Special thanks for Walt at Poetic Bloomings for choosing my recent poem, Thing 205, as his “beautiful bloom” of the week. I was sincerely flattered and honored. Here’s another for the Bloomers and the Scribblers as well!
Honest Thy Ploughs
Honest thy ploughs 
for the coming of Spring
That fields mayst be planted
their bounty to bring
Honest thy wits for
the work to be done
From fertile ground’s goodness
thy foodstuffs be won
Honest thy soul for
the days yet ahead
For labours be grateful,
no prayer left unsaid
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil (Photo courtesy of http://www.okgenweb.org)
Dedicated to independent organic farms and the farmers who strive to stay small and grow healthy food, while Monsanto, et al., seek to buy them out, blanket fields with chemicals, and cram Frankenfoods down our throats.
For Sunday Scribblings (honest – a bit of poetic license, arcane use of the imperative verb form for “hone”) and for Poetic Bloomings (poems about Spring).
Remember When
There you are again,
curled up, pretzel-thin.
Still wondering why
he won’t say goodbye.
Daily you’re a doubt.
Half laughter, half pout…
Therapist listens.
Talent glistens,
but for whom?
Since the womb
you’ve been easing
into people pleasing.
Why not relax?
Reconsider Xanax?
You think it’s almost over?
Baby, run for cover.
Hate to burst your bubble,
but you’ll be causing trouble
long after you’ve gone grey,
long after this dark day.
Looking at your through
this mirror of new,
I see you back then,
knowing you’ll remember when.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings: Let your future self advise you in the NOW.
Also for Sunday Scribblings: Suspended reality or fantasy.
Coming Back to Life
In a busy café,
a couple – hard not to notice
the incision showing through her
clinically shorn hair.
Her husband is her guide
as they clear their table.
“Garbage in there.” In go paper napkins,
delicately, like presents under a Christmas tree.
“Recyclables here. Which ones are those?”
She points to a plastic cup and a Coke can.
Her husband nods in appreciation
of her returning awareness.
“Dishes go in this bin.” She picks up a spoon
and looks to him for reassurance.
Then a coffee mug, and her husband chimes in,
“Don’t forget the fork.”
Suddenly peals of laughter erupt
straight from her gut, and he asks,
“What’s so funny?” She gasps,
“YOU SAID ‘FORK’!!!”
The whole place cracks up, joining her
in her first joke since brain surgery.
And, as tears stream down his cheeks,
he starts chortling too.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Written for Sunday Scribblings; the prompt was “Wit.” Also posted at my nearest and dearest, Poets United.
Living Love (for Kate)
So far down on his luck, he’s under it.
Literally.
Living beneath a bridge called Home.
Gathering other folks’ flotsam by day
to make do, then retreating to his camp
where he sleeps unmolested each night.
From her window, she spies the man.
She ventures out, offers some food, scopes out
the soul hiding underneath his misfortune.
They don’t talk much, but then,
true generosity is not a grand, chatty deal.
Her gifts are met with quiet gratitude.
She buys him a propane grill and this and that.
He probably needs psych help, but she’ll never
push – so easy to scare a rabbit from its hutch.
She says, “When the president came to Madison,
he drove right over that bridge.” The irony
is thick as brick, and just as heavy.
That’s not a troll under there; no beast from
a Grimm tale. He’s a human being. And she
acts out of the words of Jesus, quietly.
She lives out of love.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings; the prompt was “investigate.” Iif Kate had never checked out this man and his circumstances, she’d never have had the chance to help him. Also posted at the wonderful Poets United.
Life is Good When…
Life is good when children smile, their bellies full.
Life is good when girls play rough-and-tumble
after their tea party.
When boys are allowed to cry without ridicule…
Life is good when all folks have a home, however humble,
with food on the table and friends to share it.
When community clinics offer free health care
to those who need it most: addicts, women facing choices
that men don’t think twice about, prenatal care for those
who choose motherhood, help for those who don’t…
Life is good when handguns are melted to forge plows.
When women can wear hijabs and not encounter
disapproving looks from unveiled Anglos.
