To my friends,
Just so you’ll understand my absence, my computer has been giving me the Blue Screen of Death (followed by The “Blue” Screams of Amy) and it’s going to have a Time Out at the repair shop.
Thanks to all for their prayers during yesterday’s second, third, fourth, and fifth mammograms, which reveal NOTHING! “Old Leftie” is clean as the proverbial whistle. Amen. Thanks also to Carolyn for her wonderful advice (as expressed in “You’re EEEEK! uh…”) and thank God I didn’t need most of it… this time.
Please say a prayer tonight for all the uninsured, who are unable to breeze into the clinic knowing they have insurance coverage like ours. Pray for a national health plan that covers everyone… and if you have to give up your cosmetic surgery so that some kid doesn’t have to die from whooping cough, think about it… isn’t it worth that much? Health care is a RIGHT, not a privilege. We spend a thousand times more on bombing Afghanistan (and yes, Iran is next) into the Stone Age than we spend on health care. Tea Party, please research, thanks.
See you in a few, and again, thanks for your support. I love you all madly, as The Duke would say. Peace, Amy
RICH AND RICHER
Here is the heart of the matter:
One percent get fatter
while children starve.
Their parents are
stark-stricken with guilt.
We 99ers built this country,
White indentured servants;
Black slaves who gave all and
all they got was, “Y’all are lazy,
yer not even worth
one whole person.”
They nursed hope anyway.
The Rich are the sons
and grandsons of men with
ideas but the DNA diluted.
Ever see a xerox of a xerox of
a xerox? Sometimes that’s called
Mister President.
The Rich of today
have never worked
or earned their money.
They play Monopoly
using real people as
little game pieces.
They play the game of Life
using worthless mortgages
as cash for their bank.
They don’t play chess.
That game takes work.
Effort is not their style.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “R.” Also posted at Poets United, my poetic sanctuary.
Memories of Neisse (for Hanna)
Traditional Seder plate
Looking back, it began slowly.
Happy memories of sacred Friday rituals
Mama lighting the Shabbat candle
Everyone singing songs in Hebrew
Relatives visiting on significant holidays
Passover in Neisse, their little town
Up and down streets, the strings of
small shops owned by proud families
Wandering Jews who’d settled so long
they felt like indigenous Germans
Then, change in the air, a foul stench
as demons plotted in biergartens
with one who had a Master Plan
First is was spittle on Father’s shoes
as they walked to temple
Elaboration: Book burning
Brecht, Freud, Dos Passos, Proust
Einstein, Kafka, Joyce, Helen Keller
Genius flashes turned to ashes
Artwork was destroyed, replaced by
white marble gods and goddesses:
The. Ideal. German. Is. Not. A. Jew.
Young Hanna was told to leave school
and never come back. She glanced
over her shoulder fighting back
bitter, Jewish, no-longer-real-German tears
as a swastika flag was affixed above
the entrance to her (no-longer-her) school
Their summit was yet to be reached
The nadir of Hanna’s life as they
boarded the train for…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Goddess, String, Elaborated, Flags, Sacred, Visit, Demons, Summit, Rituals, Significant, Intentions, Indigenous. Also for dverse Open Link Night.
Dedicated to Riley’s Oma (“grandma” in German), Hanna Weinberger, who escaped Auschwitz two weeks before the Liberation, emigrated to America, married, and had two sons. Also dedicated to the man she married, Leonard Weinberger, and their sons, Rob and Roy.
DECLARATION OF AN ALLY OF THE QUEER COMMUNITY
Queer. That word stops
folks from my generation
dead in their tracks.
We don’t say that word.
Queer.
Always an insult, the word shouted
by football players before stuffing a
loafer-light boy into a wastebasket.
Queer.
Not right. Wrong.
In Matthew Shepard’s case, dead wrong.
Tied-to-a-bumper wrong.
Queer.
The word my daughter uses
in identifying her orientation.
She dresses boyish but loves women.
Queer.
They’re here. Your accountant, your dentist,
your kid’s teacher (not the one with the
porn on their computer, either).
Queer.
Homophobes use it to describe
boys other than their own sons, who
ship out in the Navy to prove they are “real men.”
Queer.
