Maintenance can’t reach the tricky places
My fingers are nimble
I can take apart anything and I
joke with the guys and let them see some leg
as I crawl on the floor doing their job
I make soul-sucking misery look fun
Gotta go home to my wretched box
So square even the wallpaper is plaid
Swear to god it’s plaid
Gig tonight, no pay but exPOSURE
Pose in the mirror, pouty pretty
Gotta get to the gig
Back on the ‘bway downtown
This city is laid out in perfect lines
The A, B, C
The 1, 2, 3
The RR, bastard child of the rest
Follow the tic-tacs to find
a place to be, to become, to behave
but still believe it’s lasted
as long as it has
Here in the Gotham Game
Gotta go again
Shouldn’t’a drunk so much water
Surviving the City is easy
as long as you graph the clean bathrooms
on your mental map
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Joseph Harker’s “Naming Constellations,” an ekphrastic poem (written to an image or inspired by same). I chose the Piet Mondrian piece, “Broadway Boogie,” but to tell the truth, I didn’t notice the name before I wrote this – I picked the image because it made me nervous, and that reminded me about deadlines and there was also a resemblance to subway maps! So there you go. Thanks, Joseph; you’re an inspiration even when you don’t throw us a prompt. (This is also in the “ticker tape” of poems at Poets United.)
Two notes: The ‘bway’ is not Broadway; it’s our old nickname for the subway (or the tube, for my European friends). The City is always and forever New York; no real New Yorker would ever refer to it as The Big Apple, either – unless you’re a surviving vaudevillian, for whom that expression had true meaning, because playing New York City was indeed getting a bite of the “big apple.” Bit of history for you!
The painting is a low-resolution image and is in no way fully representative of the original piece. Mondrian, a superb talent; this is meant in tribute to his work, not a “snatch and grab.” Peace, Amy
Corner Shelf Onstage
Young: First round on me
Stay ‘til last call
Partied hard,
some success
Now: Wiser,
ready for rowdiness, revolution
Dichotomy:
Shy, depressed or
Manic, obsessed with
peace, poetry, politics,
my past
And always singing…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the whimsically titled Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, the challenge was to write a poem about yourself in 35 words or less. Peace, and please do come to the Garden – you’ll meet interesting poets and photographers and other artists!
Sharp Little Pencil 