Attica Arrest(ed development)
One day, by my driveway
A man in a used sedan was stopped by a cop
for D.W.B. (Driving While Black)
I know this is so because I asked the officer
why the man was pulled over
Officer Smithjones replied,
“He was driving with an impaired view of his windshield.”
Come again?
“He had Mardi Gras beads hanging from his rear view mirror.”
Oh. Then my sharp little pie-eater opened wide,
first muttering, then sputtering, uttered at top volume
(for the benefit of staring, but unconcerned, neighbors):
“All the rednecks in this town with
big fuzzy dice like dried-up 20-mule-team
cajones hanging in their big ole trucks, and
you stopped this man over a string of beads?
And you wonder why people decry we’re a
‘don’t-let-the-sun-set-on-your-ass’ town?”
To make it more poignantly, patently ridiculous,
the poor guy was trying to make his way to AA
Ironic, since that town
almost drove me to drink
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, our ‘bartender’ Kelvin asked for poems in the form of an anecdote. Keep it short and sweet and interesting. Also for Sunday Scribblings, where the prompt is “sharp.”
I still can’t believe I survived five years in a town where someone flew a Confederate flag in front of his house and the “N” word was used without hesitation. Of course, I have no time for racism and I do call it out. I hate being in a Wonder Bread crowd and people assuming I’m “one of the gang.” I’m social justice, hard core, sharp tongue and all. It loses me friends, but when it does, I say, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” because they were not friends to begin with – friends share values, like integrity.
True story, edited from an old version. Though I knew many wonderful folks during our years there, the authoritarian figures were often racist and WAY out of line. I believe it’s part of the blowback of never having reconciliation sessions after the “Attica Prison Riots” of the ‘70s.
Come, Spring (a cinquain)
Sunlight
Pour through my pane
Melt ice around my heart
Transform my frozen mind gently
Frost free
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Wikimedia Commons, by Mohylek: “I, the copyright holder of this work,
release this work into the public domain. This applies worldwide.”
NaPoWriMo #2, for Sunday Scribblings (seasoned, although mine is more seasonal). Also at “It’s Always Sunny at Poets United,” my wintering snowbird delight and haven!
Can you believe it? An unprompted cinquain. Spring must be coming… Peace, Amy
Participating in National Poetry Writing Month “A poem a day keeps the blues at bay.”
DIVE RIGHT IN (from the mini-series, “Amy: The Lost Years”)
I know it’s a dive but
I dive right in anyway
Thigh-high boots first and
black silk bustiered boobs
not far behind
A drink; I start to shine; a
dim bulb sidles over, his
best pick-up line the
cobwebby question
of the truly unhip:
“What sign are you?”
After all these years,
you’d think it would
no longer be laughable
to answer, “Virgo”
But sorry-ass dudes
who think they can
get you with a ‘lude*
also seem to think it’s
hilarious to say “virgin”
Now he’s making fun
of my birth sign
“Hold on, Jack,” I snark,
“who’s the one with the
fake tan and a wink
that tells me you watch
WAY too much old
Magnum, PIs? Let me
illuminate you, buddy
I may have been born Virgo,
but I’ve a Gemini eye:
I can see Taurus rising
in your attitude, cuz
you’re way past horny
and full of B.S.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Back in the day, a “lude” was a Quaalude. It not only put you into a dreamlike state, it also cured constipation and shyness.
For Poetic Bloomings, Marie Elena and Walt wanted poems about our astrological signs. Since a whole poem about the anal retentive, positively OCD nature (OK, some people call me “meticulous,” but that’s because they’re trying to avoid my hypercritical, snarky attitude) seemed like a bore, so I put it within a salacious story. I mean, how much can I say about arranging your bookshelves by age of the volumes, then rearranging by subject, then again by author…
Also, Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem using the word “illuminate,” and I dare say this guy may have achieved some enlightenment. Man, I was caustic back then! Peace, Amy
So obviously I’m lousy at taking breaks; although, truth be told, I’m making much progress on the damned taxes, so I’m back for Sunday Night Funnerific-a-go-go, AKA “Four Prompts in One Poem.” Whew!
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
In the past, a vast empire of
mighty newspapers broadened minds.
The scale of subscribers was enormous;
most papers did not more than inform us.
