Sunday Scribblings gave us a simple prompt: Free. Also, Writer’s Island gave us Inseparable. So this is a twofer. Amy
A Mother’s Ferocious Love
Trapped like animals in their jungle village.
Strapped one to another: Young mother, daughter and son.
Shoved into ships, below deck,
so cramped, no room to stand.
The voyage was grueling.
Thin gruel was their mainstay.
These white masters with their whips at the ready
as steadily, her people died of fever and starvation.
The sound of the whippings, the whimpering.
Her son, finally succumbed to the wasting disease.
Now, as she wondered whether this boat would ever find land,
and she herself felt gripping pain in her gut.
Up on deck for the hosing down,
she clutched her baby girl in her arms,
inched her way to the rail and, in an instant,
they were both overboard, taken by the sea.
Her son had already been given to the water
after his death, tossed over like garbage.
At least now she and her baby girl would join the boy,
inseparable forever, engulfed in the endless waters. Free.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
THREE! This poem answers three prompts: We Write Poems (Against the Grain), Writer’s Island (Tribute), and Sunday Scribblings (Big).
Larger than life, yet in her own mind, just doing her part. One of my all-times heroes, and right now, we need all the heroes we can get. Amy
Big Little Woman
To a woman who lost it all
Widowed, her children dead from dread disease, the flu pandemic.
After her kids perished, she nursed neighbors.
To a woman who rose from grief and chose
to take up the burden of others:
Mothers, fathers, children, all laboring side by side
in factories, in fields, on farms, long hours for pennies,
as their cruel, crafty masters garnered a tidy profit.
Fat cats whose fortunes were secure.
Rich men whose better angels whispered, “Show love, compassion.”
But Greed and Hubris shout down angels.
They blot out God in a frenzied cloud
of green ink and gold coins numbering 30 and more.
Still, this widow woman knew nothing and cared less
about her own comfort. Others’ welfare trumped wealth
in her sensibilities, as she saw the rich exploit the masses.
She trod into the mines and the mills.
She talked in the fields, where the hopeless
worked long hours under punishing conditions.
She spoke of dignity (if she’d stopped there,
she would never have seen a jail cell).
She spoke of fairness (watch it, lady).
She shouted about rights (ah, the gloves were off now).
She stirred the pot, this big little woman,
pistol under her petticoat, taking on police
sent by their rich masters.
She was the voice of unions, the midwife of labor.
Let’s raise a toast in tribute to this hero,
who warned us that labor leaders should never
wear fancy suits or become rich off their organizations
(a fact that speaks volumes today)
and who taught us that, no matter what
the rank and file must be protected:
Raise your glasses high to Mother Jones.
Super Bowl in Wisconsin 2011
Cheese
More cheese
Cheese on chips
Cheese in dips
Cube and tubed
Fried and dyed
Cheese on breads
Cheese on heads
Mixed up and fixed up
Grated and plated
Guacamole
Beer and Stoli
Microbrews
Harder booze
7-layer dips
smeared on lips
Kicker misses
Groans and hisses
Green and Gold
bright and bold
Shrieks and grins
GREEN BAY WINS!
Cheesehead’s dream
LOVE our team
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Honeymoon and Garlic (Writer’s Isle, Sun. Scribs)
Drove upstate after The Big Date…
Honeymooning in the most
romantic, exotic destination
his heart could conjure:
A state park near Ithaca, NY.
(I knew this was the beginning of the end.)
My idea of camping is:
Where do I plug in my hair dryer?
Dire situation: Pitching the tent
(bitching to myself about the
rocky terrain. And the park.
I had definite ideas about tent poles.
In general and in specific.
Now he was bossing me around
telling me how I had the doohickeys
upside down, here, let ME do it,
like it takes Einstein or a similar genius
(meaning him) to put the damned thing together.
My betrothed, until death do us part
(until I strangle him, I’m already thinking).
Stoking the fire with damp wood –
smoking grey and choking the cook (moi),
I began begetting dinner.
