Footprints of Peace (haiku)
Dedicated to Sister Karen Klimczak (1943-2006)
Where is holy ground?
Is it only in a church,
a temple, or mosque?
No, it’s to be found
ev’rywhere beneath our feet
if peace is our guide.
Live out of real love
each of us to another,
forsaking greed, hatred
Holy ground is found
anywhere people will trace
the footprints of peace.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I decided that 300 posts is a milestone and wanted not to be my usual snarky self. Here’s the story behind the inspiration for this poem:
Sister Karen began the “Peaceprints” signage campaign in Buffalo, NY. Signs popped up all over town, “I Leave Peace Prints,” signs with doves, putting out a positive message of unconditional love. She worked in a halfway house for drug offenders who had served their time. Sadly, she was murdered by one of the residents when she surprised him as he was going through her room. Although her death was senseless and sadly ironic, the signs proliferated in her memory and still stand today. Rest in peace, Sister Karen, and thanks for the love.
Posted at the poets’ collective, Poets United.
Poetic Bloomings, a new and interesting site, wanted poems about “lost and found.” Then Brenda’s Sunday Whirl gave me words that culminated in the poem below (those prompt words are in bold). Give these new sites a whirl yourselves! And, of course, I’m on the right sidebar at Poets United! Peace, Amy
Lost in the Weeds
She is lost in the weeds.
She’s good wheat, but what sprouts near her
possess voices that pierce and keen.
No matter how strong her fortress,
an unfamiliar, frightening force
rattles the bars of her gate.
She needs an image to cling to,
wholly holy, distinctly divine.
A steadfast vision beyond this
jangling jungle of fear becomes clear.
She shakes off the weeds, uproots them,
and splinters the yoke of despair.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
A new friend, Lafemmeroar, who inducted me into The Crazy Chicks Club, needed to see this poem, written back in 2010 but never published on my blog. It’s a serious problem in our society, and, as you all know, I take these issues head on. Also at my haven, Poets United. Amy
The Practice
There’s an old warehouse downtown
where they meet in secret
Sneaking down alleyways alone or in pairs
through the backdoor of an old meat-packing plant
It’s quiet; it’s remote; no one will discover them there
as they open drawers full of potions
creams and lotions and pallored paint
They pull robes and silky clothes from rusty hangers
Readying themselves for the ritual
Preening with great care as giant hooks swing over their heads
remnants of the enterprise this building once housed
Hideously masked, garishly garbed, in hats with small bells
They frolic as they practice their ancient art
Every movement coordinated, they caper and careen
The thought of their doings makes my blood run cold, even now
Grown men in clown suits, rehearsing a new routine
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
GRASS
To legalize or not to legalize pot?
That is the question I was sort of
pondering while preparing a
killer omelette this morning after
imbibing my usual cup of coffee that’s
so strong you can stand a spoon up in it.
Now, the secret of my omelettes
is in the herbs…. when they’ve been dried
you toss them in after the chopped onion
and garlic are just beginning to sizzle and
that opens up their flavor, their savor,
and their real power.
Then the rest, the squash, the whatever is
residing in your crisper and not all
squishy and globbed from the humidity
man it is hot outside and even the A.C.
won’t keep the molecular damp from
seeping through the cracks and crevices and
oh, yeah, the omelette. So last thing, you add your
favorite cheese, but what really turns my creation
into a work of art is not the presentation because
it usually falls apart before it hits the plate, and
I’m like, you’re just gonna chew it up anyway,
what’s the big deal about presentation?
Cheese. Cheeeeeese. Oh yeah. Wisconsin aged
cheddar we get at the co-op, so dry it crumbles.
But if you get off on brie or swiss, like the song says,
Love the One You’re With.
So anyway, I finished my omelette and booted up
the puter and the Poets United prompt was GRASS!
How fortuitous! Coincidence?
I THINK NOT. It was simply the universe
whispering in my ear about
sharing my love of creative cooking!
What a grooved-out day to daydream (too!) about my
lovely brunch (I got up pretty late today) and
the secret of its blissful herbalicious goodness…
Bon appétit. Buen provecho. Happy eating, y’all!
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Just a quick one. Sorry I am so terribly behind in responding to your comments… the Poets United article generated a lot of interest. I promise I’ll get back “on par” soon. (Groan – you’ll see why when you read my response to Sunday Scribblings‘ prompt, “Woods.”) Amy
Woodsman Lost
Tiger, Tiger, what the hell?
‘Twas a time you cast a spell.
Now you ache from stress and strain;
credibility down the drain.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sorry, guys. I don’t know if it’s the image from Magpie that won’t “take,” but I’m having technical difficulties. Will try to resolve soon! Amy
Hello. all my wonderful peeps.
Thank you for continuing to log onto my blog. You have been a large part of my sanity over these past couple of years; your comments of support, kindness, and also constructive criticism have helped me grow as a poet, and I feel as though my online “family” is growing as well.
We are in the midst of move to Madison, WI, and our new church family at Lake Edge United Church of Christ, where Lex will serve as Senior Pastor. This means I must take a break for a bit, but you can’t get rid of me that easily – in the words of The Governator, “I’ll be back.”
So tune in around the first of February, and, God willing, we will be moved in; Lex will have started at Lake Edge UCC; and I will have unpacked sufficient boxes to allow me to indulge in posting, logging onto YOUR blogs, commenting, and making mischief – poetic, musical, and otherwise!
Til then, I wish you all peace, Amy
SANTA, TAKE CARE
This, the Fat Man’s night of nights
Tuck them in and dim the lights
Lest he catch them still awake
Waiting for a peek to take
No one thinks about how hard
this job is, to stay on guard
Treacherous, this wonder work
Dangers all around him lurk
Will he get stuck twixt the bricks
Holding Billy’s hockey sticks?
Will his leg be rendered null
by the Sanderson’s pit bull?
Will his bag be torn a shred
Getting pulled from rooftop sled?
Will he miss a deadline ‘cause
Mrs. Green’s cat bared her claws?
What if someone’s rancid cocoa
makes his intestines go loco?
Santa, hear my words this eve:
Take good care, ‘cause we believe!
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 