First Time, No Charm
Fifteen
and the only girl in her class
who hadn’t “done it” yet
Sharp gossipy tongues
of her peers rendered her
brittle, an underachiever
Sure, she had the fever, but
no boy had the charm, the
romance she longed for
Fearing she would develop
a discernible crust beneath which
no one would wish to explore
she began to wear shorter skirts,
willowy legs bending, swaying
as a breeze blew through her branches
She spied one guy, gave him the eye
that said, “I want,” and he knew he’d be
Her First, and thus accoladed by his buds
That night, they threw down a blanket
Some pot he’d rustled up for the occasion
dilated their pupils, lazy balloon eyes
A few harsh kisses, some fumbling
some mumbling, but not calling her name
He opened the packet of the sheik sheath
Almost exploding as she put it on him
(like the banana in health class) and then he
crushed her with his weight, piercing her
It was all of ten minutes, leaving her with
the wound that never needs mending
And an unbearable feeling that there must be
more than sex than this, a barbarian invasion
Otherwise, why would musicians bother to write
love songs?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl: Sheaths, Explode, Unbearable, Fever, Willows, Crust, Mending, Breeze, Piercing, Brittle, and Rustle. Click on the blog name and see what everyone else got from this interesting group on the Wordle! I am glad to say this is NOT autobiographical.
I’ve chosen this poem for dverse Open Mic Night. Also at my home base for all things poetic, Poets United.
OCD (Overwhelming Crucial Demands)
Rituals ruled his life
Tapping the front window four times when passing
Adjusting his chair twice after sitting down
Most noticeable at table, where his mother
would fret over her son’s obsession
Each bit chewed exactly 18 times
and finishing first the meat, then potatoes, and finally
vegetables – no portion touching the next
as his dish was divided into three compartments
Followed by a milk in his blue glass
swallowed in five long, perfectly even gulps
Napkin folded into a perfect triangle threading it through
a silver ring placed just so on the table
Brooks arranged first by genre, then by author,
then by color – spines aligned in precise rows
He measure boundaries for his daily routine;
I understand the gravity of crack avoided
One thousand, two hundred and eighty-nine
steps to the psychiatrist’s office downtown.
Unfortunately, he never opened the door,
lacking a Kleenex to ward off germs
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, “I Understand” was the prompt. Yeah, ya think?
Kids are cruel, and peers pick out students like this boy to bully, an easy target. While OCD is a minor part of my chemical imbalance, it loomed large when I was younger. One example: If I misspelled a word in English class, I first was compelled to complete writing it in full, and then, with a calm sweep, I would erase the entire word… but finishing it was critical. There were fingerprints by the exit to our bedroom from my habitual taps, and grazing a fence with a stick, if I missed a picket, it meant going back and starting the whole fence again. I get this kid because I was this kid, but the symptoms abated when manic depression started to take over. One pain in the ass replaced by another is small comfort.
Notice these traits and show understanding to the “different ones,” those who may not be diagnosed but whose disorders are easily recognizable. Good example, if you see a “twirler” who eventually singles out one hair to pluck, be aware. It’s called trichotillomania and can be managed NOT by drugs, but by behavior modification.
Peace and health – physical and mental, Amy
Parking Lot
The Golden Arches aglow tonight
Aglow every night as
teens collect, connect
Giggles, yo mama jokes
A squeal, somebody got tickled
Waitin’ for Bruno to get off shift
Scent of sensamilla
snakes through blades of my fan
I peek out; their shadows pass the joint around
Outside, they pack into someone’s car
squeal out of the lot in a cloud of exhaust
leaving a trickle of oil and a trail of fun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is for dverse, “Meeting the Bar.” Claudia asked us to write as though we were Impressionists, with quick brush strokes and hints of lighting. My inspiration was the early work of Edward Hopper, who is not known as an impressionist but had a brief foray into the style with such works as “Soir Bleu.” He is simply my favorite artist, and the humanity of his work informs my eavesdropping on this group of kids last night. Also at my poetic canvas, Poets United!
TO ALL MY WONDERFUL READERS: If you are uncomfortable with the growing phenomenon of “cutting” among young women, please skip this – or scroll down and learn. There’s a new, hopeful trend among teens and 20s of tattooing the word “Love” on one’s inside wrist as a reminder, either for themselves to not cut, or in solidarity with and compassion for those who do. Peace, Amy
Bleed
Awesome with a razor
She’s straight-edge all the way
Cuts in patterns
Endangering her health
for the sake of
force-feeding her psyche
She sees no hazard
in this habitual ritual
She knows what she’s doing
She gets in lots of practice
She’s waited all day to
be alone with the one…
The blade that understands
her pain and her release
The pain she cannot name
and isn’t ready to claim
Today, perfect lines, sleek
and hardly bleeding at all
Tomorrow, she’ll wear
a long-sleeved hoodie
in the torrid noonday sun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday (B) and for Three Word Wednesday: Cut, Endanger, Hazard.