A large pot for boiling water.
A skillet, olive oil shimmered as
garlic and onion swam
in the hot, shallow pool.
Clams next; a pat of butter.
Folks at the next campsite stared.
Dad yelled, “What the hell ya cookin’?
Sure smells good!” But he was kinda snarky about it.
I chirped back, “Linguine with white clam sauce,”
shaking a bottle of homemade vinaigrette
to drizzle over crisp romaine.
Guffaws from the the old fart as he
shook his head. Then he whispered,
loud enough for me to hear,
“City folk,” burning his mystery meat wieners
on the disgusting camp grill.
His wife looked to me with longing,
grinning her approval at my audacity.
I shrugged back, as if to say, You pitched your tent,
now you have to eat his wieners.
(My husband had ridiculed my choice
of uppity food, no gratitude. He did like
the Corelle plates, environmentally correct.
But he didn’t help clean up, just meandered off
to commune with nature
or talk to some animal who understood him.)
Unzipping the “honeymoon suite”
for a 3 a.m. leak in the bushes,
I gazed at the pinspot-littered sky.
“Why?” I whispered to God.
“Why did I just sign up for a divorce?”
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Sunday Scribblings, the prompt is “a thousand years.” Enjoy, and happy Sunday! Amy
A THOUSAND YEARS
A Fundie sighed
that if I died
today I’d go to hell
“How do you know
just where I’ll go;
and when we hear that bell?”
Until the “Rapture”
let us capture
what God bids us to do:
Doing justice
living kindness
and walking humbly, too
End it today?
Guess I’d say
I truly have no fears
I live as though
the earth will go
another thousand years
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Sunday Scribblings, the call was for the theme “manifesto.” This seems apropos as we approach the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am killer-diller of all manifesto proclamation days… you know what I’m talking about: NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS!
MANIFESTO DESTINY
No matter what the resolution
I always messed it up
I confess, I’m mistress of the
revolution against New Year’s promises
all broken by Valentine’s Day
That year of the grapefruit diet
I fainted in the street
Lack of protein, said the doctor
Thus began the evolution of my desire
to quash sad manifestos
Friends who “will quit smoking on January first”
Suck ‘em up Dec. 31
Like a junkie determined to
wrench the monkey from his back
but keeps the tourniquet as a memento
Gyms are packed that first week of the year
Then one by one, they peel off
petals of a fading rose
that shrivels for lack of water
or that packet of crap you’re supposed to dissolve in the vase
Let’s face it.
New Year’s resolutions are
useless self-sabotage
Setting yourself up for failure
before the hangover even kicks in
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings wanted to hear thoughts about December. Long ago and far away, I was a Manhattanite…
CITY SNOW AT EVENING
Central Park in December
At dusk the sun has dipped below
the stark skyline
casting reflections of blue
on the new-fallen snow
It’s as if even the snow knows
it’s part of an urban landscape
the color of steel and
the crunchy crust it so readily forms
As if to say,
“Hey, there’s nothing fluffy to see here
Move along, now”
Making my way across 72nd Street
the heat of the subway has already risen
and melted this fresh blessing
into muddy pools of rusted slush
It’s City snow, all right
It won’t last the night
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Sunday Scribblings (glad I’m back on course after a break), we were given a one-word prompt: LIMITS. Click the Scrib link and then on the poets’ names (which are linked to their blogs) to check out other folks! Peace, Amy
HAD IT UP TO HERE
I’ve had it up to here
‘cause my daughter, who is ‘queer’
is not welcome in my sister’s home
I’ve taken all I’ll stand
from all those who would demand
that I discard my kid like a dead battery
I’m telling all the world
she is perfect, she’s my girl
If you don’t love her, please don’t waste your prayers
On Riley or her mom
because we know we are BOMB
and anyone who doesn’t get it can get stuffed
I tried to make this rhyme
to some extent, it is fine
but I couldn’t rhyme “battery” with “flattery” because that concept is entirely absent from some people’s hearts. But at least it’s truthful!
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 