Canvas
Clotted mottles of burnt ember
anchor spindled legs: beige, green, bearbrown
From these spring tangled weaves in shades of
olive, speckled moss, faun tendrils
dodging one another, cat and mouse
Then triffidian horror movie monsters
crowned by iridescent tangerine, muted lavender,
or snow white as biblical innocence
First rains dribble weaker petals back to clay soil
Garden in bloom
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems (unexpected descriptions, with thanks to the inimitable Joseph Harker for leading the way!) and ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter “C.” Also at my poetic garden (the one without the toads), Poets United.
NOTE: The adjective “triffidian” is made up in honor of one of my favorite sci-fi movies, “Day of the Triffids,” original story by British writer John Wyndham, about root-bound plants that suddenly become mobile after a meteor shower. The story is every bit as good as the movie, which starred Howard Keel as an American in London, one of his few non-musical roles. Read more about the story HERE. Peace and firmly rooted plants, Amy
This is a twofer Wednesday for me. (Woofer Wednesday? Dog days of summer?) Both short poems, each for a different site. Peace to all, Amy
FOR WE WRITE POEMS
Gathering
Birds shelter
Squirrels, helter-skelter
Leaves reveal silver underbellies
Thunder
Hallelujah!
Rain
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We Write Poems requested a poem employed brevity: no more than 12 words. Suffering through a prolonged drought, I’ve prayed constantly for some rain to help our small farmers here in the Midwest. Hooray, it rained twice this past few days… even now, a fresh, ozone-tinged breeze brings the good news to my window. (Viv, I hope your rain is coming my way!)
FOR MAD KANE’S BLOG
Semantics vs. Values
The Right don’t mind sweatshops in China
So what’s the big deal ‘bout “vagina”?
There’s no room for maybes
They cannot make babies
Without women’s penis combinah
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
With all the problems in our country, the Right chose to censor two members of Congress for uttering the word “vagina” in speeches. But they still reserve the supposed right to legislate what I do with mine. Maddening! For Madeleine Begun Kane’s Political Madness, because she loves limericks and is my acknowledge queen of that genre. Do yourself and favor – click on her link and get ready to laugh. Really hard. And maybe be a little outraged! She’s a gem! Peace, Amy
HOW I LEFT IT
Shall I compare thee to a summoning day?
Wherefore art thou, morphine drip?
Death, be not proud… nor painful.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high, I.
How that corpse got into my pajamas, I dunno.
Don’t forget your parting gift as you exit
the chapel, a little bit of Amy as a souvenir.
Am I still bipolar now that I’m dead, and does that mean
I can spend half my time haunting people who sucked?
Reports of my death will be greatly exaggerated, because
I’m just THAT special.
Rock stars die in plane crashes, but poets die with a phrase
that just came to mind, whispering, “Where’s my journal…?”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems, asking for our epitaph. (Also at my poetic “resting place,” Poets United!) I’m having my ashes put into doggie bags and distributed to mourners on their way to the post-funeral party at a cheesy bar, with notes to each on where to scatter bits of me. Part to Blanche’s stomping grounds, Council Bluffs. Part into the confluence of the Chenango and Susquehanna Rivers in Binghamton, and a pinch of me dumped into the spiedie sauce at Sharkey’s Bar… Matt Sweeney will get that assignment, no doubt. Carolyn will have Duncan to varnish a bit of me onto her harp used in playing at hospices. Christopher will sneak me into the old Pavarotti dressing room at the Met. Joseph will toss me off the Brooklyn Bridge; Colette gets Venice Beach duty. Walt will sift me onto the floor of the Anchor Bar in Buffalo; Nimue will keep me in a little pill box until she feels a good sneeze coming on, while Viv will sew me into the batting of one of her quilts.
Lex and Riley will be sent on a voyage to San Juan, to Bermuda, and to other places far and wide, so they will have time to talk about stuff. Marcia and Jesse will join them for the Venice Canal tossing; Greggie will take me to 6th and Wilshire, the site of the old Great American Food & Bev. Co. I’m thinking of sending my Republican relatives tea bags filled with… no, that would be mean. And it would taste nasty! Peace, Amy
OK, I had to come up with a poem to meet my own prompt at We Write Poems!
The form is “3 + (x) = poem,” and today, as I rode the bus and hung out with a homeless Vietnam vet my age who’s been given six months to live, there was no place else to go but the steam grates and the fact that the two major refuges for homeless folks will be shut down this winter by our lame-ass governor, Scott Walker (brought to you by The Koch Brothers; paid for by same).