Girls who are numb to the world because of depression or other mental disorders, may cut themselves in order to feel. The warning signs are long-sleeved shirts in the hottest weather, parents finding an Exacto knife or other sharp instrument under her bed… just know they are in need of help, not irredeemable nor incurable. They are hurting themselves because they were hurt, and getting down to the problem starts with counseling. Peace, Amy
Skinny-Dipping
Sixteen, never been sexed
Sipping pilsner pilfered from the basement fridge
Sssssh, out the back door
Stripping down to go skinny-dipping with… Johhhhhn
Time, place, the most potent of opportunities
We slip into steaming midnight summer water
His member more sumptuous than tight jeans ever hinted
My breasts afloat, begging to be bobbed for like juicy ripe apples
My ache, my throb – will he sense it,
and act on this rhythmically pulsing moonlit mystery
I always craved what was not mine for the taking
Swimming naked
with gay boys
© 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Margo Roby’s Wordgathering: Summer Tryouts and my little swimming pool, Poets United!
Today is the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the Gay Rights Movement in New York City. Gay men had finally had enough of being beaten and sodomized by police; one man picked up a cobblestone in from of the Stonewall Bar and threw it, and calamity and justice began with that one brick. (I know some say that riots were technically in the wee hours of June 28, as the bars closed… but get real. Do you wake up from a hangover on a Sunday and say, “Wow, I really drank too much at 2 this morning?” It was very, very late the night before.)
So why this poem today? Because my very proud and OUT Best Friend Forever, John Bickle, with whom I share many skinny dips and much mischief in our early days, also celebrates his birthday today. He said, when he saw the TV reports of the Stonewall Riots, he thought to himself, “It’s an omen.”
No, Stonewall didn’t make him gay. God did.
But anyway, happy birthday to my BFF, and may you continue to play piano bar and wow Philadelphia for many years to come! (His usual gig is at Knock, so you Philly friends, get you butts over to their Piano Room and hear a phenomenal tenor – and great pianist!) Love, Amer
Well, I’m not one for bragging (and if I am, will someone please let me know so I can stuff some humble pie in my face), but Polly Robinson of Polly: Writings and Witterings posed what may be her first prompt, and I could not resist. After posting, I found out it was one of three favorites! To see her comments, and other winners as well, please see: THIS POST. And now let’s get down to some poeting. Poemizing. Poemization. Er, writing poetry:
Remember Passion
Passion – all-consuming,
glorious blaze of every
sense alive and alight,
every synapse snapping,
a fire for
the belly
the brain
the heart
the hearth that hums beneath
her sheath and his jeans
Passion burns benevolently
for a time, somewhat contained
(but if the team mascot loves the
place-kicker, they head for a
fireproof locker, kissing in shadows
of the homecoming bonfire)
The fire can consume lovers.
The burn doesn’t always hurt.
Passion will wane, but
the reflection will remain
in the rearview mirror of their minds,
glowing on lonely nights,
a long-gone ember of…
Remember?
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poetic Bloomings, a poem about fire, burning passion… and all that follows. Also at my poetic bonfire, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
Fortress in Mind
Secrecy was her secret to survival.
She forgot what happened because
no one talked about it.
Not even her sisters.
She cultivated a rabbit-proof fence
of quietude and dreams,
tracing images in the gritty grain of
their plaster bedroom ceiling.
Why did she only find scared faces?
Grew up in denim armor,
ensuring no boy wanted to date
the girl in the high-top Keds with
“Don’t touch” scrawled in acne.
Landed in Manhattan and
took on a new façade: Approachable.
This, too, was a wall; after all, she’d
“lost it” so long ago, it mattered little
who used her
or when
or where
or how.
All this took place inside
an elaborate labyrinth of hedgerows,
within the castle she had
built in her mind.
The only person who swam in the moat
was her father, he having the privilege
of power, which he exercised unwisely,
unkindly. Unrepentant and unchallenged.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was “fortress.” Also at my poetic fortress, Poets United.
Dreadlocks and the Three Rednecks
Shaniqua was only 13, but she took the A train uptown every Saturday to visit her grandmother, an invalid who depended on help from neighbors for everything from groceries to doctor visits. Her grandma loved these visits for the sheer joy of her granddaughter’s sense of humor and her growing knowledge of old jazz records. This was the day Shaniqua would be introduced to “Ma” Rainey on 78s.
