She’s a Classic
She’s a classic
antique, silver
Smooth lines
Smart mouth
Knows the score
Gives what-for
Loves change
Changes for no one
but herself
Reads, learns
Sees, remembers
Shares with abandon
Abandons no one
Wants for nothing
Her needs are easy
Her burden is light
Her way is forward
She never looks back
except, perhaps, to smile
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, the second poem for April PAD. (yesterday’s prompt was “Horse,” and I had nothing. Not even a pony.) The prompt was “The Classics,” but I had another little “dickens” in mind…
Amy
PLASTER CRACKS
One of those unexpected glances
A happenstance mirror
The old lady looking back at me
with curves in places
like her face
and craggly bits about the eyes
Who is this woman? She
looks off her feed, or depressed
No, I replied, it’s just you, ya old bag
Your fault for smiling so much
For choosing to live with your depression
rather than finding a way out
And so I settle into almost sixty years old
I let gravity, cruel mistress, have
her way with me
It used to be boobs and the
skin over my knees becoming
a canopy for bone beneath
Now it’s the more obvious sites
The ones one cannot hide under
clothing, beneath makeup
It’s the glorious blooming of
A New Amy, crone delighting
in the fact that she can still.
make new things, such as wrinkles
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It’s true. That little sag under my jaw, the crows’ feet that have morphed into Crow Valleys. It’s happening, and I can either get pissed at God (which seems quite useless, and I owe God so much) or dive in, feet first. I choose the dive.
This is for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Play It Again, Toads. One of my poet buddies, Fireblossom, had a previous prompt called, “The Crack in Everything,” and we have written to that prompt. Thanks, Shay, for always being an inspiration! Love, Amy
TIMEPIECE
She is a perfectly wound timepiece
Impeccable, pristine
Her every movement serves a purpose
No effort wasted
Pristine, aglow
Admired by those who
value clean lines, precision
Who see time as precious, noting
her ease in handling each task in turn
And yet she dreams of
tarrying
and tarnish
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
William Carlos Williams was a master of metaphor (and also a fellow Virgo, if I’m not mistaken). I can only wish… and admire. Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads had previously posted this prompt; I am daydreaming with admiration for Mr. Williams and other Imagists today. Amy
Dear Straight Guys,
It’s not like darts
Not if you’re smart
Not “point and shoot”
It’s not like b-ball
Not at all
She’s more than a rim to hit
and webbing to fall through
She’s neither mark nor target
The real woman lies beyond
what you’ll see
when you see her
As much as she wants you
(and make damned sure she wants you,
or we’ll have more than words, little man)
she needs even more
What lies within us is a world
An ecosystem
A universe of the delicate sublime,
of intricate, meandering passages
She’s a labyrinth and you must
must must must
caress the key, finesse the lock
with time and care, the kind
you’ve never shown your own
So talk to her
Let her guide you
She has places that need
the same soft kisses you place on her mouth
down south at the delta
And just in case you still think
you hold all the power, here’s a thought
After you don the raincoat to
dance in the lovely dew, think about this:
Whose parts will disappear in the meeting?
Who welcomes in, and who is swallowed up?
She has unfathomable fathoms
of phantom bliss
Remember that
from the very first kiss
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, we are on the letter F. That’s for “finesse,” you naughty children. Also on the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads! Amy
PRO-LIFE FOR DUMMIES
This bundle of cells
inside my body
must be protected
from me
This knot of matter
matters more
than the human host
My uterus must be guarded
lest my brain decide otherwise
since my brain is flawed
because I am only a woman
and you know better
and babies must be born
and intra-uterine ultrasounds are cool
(not a form of rape)
Even though the condom broke
The Pill failed
The boyfriend abused
The husband wanted and took
The father fathered
The stranger raped
Even though I know I
cannot raise this child in love
in security and hope
and the schools you provide
will never educate
and the help you will offer
is skewered by bitter judgments
After all that, you have
no words of condemnation or obligation
for the sperm donor
for the “father”
(who will never be a father)
My uterus must be protected
from my logical brain
Lord, save me from Christians
who believe pro-birth is pro-life
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sometimes it has to be political. Sometimes it’s so obvious. You are welcome to comment, but please don’t SCREAM AT ME IN ALL CAPS. And no foul language, because everyone knows what a prude I am!
For ABC Wednesday, once they post today, E for Extremist. Also for Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you will find an abundance of diverse voices. Give these sites a try. Take the leap! Amy
Sing to Spring
(Fade in on open field, where members of the local Women’s Chorus are engaged in their annual ritual of welcoming the new season. Dressed like milkmaids; everyone thinks they are a little nutty.)
Amorous buxom choristers, dancing everywhere
Fearless, guileless, heaving inspirations, juggling knowledge and
lascivious, mature natures…
Pendulum quickens; rhythmic sashay turns vibrant windmill…
(Two hours later, at a coffee shop, the event concludes with these time-honored words…)
Yum! Zabaglione!
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yes, my mother told me that, one fine spring day, a group of her friends from a local women’s barbershop group got together and did indeed “Sing to the Spring.” Of course, it didn’t involve a coffee shop; methinks they were slightly hammered!
For Imaginary Garden With Read Toads, where “Play It Again, Toads” found me attracted to Marian’s ABC romp through the alphabet, along with Margaret’s post of “Spring – detail” (1890) by Thomas Wilmer Dewing. Peace, Amy (and what a fun singer was my Mom, right?)