Eventually “news” skirted the real story
under orders from rich men who tend to
eat the truth raw and spit it out, tattered and
slimy, pro-corporate, inaccurate drool.
The print version has since been scattered
all over cyberspace – in case you haven’t
notices, HuffPost will soon make The Daily News
a ghost (it’s on the edge, like most).
As for TV, I mist over remembering
Cronkite and Murrow, mirrors of our national
conscience (back when there was such a thing).
Now it’s “Happy News,” reported by interns and
delivered by softly curved Barbies with white smiles and
a light-skinned Black meteorologist. They report on
straw polls; they pitch their network’s upcoming
programs. Even the crawl crawls, clueless.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Inhale.) Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem on the word “Subscribe”; Brain Miller at dverse Poets wanted writings on media; Brenda Warren, at The Sunday Whirl, gave us a dozen words, and Poets United (all the poetry that’s fit to print!) has Poetry Pantry. So that’s FOUR prompts in one poem, and it’s still properly snarky, as befits my sharp little pencil.
I do miss real journalism… Moyers is all I have left, except for BBC.com! Peace (and a plea for something more than birdcage liner), Amy
DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE
“Don’t bother with that now,” says he,
that little devil in me, and with a smile.
“The pills aren’t good for you – you, who are
too special to be tamed by doctors’ doses.”
I gaze through cobalt blue glass. It’s all over
our house, in unexpected places and all the
windows. Blue soothes. Blue cools my brow.
She, color of cornflowers and lobelia.
“Don’t look there. And remember,” says he,
“there is so much more fun in dancing without
benefit of discretion, in writing on the walls
before the thought skitterclatters down the hall.”
I do not listen to that voice. Not a voice, really,
that would be schizyfreaky… it’s the pull of
the World, of Things To Be Bought, of Drinks
To Be Drunk (Too Many and Too Often).
He stops, knows he’s been recognized. “Girl,
I’m only trying to help. The meds keep you under
a scripted thrall of ennui. Remember the old days?
You were the good time that was had by all.”
Had and had again, says I, searching for the
new blue top, periwinkle. Blue cobalt strand in
one ear, a blue bejeweled post in the other. I’ll sing loud
the blues. Sing over him. Sing past him and out the door.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A continuation of writings probing the “many-splintered thing,” my depression! Sunday Scribblings asked for “you and me” poems. This poem takes an abstract turn because, as I continue to fight a deep depression, I’ve had an internal dialog of sorts: the relationship between the “devil” of my chemical imbalance (and temptations to go off meds) are tempered by my relationship to the color blue, a healing shade for my blues, and isn’t that ironic? For some reason, it has always brought me solace; hence, the many blue bottles and jars all over our apartment.
Anything that works. And it WILL get better, even though I was born without bootstraps by which to pull myself up… that’s where meds and therapy take over to breach the gap.
This is also posted at my calm blue writing room, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
Wisconsin Mud
Autumn task
Baskets of weeds
Seeds fall to soil
Toil with the tiller
Clay ground first
Curse of my garden
Hardens like rock
Mocks my feeble shovel
Red, this level
Beveled by tilling machine
Green detritus mixes
Fixes a greyer hue
Potting soil on top
Prop myself with a rake
Stakes then reposted
Toasted from our labors
Add soil meant for pot
Plot now proper brown
Garden set for sleep
Steep some tea and rest
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was simply “mud.” I’m also putting this on a shelf in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United and spilling on the bar at dverse Open Mic Night!
Of course, the damnable ironweed of earlier in the season (CLICK HERE) refused to disclose the center of its evil web of roots, and the pye wede followed suit. Monica planted some spring bulbs in front; a failed daisy plant finally sprang into life in late autumn, surprise! More daisies will be planted, as well as tiger lilies, the bulbs go in now. Next spring, we hope to have a plethora of pots: Herbs, petunias, Sweet William, lobelia, and Johnny Jump-ups (my favorite).
Thanks to all who sent notes of support during my recent “computer Blue Screen Of Death” crisis. Took a day or so to read the work of others before starting to post again.
To followers of this blog, THANK YOU for your patience. If Sadie doesn’t Blue Screen again, I’ll be happy and she won’t be carted back to the shop sniffling. (OK, I was the one sniffling…)
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems about creativity. Seems like a good starting point for getting my groove back, also to post at dverse Open Mic Night, as well as the site that never BSODs me, Poets United (become a member, y’all!) and the whimsical Imaginary Garden with Read Toads for Open Link Monday. The seed for this poem was in a note to my dear friend Sidnie, with whom I share certain parts of the bozosphere.