Mom explained it when I was five.
No graphic descriptions of sex,
just, “Uncle John loves Uncle Tony.”
It’s simple.
People are people.
Half the sexual acts straight couples do
could get them arrested in Mississippi.
Queer.
They’re here. Get over it.
They are committed couples.
They adopt kids straight couples don’t want.
They rehabilitate crack babies.
They are wonderful neighbors.
They shop; they pay taxes.
Some are slobs, some are fashionable.
Some drink wine, some drink beer.
Some go to church, some don’t.
They are human beings who are
capable of love, of compassion,
of snottiness, of loyalty.
They deserve life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness.
Just like you.
Just like me.
Just like everybody else.
Amen.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter Q.
And no, that is not a picture of me. It’s me in 20 years or so!
Wild in the Streets
Those crazy Wisconsinites
From Madison to Green Bay
They’re getting ready
The signs are up; protests continue
Bikers now pump their tires full
Those who walk are re-Scholling their shoes
Unions are getting out the vote
Churches are getting out the vote
Raging Grannies are getting out the vote
College students are getting out the vote
The handicapped are all accessible:
Teachers, farmers, union rank and file
Families on public assistance
People whose jobs were cut to give fat cats tax breaks
Women in general
(Hell, he doesn’t discriminate, he hates ALL of us)
Governor Doofus. Dumber than a sack of rocks.
We’re jumping in the pool
We’re jamming the polling places
We’re ready to make our stand
We’re gonna tell the Koch Brothers that
WISCONSIN IS NOT FOR SALE.
And when we’re done, we’ll meet
on State Street for some local brew
Scott Walker, start packing now
Save us the embarrassment of evicting you
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings (‘wild’) and for Poetic Bloomings, asking for poems based on a movie title.
“Wild in the Streets” is a cult classic about a pop star who eventually gets into politics. Once he’s president, he mandates things like putting people in nursing homes on LSD. It’s a true stinker, but the title was perfect for how some Tea Party members from other state view us, as we strive to get the incompetent man pictured above out of our everyday lives. Teabaggers still don’t get that they have been co-opted by the Brothers Koch, who pull all the strings and want to privatize schools and end reproductive freedoms. Silver-spoon trust fund babies; never really had to work because Daddy left them everything!
Bud is Bummin’
Bud’s buttressing his building,
same as yesterday and forever.
Paper cup kept jingling:
The classic ask.
I’m boy I’m embarrassingly I’m
so damned late,
I buzz by him without blinking;
must rumble through
the crowded sidewalk,
Almost to the conference door.
My heart screams;
conscience bubbles through my bloodstream,
hits my medulla “obligata.”
Turning tail to the nearest café.
Two large coffees, a cup of milk,
a banana (potassium) and bran muffin.
Sugar, yellow, pink, blue packets.
I don’t take sweet, but he might.
Back at the bastion,
Bud’s taking a break, huddled under a blanket
I offer him the tray;
he looks up and mumbles, “What’s this?”
“All for you, sir, except the second cup.”
I blush, grab my portion, bend to share a hug.
I run off.
Blessings abound.
Angels around.
Dependence is a two-way street.
If we want to connect with them,
let’s show respect for them
Let’s interrupt our previously scheduled lives
for a moment of grace.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Dependence, Kept, Rumble; for dverse Open Mic Night; and as always, for Poets United, my poetic hotspot!
W.A.S.P. Apology
Dear Tribal Peoples of the Americas,
My English ancestors arrived aboard The Mayflower.
You were enslaved, exposed to smallpox, forced to forfeit your land.
No longer able to hunt. Shot like animals, sent to reservations.
I am profoundly sorry.