Acrylic on canvas, 9×12 by Amy Barlow (Liberatore)
Determined Swimmer
She’s good in water
A determined swimmer
An athlete going for the gold
With each stroke, determination grows
Hope flows with coursing blood
(a flash of daddy’s face)
Swimming for her life
or because of it
Because water will wash away
traces of THAT
Wash her clean of past, passed
(what happened, over and over again)
Almost there
Air collapsing from her lungs outward
The sea, an effervescent bubble mass
of inside, now outside
(he’s dead yet alive, too alive and too strong)
The picture fades from view
Her eyes shine in a wide-awake stare
A limp doll sleeping
on solid ground
at last
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The painting says it all, if you understand her determination. I have felt like this, too many times. May all who have been abused find peace… peace that does not need this kind of plunge. Amy
Scherzo (acrylic poured on canvas) by Suzanne LaFleur, used by permission of artist
Awash
Sprawling surface awaits her first pour
Thirsty for colors to caress
Thick acrylic syrup on parched canvas
Today is a lively melange
Cobalt and crimson, a bit of honey
In her mind, they crackle with life
Red tastes of ripest berries…
That lovely boulangerie last fall
as she lounged by the Seine
Blue, that glass sculpture, sheer perfection
She spent an hour gazing at the world
through its evening light
To be inside her head as she creates…
She is Artiste (Personified)
Effortless, this, while others bend over backwards to
pursue The Image
Her chiffon scarf danced between us
as we glided arm in arm down Julia Street
searching for abstracts, finding
last-minute Basquiats
Too much art, not enough time
New Yorker and European
by taste and by temperament
Awards are nice
but she thrives among others
who, too, hold art as sacred
Glamorous
Glittering
Glorious
Suzanne the Abstract
(c) 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Suzanne LaFleur (yes, do click and see her work!) is another force of nature I met during my stay in New Orleans. She is an award-winning artist specializing in abstract art (like I said, click the link!), a classy-as-hell dame, and possesses that extra oomph one needs to succeed in the arts. I know we will stay in touch, and I look forward to seeing her continue to blossom. I am linking this to ABC Wednesday for X (X-quisite!) and to the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
Folks, I regret not posting this sooner and perusing your blogs, but the Perfect Storm of computer changeover, malware on new computer, and That Old Gray Magic That I Know So Well (winter depression) converged and quite blew me out to sea.
Better days are coming. I look at Suzanne’s art, all your blogs, and know smoother seas are ahead. Peace, Amy
Cronifiscence (For Rose)
Used to be, we rough and ready, time-tested but never bested
full-breasted, not-begging-your-behested ladies
were frowned upon, looked down upon as
past our prime
‘More to be pitied than sensualed’
But now we gather in pools of lactic estrogen
to reminisce about dime phone booths
penny candy and two-bit boyfriends
our first quarter centuries marked by
debauchery, doubtless laughter
the ember of roach-clip glowworm
impromptu meetings on the streets
so far below downtown, we were crowned by
halos of cannabis smoke rings
Might be on city subways with melted portraits in windows
crashhurtling then lurching to stinky stop stations
Or southern streetcars harvesting magnolia scent
sliding over tracks greased by funk and fancy
We hail from many lands, form a tribe that
transcends countries of origin, societal strata
We are crones in the best sense of
that beleaguered term – we defy restrictions
Protest “wrinkles as afflictions”
Deny quaint references to “women of a certain age”
We ARE Women of a Certain Age
Certain that we have been there
Certain that we burned our bras and will do so again
if our daughters and all fertile women are denied
choices and voices – we will make noises, so watch out, boyses
We are certain that the world is better with us in it
Our experience has honed us into
magnificent, beneficent, sensible, sexy creatures
We have earned our crowns
We don’t do boundaries or borders
We are found art
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Just in: Added to Poets United’s Poetry Pantry for Sunday!
Rose Preston is a jewel. She lives in New Orleans, born in South Africa. She’s the kind of woman who will save a lovely object d’art for years until she finds the person who needs it… in this case, a lovely card with shining giraffe for her girlfriend’s birthday. I, too, collect bits of this and that (often sending to my old buddy Sidnie), just waiting for the right time, the right hands into which I place that little treasure.
Rose lives. I mean, this woman is traveling home in two weeks, then she’s going on SAFARI! Holy schmoley, that’s living. She was once charged by a baby elephant and, defying odds, snapped “my National Geographic photo,” only to later accidentally delete it… when she was high. I mean, really, kids, this is my kind of girlfriend. God willing, neither of us (nor any of the other fantastic women I spent time with in New Orleans!) will ever grow up, never stop ranting and raving and reveling in our lives.
Now if only I could download the damned pix off my “smart” phone, I’d include her picture. Later, I shall have to edit her image in. Peace, Amy
NOTE about “ROLLIE” trilogy: It will be completed tomorrow. Couldn’t resist this prompt.
Hysterical Women Running Amok
Hysteria was once thought
uniquely confined
to the female side
of all mankind
Said to be caused
by a “wandering uterus”
That’s why TPs think
our birth control’s ludicrous
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image: Free license, free use via FunnyPictureFunnyPhoto.com
This was for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, courtesy of Isadora. She sent us to the Random Fact Generator, where the perfect prompt was given to me (I confess) on my third click… “TPs” are, of course, Tea Partiers!
I researched “amok” vs. “amuck,” (my original choice) and found that, in modern parlance, “amok” wins. Harrrumph. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 