Creative Juices
In the game of Poetry*
there are no winners, nor losers
Our creative juices flow
sometimes in rhythm and rhyme
or perhaps in chaotic streams of
consciousness
One man’s Keats
is another women’s drivel
So please accept
these dribblings
from the
howling bloodhound slobberjaws
of my
creatively juicy life
(or not)
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Shout-out to Buddah Moskowitz, who disdains “Capital P” poetry!! You’re my bruddah from anudda mudda! Ameleh
Well, before I Blue Screen of Death again and haul this thing to the shop, I have to get in two more poems. One for Sunday Scribblings, the other for the Sunday Whirl; both are also at my poetic screen that’s never blue, Poets United. I will log on at coffee shops to see what y’all have written and comment there… “Quick, before it melts (down)!” Amy
SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS:
Pages of Stone
Fabricated from actual mineral
My favorite journal
Pencil circles, meanders
Glides with ease, with grace
Number Two lead, sharply honed
sings as it moves along the surface
Needle of an old phonograph
Playing Ellington from a shiny vinyl
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings asked for poems around the word “ease.” This was the first thing that came to mind… I found a journal with pages actually fabricated from STONE! How different, how environmentally intriguing. Then, when I ran my pencil over the surface, it was like writing on a whiteboard… it almost squeaked! Find some and tell me what you think.
SUNDAY WHIRL:
The Ballad of Marie Dressler (1962-1977)
At the dealer, climbed into a Volvo sedan
Paid cash; remained in the driver’s seat for years
My first car, a ’62, back when Swedish mechanics
crowded into one room, hovered in corners
and built them by hand, bolts to bumpers
My singing mother said, in her husky whisky tenor,
“Always bring mascara in your gig bag. If something
happens on the way to make you cry, you won’t show up
looking like a damned raccoon.” Good advice:
That night, my eyes were dampened in this way…
Stopped at a red light, rearview mirror shows a large car
barreling behind me; instinct pulled foot off brake and
left heel jammed in the clutch. Trapped. Impact. Moment.
Bundles flew, slow-motion; shocks shook with sounds of
metal bending. The anger and the floodgates opened together.
Dazed, I pried open the door, stormed back to give
that son-of-a-bitch the old what-for. Window rolls down,
old lady (sure!) says, “I’m Sister Elizabeth. I think I’m all right
but my Mama seems to have cut her lip.” Suddenly, I
got it: God’s dope-slap for sleeping with a priest.
I opened Mama’s door, her face was ash. “S-s-stay here,
ladies… sister… Mama…” Closed the door – on the nun’s
mother’s rosary beads. Clinkclickclink, all over the pavement.
(This, the coup de grace, surely sealing my ticket to Hell.)
Car was totaled, but I insisted squad car take me to my gig
where I played for eight hours straight with one potty break.
Songs I’d never known. “Piano Man” heard once in the dentist’s
waiting room. “Havah Negilah.” I was a shock savant.
Made $200 in tips, turned out that was down-pay for a one-way to LA.
Nun didn’t get a ticket (she was doing 75). Catholic cop.
Always name your cars. “Marie Dressler,” for the 30’s again actress:
Big, old, white, and beat up, but she still had a lot of class.
Her rear end was wide enough to absorb the impact. (Bless all in
Sweden!) Cop said, “You’d be DOA in a Chevrolet.”
Marie Dressler, faithful old gal, rest in pieces. Fondly, Amer
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The Sunday Whirl (click to see the Wordle) gave us a dozen words, and this true story is the result. The Church gave me $600 for my car, and that with the tip money was enough for the plane ticket and an efficiency apt. in Venice Beach in 1977 (this is back before Venice looked like Starbucks threw up all over it). Thanks, Greggie, for urging me to go West. You SAVED my life and helped change my destiny.
NOTE: “Amer” was my family nickname, and all my East Coast friends call me that. LA friends call me “Amers.” But the praise band’s director, Ben, calls me “Amypants,” because I’m so opinionated. Now they just call me “Pants.” Go figure! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 