PRO-LIFE FOR DUMMIES
This bundle of cells
inside my body
must be protected
from me
This knot of matter
matters more
than the human host
My uterus must be guarded
lest my brain decide otherwise
since my brain is flawed
because I am only a woman
and you know better
and babies must be born
and intra-uterine ultrasounds are cool
(not a form of rape)
Even though the condom broke
The Pill failed
The boyfriend abused
The husband wanted and took
The father fathered
The stranger raped
Even though I know I
cannot raise this child in love
in security and hope
and the schools you provide
will never educate
and the help you will offer
is skewered by bitter judgments
After all that, you have
no words of condemnation or obligation
for the sperm donor
for the “father”
(who will never be a father)
My uterus must be protected
from my logical brain
Lord, save me from Christians
who believe pro-birth is pro-life
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sometimes it has to be political. Sometimes it’s so obvious. You are welcome to comment, but please don’t SCREAM AT ME IN ALL CAPS. And no foul language, because everyone knows what a prude I am!
For ABC Wednesday, once they post today, E for Extremist. Also for Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you will find an abundance of diverse voices. Give these sites a try. Take the leap! Amy
Words Fail Me
When I look at
the box to check that
asks me if I’m white
(like Apartheid, right?)
Words fail me
When I hear a slur
thrown at his/her
clothing on the street
(too butch or too sweet)
Words fail me
Then I remember what
my ancestry is, and cut
straight to the chase –
Whether it’s race
or “homoqueerdyke” –
Riley sure didn’t like
it, she took them on
Must have gone til dawn
Whatever the abuse
There is no excuse
I find my mind; suddenly
My words do not fail me
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The great Brian Miller at dverse Poets asked for the theme “when words fail you.”
It’s one thing to be stopped in my tracks by utter stupidity, insensitivity, and hate speech. It’s another to let it pass. I will always calmly try to talk them in off the Limbaugh Lemming Ledge… even though we have “concealed carry” in this state. It’s worth the risk, if only to stand for justice and work for peace. And it always ends up with a moment of standoff and an apology. (Caveat: I don’t take on the clearly unmedicated who could do me real harm, because they are speaking out of their own illnesses.) Peace, Amy
From Whence, and Why
(My Poetic Manifesto… because Gay asked for it!)
I write to give voice
to those without a choice
The homeless, incest survivors
Deep-water depression divers
I’ve been, at one time, all of these
I claim it, no third-person tease
Stated as fact, no truth untold
Some wish that I wouldn’t be quite so bold
Raised to speak raw truth to power
Toe to toe with guys who tower
far over my little Irish ass
(Pardon me, but I can be crass)
Give me paper, a sharp li’l pencil
and life’s underbelly I will stencil
Most people in sight of my spigots:
Racist, homophobic bigots
I’m not important, not myself
My poetry rarely graces a shelf
I drop truth bomb after drone
My words, the only weapon I own
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Poets Pub, our host Gay Reiser Cannon asked for “Manifestos.” Reasons why we write, our impulses and drives, where it all first came from. I dedicate this piece to my late mother and my grandmother Blanche. The maternal side of my family, shanty Irish, were always mindful of those who had less, whether people of color, LGBT folks, victims of war (especially troops who died and their families)… perhaps because they themselves had been in a position of being homeless and next to starving during the Depression of the 30s.
They also thought Ayn Rand was full of shit. We ARE our brother’s – and sister’s – keepers, and if you deny that, you supply the world with ZILCH. Hence my manifesto. Peace, Amy
So Dangerous He Needs a Soo-da-nim
(Racist Homophobes Who Comment on My Blog)
He knows the Founders so well
Sure of Second Amendment intent
He channels Jefferson
in sick séances where
the tea’s past rancid
but the linen is fancy
except for the nibbles
of moths in every closet
He is steady on the mark
with his Glock and his spiel
about black/brown (like
HIS ancestors didn’t
come from Africa too)
About ‘cullahed peeples’
and their unoriginal sins
About ‘faggots who want him
to bend over and take it’
He knows it by their eyes
His guns were loaded that day
He knew the kid, he really did
Must’ve because he’s been
entrusted with innuendo that
spews out his piehole like
a sick gospel. And he lives
right down the block from you
But he keeps swastikas
hidden in the basement
encased in old-growth wood
covered by a Confederate flag
Proud patriot with a
genocidal mind and a blog
He’s so dangerous, he told me,
he needs a pseudonym
Sad, dangerous, sick
little man with a laptop
he uses at Denny’s and also
big guns and bigger dreams
Gonna clean up AmeriKKKa
We won’t know his real name
‘til we see it on the CNN crawl
But the ironic thing is
his mentor’s name
is Jewish.