Today, the A was hopping with Yankee fans, headed up to watch Steinbrenner’s investment pay off once again as they chugged warm beer and scattered the bleachers with peanut shells. Shaniqua noticed the predominantly white ridership, so she pulled up her hoodie and gazed obliquely out the greasy subway window. Three rednecks were harassing a gay guy when they turned their attention to someone they assumed would be more intimidated by them.
“Hey, little girl, you ain’t related to Rosa Parks, are ya?” drawled an out-of-towner, sitting pretty even though several older women were forced to stand, strap-hanging. His buddy caught on, got up from his seat (a senior widow slipped in fast as a New York minute, smiling smugly about getting off her tired feet). The second guy: “Why’re you wearin’ that hoodie? You a gangsta type? Member of a gang? We hear tell there’s all sorts of you people on these trains, stealing wallets and such.”
Finally, Number Three, cracking his knuckles, bellowed, “ARE YOU DEAF, LITTLE GIRL?” They surrounded her now. Sweat on her brow, dripping into her basket of homemade muffins. (C’mon, Mr. Ellington, make the A Train go faster.)
They ripped down the top of her hoodie to reveal her spectacular dreadlocks, woven by her mother since age five. “Looky here, boys, we got us a real Jamaican girl. Say, why don’t you teach us to dance? Do you know any Bob Marley?”
Her stop was coming. “Well, I can’t dance with you,” she said to the first cracker, “because I don’t like guys in flannel shirts. And you,” she pointed to Number Two, “are racist and just plain mean. I don’t think you like yourself much.” By this time, the grannies had all surrounded the group, ready to take action with purses and canes if the men got too close to Shaniqua. She was somebody’s granddaughter, after all.
“And you,” she said to Knuckle Cracker as the train pulled into her stop at 171 and Fort Washington. “You are so pathetic you’re wearing a Mets cap to Yankee Stadium, you have a mullet, and your pants are hanging so low my pastor would kick you out of the church. You’re a wannabe with bad underwear and a butt-crack.”
As they stood slack-mouthed, she hopped off the train. “And you don’t pay attention, because you missed your stop. Go back to 161st Street and catch the B over east.” Then the grandmas smiled knowingly at each other. It was going to be a long trip to the stadium for the non-residents of Harlem.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta: Unlimited words, rewrite “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
Photo courtesy of www.littleafrica.com.
TWOFER! Because yesterday’s poem was such an unbelievable bummer (for me, too), I have two nice ones today. First, I’m flexing some haiku muscle for Sensational Haiku Wednesday; second, Three Word Wednesday gave us: Adapt, Glide, and Lie. These are also posted at my poetry haven, Poets United. Peace to all, Amy
FOR SENSATIONAL HAIKU WEDNESDAY
Falling Leaves (Haiku)
Leaves color, then drop
as though staying green so long
has left them weary.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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FOR THREE WORD WEDNESDAY (prompt words in bold)
Heaven Sent
Pregnant teen Kit, big-time cocaine-addicted.
She knew that the baby’d be wholly afflicted
She tried to clean up; she didn’t abort;
but habits and lies and recovery fell short.
She put down her pipe just in time for E.R.
A stranger took pity, drove her there in his car.
He cell-phoned his wife, who rushed down for the birth
(To have their own, they’d have moved heaven and earth.)
Kit wouldn’t nurse baby, pleaded, “Don’t wanna see him.”
The couple, still there, never once thought to flee him.
A tough road ahead for a tough little guy:
a whole lot of tears, in purging the high.
A nurse saw the two, screaming babe in her arms;
“Maybe-Mom” glided over, her touch was the charm.
One look and they knew, so completely enrapt,
that they would not only adopt, but adapt.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It may be the wee hours of Monday, but it’s never to late to answer ABC Wednesday‘s prompt for poems using the letter “Y.” This goes out especially to my high school buddy and still great friend Michael Weil, who visited from Potsdam, NY (think colder than Madison!) with super wife (and also old friend) Amy Jo and verrrrry cool son Alex today, along with new friends Paul and his partner Dean. Mike and I reminisced about the ever-abundant supply of Yuengling beer at our house, and how he just “converted” to their Black and Tan variety. I had actually written this “snowball” poem days ago, but now I HAVE to post it, right? Safe travels, you “Weil things!” Amer
Also at the poetic collective, Poets United.
YUENGLING
Sun,
summer,
cold Yuengling.
Man, our basement
fridge was full of it.
Easy access for teens
to grab a brew, hit the pool,
and bask in alcoholic bliss.
Mom never kept inventory, so
we drank, swam, laughed, and tanned all summer long.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 