I’ll be away for the weekend, so pardon my not answering comments promptly. Have a peaceful Labor Day – if these guys get their way, that holiday will mean nothing in a few years. RIP, Triangle Shirtwaist Factory women – you are not forgotten. Amy
Homeless in Madison, Winter 2001
Homeless folks dread winter
This coming winter especially
We with homes worry for them, too
(Governor closed two safe havens)
Wisconsin is “penniless”
No money for “extras”
We with homes give to NGOs
(But the Guv has bucks to redo the Capitol Cafeteria – all winter long)
Ironic. That cafeteria provided
daily shelter for many residents
from punishing, sub-zero winds
(Merry Fucking Christmas)
Our governor “doesn’t hate anyone,
least of all, the poor”
We protest to remind him of his lies
(As he settles into his plush office for a toasty-warm Madison winter)
Politicians and the Constitution
don’t always agree… we need many
voices to speak on behalf of those in need
(and to recall this sorry excuse for a governor)
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Men (for We Write Poems, with a nod to Wallace Stevens)
I. They’re different in certain ways, but what’s in common reigns.
II. Through the bottom of a shot glass, darkly.
III. Millions are fathers deserving of respect, when respect is due.
IV. Sometimes, they are bullies or abusive and deserving of no respect at all.
V. As leaders of our nation; therefore, we should elect more women to level the playing field.
VI. Warily.
VII. As warmongers and war profiteers… and troops who actually have to fight the battles.
VIII. While wearing rose-colored glasses (which you will eventually lose).
IX. As friends who are with you no matter what the circumstance, especially if they are gay and you are one of those straight girls who just loves them to death (like me).
X. As husbands or committed partners – in which case, keep your hands off them (straight OR gay!). Monogamy should be honored (and polygamy, well, eeeeeeeew).
XI. As co-founders of our country, along with the mostly forgotten Founding Mothers.
XII. As white/Anglo and born to privilege, never having to earn the money they now fight so hard to keep.
XIII. As people of color who are often overlooked, profiled, or assumed to be criminals, in the US illegally… or born in Indonesia, so he can’t REALLY be president.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Strolling
Today, I’ll stroll to Mary’s place.
The patio screen scritchscratches with my departure.
Why lock it? Next Door Nan will be at home.
Sneakers on grass, bristling the sunburnt ground cover
The brush of palm fronts bending to grant me passage
And all along the way, crickets chirping
Now my sneaks scrape along the sidewalk,
past Pete the shoe repair guy, who waves.
“Time for that again?” he jokes.
“Yupper,” I shout, as my finger makes
little circles around my ear. “I’ll bring my
sandals over tomorrow, hope you can save ‘em!”
A profusion of orange flowers, “ditch lilies” they call them here,
but I dead-head the wizened, faded flowers,
pitch them into the fray, mulch for another day.
(Someday, I will be wizened and faded, too –
but if they want to toss me into the mulch pile,
they’ll have to catch me first!)
Finally the clip-clop upstairs, into the waiting room
with the fountain that always makes me need to pee.
Then, the soft inhale of a door opening:
“Amy?” smiles Mary, my therapist.
“Let’s do this sucker,” I laugh, and whoosh!
The door shuts. Tears to be shed, secrets to keep.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems‘ prompt, Walk. Also on display at Poets United! Peace, Amy
A Piku, according to We Write Poems, is like a haiku except for syllablic form: 3,1,4. Most folks who read my work know my disdain for writing in forms, simply because I’m so undisciplined (although an occasional shadorma, haiku, or limerick may emerge). I prefer free-wheeling, come-what-may poetry, but what the hell?
Apologies to Hammerstein, plus Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh (they did best lyrics) for the title…! Also posted at Poets United. Peace, Amy
I Won’t Piku (Don’t Ask Me)
I hate math.
Did,
and always will.
A Piku?
Huh?
A Manga sprite:
Japanese,
small,
round, smiling, pink
But instead,
yuck…
poetic form.
Don’t like forms,
so
I won’t do it.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Creation Circles
Circling dew-drenched winds
Particles settle, drawn into a core
Water seeps over to shore
and upward to the clearing sky
A sphere, then
Slowing moving, a circular wholeness takes shape
Revolving, arcing around a star
as other spheres form
In the waters, moving creatures differentiate
Unique beings, yet still part of the whole
They swim, consume, reproduce
as nature will allow
Some beings are drawn to the shore lines,
dwelling near coral reefs for eons
until fins lengthen, gills morph into lungs,
and land beckons them to a new home.
They reproduce as they did in the sea:
Those with penises plunge into waiting wombs;
babes pop from the penetrated and drink milk
from that parent’s body as they learn to live.
Some come to shore without gender.
They adapt as they must to continue the species.
Some beings take to the air, darting into water
to devour their forgotten cousins.
There is a Creator of all this fecund beauty
Whether it is Nature or God or Gaia or a
legend born of necessity to explain the world…
We will only know when we leave this place
Once there was a void of intermixed, intermittent
molecular flotsam floating, flung far and near
Now there is something so ancient, so precious,
all humans do is fight about where it came from
But I know this much…
It is and
it is beautiful and
it is worth preserving for as long as we deserve it
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems (Creation) and my poetic home, Poets United
Writer’s Island wanted an answer to the prompt: SIZZLE. Perfect time of year to contemplate that notion! Also posted at my poetic home-away-from-blog, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Summer Sizzle
Surrender your boots and your tight-knitted cap
This summer, silk underwear’s taking a nap
Let’s throw all the earmuffs into winter storage
And stock up on ice cream, forsaking hot porridge
Unpack all the swimwear and beach towels as well
Sunscreen 64, lest I burn all to hell
The long winter’s passed, all we see is sunshine
Surrender to summer, a true state of mind
The burgers will sizzle out on the gas grill
We’ll put local microbrews on ice to chill
And speaking of “sizzle,” because I’m so teeny
Just wait ‘til you see me new hot-pink bikini
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 