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
His name is Legion. His mentor is Zimmerman. He trolled (!) my blog for a long while, actually claiming he writes under an assumed name, lest the government shut him down. I, like a dutiful bartender, called him a cab and sent him back to his bunker.
First, apologies to all who comment and have to wait for moderation. My last posting was invaded by vendors in the comments, so back to the drawing board (sorry, Mary! I know you like to see your comments posted). Someday, we will wrangle this digital world; in the meantime, spammers run it. We just live in it. And now for a look at the man behind all the gay-bashing and LGBT arrests. Vlad, methinks thou protesteth too much…
Pimping the Olympics
Yay! Way to fatten
Putin’s pockets
Plus private security
tho’ LGBT “inferiority”
is policed to a polish
Don’t get me started on
Elton’s gig; he and David
could shtoop on the steps
of the Kremlin, but Russian
gays are jailed every day
Could Russia BE more hostile
while playing host to the
world’s athletes? Gay or straight?
Do the math: Pocketful of zloti
for self-loathing Vladi
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Vladimir Putin is a great example of “I want to bare my (pretty disgusting) physique for all to admire, but gay men with six-packs and lesbians who could take me in three rounds should all go to jail.” He is a pathetic closet case, if you ask me. I said months ago we should boycott these Olympics when the laws against LGBT people were being passed, but then again, we also appeared in China… our athletes wore clothes MADE in Chinese sweat shops. The Olympics have become a pit of corruption. I’m skipping this year… NBC won’t show the Canadian curling anyway. Peace, Amy
Clothes Make the…
Picture this
A cocktail party
Only chic elites parading in
Ralph Lauren, Valentino
Stella Mc (no, no Butterick)
Dripping in blood from
Harry Winston diamonds
Sleek, shiny, baubled
Finest wardrobe money can buy
Picture this gathering of
the 85 people who own
HALF the wealth of the
planet. 85 = $½ of ALL OF IT*
Crappy, credible math
They drink, snort, and laugh about
those wretched K-Mart shoppers
About the 99% (that’s you and me)
“How do they manage?”
“They should get real jobs”
“I never shop at WalMart,”
smirks one of Sam Walton’s girls
Their gowns, regardless of
high-fashion label, imported
from Chinese sweatshops
from Indonesian factories
Bangladesh burned but they’re
still pumping out product,
thanks to hard-working
child slave labor (and women)
These rich women, coiffed
and manicured, preening
These sons of smarter men, coiffed
and manicured, peacocks
They say clothes make the man
but these schmucks
sure as hell didn’t
make their clothes
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
* Per OxFam, a non-partisan worldwide watchdog for the underprivileged
First, a HUGE “thank you” to all who have sent messages asking where I’ve been and if I am all right. Long story short: Played at two Christmas Eve services, then got the holiday/deep winter depression… followed by a flu I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even GWB. But finally able to sit at my desktop (the messages were monitored on my phone, but it’s no good for posting poetry) and contribute once again.
So off to my “play pond” I ran! Shay at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Fireblossom Friday wanted a poem in which clothing is a major component. See, I can still be politically snarky while writing about high fashion! Peace, Amy
The Advent of the Adventure
The story goes that
a baby was born and
placed in bin where
the animals fed
Shepherds were awed
Mystics from the East
gave him expensive gifts
(but nothing practical)
The time leading
up to this event
is for considering
whether we’re ready
Ready to go on
the adventure once more
To seek justice, love kindness,
and walk humbly with our God
Ready to hear stories
from the man with the plan
who ran afoul of authorities
and, like Mandela, was
a prisoner of conscience
Unlike Mandela, he was
executed by the State in
the most humiliating way
Are we ready to follow the star?
Are we ready to see the babe?
Most importantly, ask yourself
the question Christmas poses:
Are you so focused on the baby
that you forget the lessons of
the man? If you max your cards
this Advent, the answer is “yes”
Give to charity in his name
Give to a homeless person in his name
Give thanks to God in his name
Give your heart to pursuing justice
…in his name
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday. Now that “Black Friday” and all that mishigoss has passed us by, I still wonder whether the secular Christmas has more meaning for people than the actual event. I don’t care that Jesus was probably born in July; I don’t “need” an immaculate conception or miracles. And I love Winter Solstice celebrations. But I do take my marching orders from Jesus!