Sincerely and in the spirit of repentance,
Amy Barlow Liberatore
Trifecta asked us to write a letter of apology in exactly 33 words, not counting the title, salutation, or signature. The was the best subject I could write about. All my friends know of my pride in the “shanty Irish” side of my family; however, my father’s ancestors can be traced to Richard Warren on the Mayflower. While some view this as a heritage to be proud of, I’ve been trying to live it down, both as an activist and as a woman who educated herself on the facts of the matter. A racist website by some cracker named O. Ned Eddins plays down the torture and displacement Native Americans. History, once again written by the winners… yet, had we stayed with indigenous ways of respecting the land and thinking seven generations ahead, we would not be ruled by oligarchy in a despoiled land. Amy
Day Four of National Poetry Month’s “Poem a Day.” Feeling my oats, thanks to Poetic Blooms (see below for process notes and sites). Peace, Amy
MRS. CLEAN WIPES THE SLATE
Woe to you, lobbyist and profiteer
Avenue K will be set on its ear
Begone, day traders sipping hot
MochaccinoSkinnyNoWhipLattes,
as your fingers scurry over the laptop keyboard,
some letters and most numbers worn off,
scars of fiscal battle
Gird your loins, o members of Congress,
for your days of feasting shall draw to a close
as I focus my wrath on your graft
Whosoever can be bought will be for naught
Sweeping streets and slaving in call centers
(for a living wage, of course)
The payola shall be purged
Elections no longer auctioned to the highest bidder
(or Brother), nor Diebold election machines
glean false numbers from pro-Machine hackers
Even the Supremes will feel my ire for
conspiring to convince us corporations possess
ears, eyes, tongues… and souls
For I, Mrs. Clean, now hold the power:
Contained in the Golden Rule,
affirmed by the Great Commandment of Love
I am trusted by even the crustiest atheist
(because I’ll drink coffee and shoot the shit
with people of every belief or non-belief)
Mrs. Clean will change the scene and proclaim
the mighty truth: Democrats and Republicans
stink of graft equally, and in good measure
President Obama should bring our troops home NOW
And when that is set right, the real work begins:
Mitt Romney will wash windows at women’s clinics
Newt Gingrich will scrub toilets in public restrooms
Hillary Clinton will bake free cookies on 12-hour shifts without
breaks, just like Chinese children work on her watch
Ron Paul will oversee Area 51 but make no more money
than the baristas at the low-cost local cafes
Rush Limbaugh will be bombasting “Would you
like fries with that?” in a little paper hat
Michelle Bachmann will be sent back to middle school
to learn history and how to recognize gay boyfriends
And Sarah Palin? Field-dress THIS
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings – a second take on their prompt, Superheros, which I had answered earlier with “Reflector Babe.” Also at my site of sites, Poets United and that dynamite poets’ cafe, dverse.
Whoa, babe, first day of PAD (Poem a Day, all April), and it’s a trifecta! Process notes below, but first, the poem.
REFLECTOR BABE
If I could have one power
it probably would be
a magic mirror carried
all over town with me.
If someone shouted, “N*****!”
I’d take it from my purse
to hold it up before them
and then they’d want to curse;
for they would see a black face,
they’d stare quite quizzically.
And then I’d asked them plainly,
“Do you see what I see?”
Or bullies shoving gay kids
into the garbage bin.
My mirror’d show them how they’d look
once they had been tossed in.
The rich would see the homeless,
the cheaters, a square dealer.
Oh, with my mirror, I might have
the powers of a healer.
For even if they didn’t change,
perhaps they’d take some time
reflecting on their ways, o Lord!
Would that not be sublime?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings (reflect), Poetic Bloomings (super hero), and Poets United’s Poetry Pantry. I thought about the prompt “reflect” and, rather than render another reflection about politics, child abuse, depression, or whatever the heck was on my mind, I’d use the mirror image. Then Blooms wanted poems about super heros, and since I had already posted “Volume Control Grrrl” (with a flick of my wrist, I could render booming car stereos mute, as well as people loudly discussing their gall bladder operations while I’m trying to eat at the next table), I thought this would be more in keeping with my values. And Poetry Pantry? Hell, I post EVERYTHING at Poets United, because they are my Gang of Many Wonderful People! Peace, Amy
If you are a true Tea Party member, you might want to skip this one, since it defies the Gospel According to St. Viagra.
Prove It
If corporations are people,
why don’t they have
lungs and
genitalia?
Female corporations
are denied contraception.
Rush is a straight corporation?
He should do something procreative
with “beard” Wife #4 and prove it!
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta: Poem in 33 words that justifies having an exclamation point. Title not included in the word count.
Also at my poetic cafe, Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 