When Mom can choose to stay home because Dad
makes enough and has Union protections, or when
Mom decides the kids are all in school and can work
at something that exercises her mind and passion…
Life is good when the Christmas tree has more ornaments
on the tree than overpriced Chinese- made toys under it.
When the family gave more to charity than to Wal-Mart…
Life is good when every couple can hold hands and love
their lives together without condemnation from straights.
Life is good when the National Guard is back on US soil
and enlisted troops are all home, receiving VA care and
using their GI benefits to get an education…
We’re waiting for the day when life is good.
Until then, this dream is brought to you by your sponsor,
the Creator, who reminds us all that life is a gift…
use it wisely and with love.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, an alternate take on “Life is Good.” Also at my poetic heart and hearth, Poets United.
Catching the last breath of Sunday Scribblings, laid low with flu that comes and goes. If I hear, “it’s going around” one more time, I’ll… cough unproductively!
Sunday Scribblings asked for a sensation (in this case, I borrowed that of another), and Three Word Wednesday used Backward, Ease, and Omission. Seemed to go together… Peace to all, Amy
Tightwire With Glass Shards and No Net
Her uncomplicated memories of growing up
The ease with which she blocks out
who dad was and what he did…
Insisting he hung the moon and stars
Not a sin, but a shame, this omission.
She remains his prisoner, unbalanced,
dreams filled with violence,
legs kicking away at something,
she can’t quite see its face…
Look backward, angel.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic collective home, Poets United.
Sunday Scribblings asked for thoughts about each poet’s muse. I believe I was one of the lucky ones; I also believe this may account for my poor grades in school! No blame at all, only gratitude for being so blessed. Peace, Amy
PS This is also at Poets United, the poetic collective.
I Met My Muse When I Was Two
Dancing, glittering over my playpen.
Sweet music singing when the record player was silent.
During school, whispering secrets to me
(so much more enticing than scribbles on the chalkboard).
Winding in a scenting breeze, gentle on my nose as I
walked the streets of a smelly, gritty city.
Capturing the intake of my every breath,
flowing through my body, creating peace within my harried soul.
Inspiring luscious, ludicrous, outlandish, lovely thoughts…
my Muse.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Our Navy SEALS and other Special Ops units pay a terrible price for their extreme talent. They are exposed to sights and sounds the normal American citizen never considers. After hearing about a large number of SEALS being killed this week, and knowing a couple of former Special Ops folks myself, these are my thoughts about what they go through, and at what cost to their own mental health as they become vital cogs within the war machine. Peace, Amy
FORWARD MARCH, SPECIAL OPS
He pledges to hold sacred even the most seditious plans of the military.
His head is shaved ‘til every blond tuft falls to the floor.
He will tread the nether worlds to hinder whichever enemy is targeted.
His missions sporadic, vital;
he is enmeshed in that zone of adrenalin and HOO-AH!
Tonight, he’ll get plastered with his buddies to ward off the sting.
Years later, waking in tremor, he is haunted by
horrors executed at the bidding of men
who felt no stigma about
stirring the global pot to suit their needs
and those of their investors.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle words in bold), Sunday Scribblings (Forward), and, as always, the poetic collective, Poets United.
With The Sunday Whirl, wordler-in-chief Brenda posed the words in bold – a baker’s dozen. Also, Sunday Scribblings wanted us to write on the word “Captivate.” These are both Sunday-based poems, the second being a haiku. Also posted at my poetic home away from home, Poets United.
FOR THE SUNDAY WHIRL
Sunday Praise Service
Hot coffee to stir the ominous ache in her weary bones.
She chooses an emerald empire-waist dress;
the illusion of a full front covers
the void of her shrinking frame.
Time to observe the celestial, to worship the Divine.
As her sandals flip, flop, flap into the sanctuary,
a kid jostles past her up the balcony stairs to sit with his mom.
She smiles, remembering her own scrambles up there;
the rhythm of life is upbeat and present
here in this church.
Church services are usually holy pantomime, but
not here. The sermon moves her – and the music?
It rocks like the ages!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
““““““““““““““““““““
FOR SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS
Televangelists Are Full Of Crap
Captivate
with delusions of riches,
Joel Osteen.
Captivate
with tales of earthly wealth,
Graham Junior.
Hold captive
those prisoners of Rapture,
who crave flight.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 