Peace, Amy
I Stand My Ground With My Words
Why was the life of a black youth
walking through his “white” neighborhood
snuffed out by an old man’s bullet?
Fear. Racism. Because Zim had a gun.
When did “standing your ground”
mean wielding not words,
but a weapon?
Bad laws. NRA lobby $$.
When will we decide to
engage in conversation and reject
vigilante injustice?
When we resume being human.
We’ve been in collective PTSD
since 9-11, and brown and black folks
have lost ground since then.
Don’t tell me it’s not racism.
Hearts have hardened by war
and lies and this horrid Congress,
divided and divorced from reality.
They have armed guards.
Try this on for size: If you cannot
stand your ground with words, you’re
not mature enough to own a pistol.
Your possessions are not worth a life.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
‘Nuff said. For Poets United’s Poetry Pantry, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and dverse Open Mic Night.
Are We Not Meat Puppets?
They say jump
We don’t ask why; we say, “How high?”
They say pay
We don’t question “Evil Axis”; we ante up the taxes
When did we become a numbskull nation of
Stepford meat puppets? Coughing up money to
support the Machine that pukes out bullets and drones,
that rains down death on the defenseless and our kids,
that defends “democracy” like it’s alive and well
in this incestuous hellhole of a republic that should be
called the Citizens United Shambles of Anglophiles.
Now a 200-year old experiment gone horribly wrong
reveals the abysmal truth: We were set up to fail.
Ben Franklin knew it; we blew it according to his
prediction that the predilection of the predator rich
would supplant rights of the “lesser born.”
American royalty (the Bushes, the Kochs, the WalMartons),
bred and more often inbred into simpering, faded Xeroxes
of hypocrisy, invading Congress (or buying a senator or two,
plus a Supreme, a real bargain these days)
They co-opt the middle class covertly
Privatizing public schools
(Susan B. Anthony reels in her grave)
Privatizing health care
(Big Pharma wanks the banks)
Busting unions and demonizing the rank and file
(Mother Jones rattles her bones)
Abusing immigrants
(State of Liberty or Torch Your Ass, Amigo?)
Espousing the Trickle-Down Theory
(Paul Ryan, please pass the toilet paper,
or your budget – they’re the same thing)
Citing voter fraud and discouraging minority voters
(we NEED ID because four cases were proved)
Continuing worst practices in banks
(FDR was a socialist; rich people deserve bonuses)
With help from some bastard pastors who live
in mansions, drive limos (or are driven in same),
who wouldn’t give Jesus a dime or the time of day
if they passed Him on the street (Private police
will handle homeless, and they won’t have any
Big Government oversight in how they handle it)
With help from us, the pathetic apathetic…
they strain our brains and even our mercy through
media propaganda and corporate corpulence
And we fall for it, fall into it, ground up into
walking, talking, FOX-spewing meat puppets
And as Monsanto and their ilk skip off to another
Koch Brothers cruise to the mutilated, prostituted
Caribbean, we say
Have a nice day and
Why doesn’t somebody do something about them and
Kim Kardashian is really getting fat and
Honey Boo-Boo is on, microwave some popcorn and
Wow, this (genetically engineered, dye-infused,
growth hormone-laden, e coli infected) beef is
too expensive, but fire up the grill and pass me
a cold one or two or twelve
Where is our indignation?
Is it American Idol or American Idle,
cause this sure ain’t American Idyll
NRA, FOX, ALEC: know your acronymns and
dismantle their poisonous, licentious, homophobic,
woman-hating, war-profiteering, racist, divisive
shitmongering, unconstitutional, IMMORAL machinery
By any nonviolent means necessary
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
So Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted a rant, in remembrance of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl.” Since this angry state of mind is so utterly foreign to me, I did my best to act like a political activist and member of the Christian Left. Hope I succeeded. (wink)
Peace, Amy
My Favorite Poem of All Time (Click above to hear it read by Amy)
Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads
Masses
By Carl Sandburg (1878–1967)
from his Chicago Poems, 1916
AMONG the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and red crag and was amazed;
On the beach where the long push under the endless tide maneuvers, I stood silent;
Under the stars on the prairie watching the Dipper slant over the horizon’s grass, I was full of thoughts.
Great men, pageants of war and labor, soldiers and workers, mothers lifting their children—these all I touched, and felt the solemn thrill of them.
And then one day I got a true look at the Poor, millions of the Poor, patient and toiling; more patient than crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the darkness of night—and all broken, humble ruins of nations.
Sharp Little Pencil 