tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71543308951496136032023-11-15T05:26:23.903-08:00SHARP LITTLE PENCILMenopausal Mom seeks words for molding, melting, and melding into meaningful monologues.Amy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-86782582422153389452010-06-09T12:23:00.000-07:002010-06-09T12:34:25.283-07:00Long Lace Faces (an erasure poem)We were asked, at We Write Poems (a Thursday poetry prompt) to use a snippet of Dorothy Miller's Richardson's "Pointed Roofs" and literally erase portions of text until we came up with our own, unique poem.<br /><br />Ill write it out here, but seeing it in its original erasure form is also cool, and you can try the form for yourself. So here's my erasure intact:<br /><br />http://www.wavepoetry.com/erasures/erasures.php?poemid=2445<br /><br />And here's the poem. See other erasures at http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com<br /><br />LONG LACE FACES<br />an Erasure, from Dorothy Miller Richardson's "Pointed Roofs"<br /><br />high, plentiful long<br />lace faces--<br />collected sense of misery<br />lessons were dreadful experiences of<br />home<br />a little running<br />her own part swollen<br />her fingers<br />so weak<br />had<br />suddenly stiffened<br />at the end trembling.<br />dreadful movements. She heard nothing<br />till the end and as she stood up<br />she pushed angry way from the<br />clear red-hot mass of fire<br />green Chartreuse blue and cream.<br />stupid people made her play. How angry she had been<br />the forgotten guest she knew<br />poked all the girls<br />her heart trembling and burning eyes<br />thumping stiff<br />feelings faint<br />soundlessly until the thumping began again.<br />evenings, hoping afresh to be alone. But<br />she could not discover getting rid of<br />miserable nervous Mr. Strood<br />she did him credit, once<br />in a way that had thrilled her...<br />The tournament.<br /><br />2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore (Sharp Little Pencil)Amy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-1255356609835677882010-06-07T16:11:00.000-07:002010-06-07T16:14:51.597-07:00UNTIL WE GET IT (humans and creepy crawlies)From an April Poetic Asides prompt; we were asked to write to the title, "Until ____" <br />This was my take on humanity's tendency to make a big deal about petty differences on not focus on the bigger picture. Also an excuse to talk about slimy monsters from outer space. Kind of a tossup...!<br /><br />UNTIL WE GET IT <br />There will come a day when aliens land<br />slimy creatures with tentacles and furry eyes<br />communicating telepathically<br />so we cannot tap into their transmissions<br />They’ll still making hideous screechy noises when they move<br />probably for simple intimidation<br />They will roam our streets endlessly<br />leaving behind trails of a greasy residue<br />reeking an odd combination of raw sewage,<br />Tigress cologne, and sausage stuffing<br /><br />They will, of course, eat their young<br />from the inside out (because the choice bits <br />are always on the inside; Tony Bourdain says so)<br />and when they run out of young’uns, they’ll start eating us<br />We’ll be chased us into hills and finally have to admit<br />that those survivalist militia wackadoodles were onto something<br />(at least as far as stockpiling nonperishable foods was concerned)<br /><br />And on that day, we may look at each other and say<br />“You have two eyes and a mouth just like I do<br />A nose for breathing, a hairy head<br />We all stand and walk when able<br />We all speak a language, we sleep when we’re tired<br />We don’t eat our young; we teach them, we raise them <br />We all have more in common than not<br /><br />“Why are we always waging war on each other?<br />Why does the shade of brown on our skin matter?<br />Why does our place of worship keep us apart?<br />Why didn’t we get together every time there was<br />famine, disease, tragedy, hardship<br />Why didn’t we help one another while we still had time?”<br /><br />I hope the hairy eyeball smelly slimy things never come<br />But until they do (and you know they will!)<br />Let’s remember what we have in common<br />and treat each other a little better<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-7867345660271713982010-06-05T11:43:00.000-07:002010-06-05T11:45:00.922-07:00ONSTAGE (Writer's Island prompt)UNTIL YOU’VE BEEN ONSTAGE<br /><br />Blistering hot spotlight captures you <br />setting boundaries you cannot cross, even with your eyes<br />Just beyond, people seated in rows shift impatiently <br />waiting to hear if you’re worth their time <br />and their ticket<br /><br />Below, the stage surface reveals<br />every heel print of every actor whose feet touched it<br />(since its last cleaning)<br />Above, an aurora borealis of gelled hues <br />dancing on the black ceiling<br /><br />You step up to the invisible line<br />It’s your moment to show them what you’re made of<br />Until you’ve been onstage<br />You can’t understand the peril, the rush, the beauty<br />the bliss<br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-4957952373522830392010-06-04T19:57:00.000-07:002010-06-04T20:00:34.942-07:00Dance Groove Funhouse (Big Tent Prompt)Big Tent Poetry invited us all to bust loose and do or be or say whatever you wanted, no strings, just outrageous fun. I am channeling my old friend Sidnie on this one, because she is one fantastic party on this earth!<br /><br /><br />DANCE GROOVE FUNHOUSE<br /><br />If you’re ready to rock<br />Aching for a rollercoaster ride<br />Follow me<br /><br />If you know there’s something more than this this this<br />And really want THAT THAT THAT<br />Step this way<br /><br />Slip out of those comfortable shoes and<br />fling them so hard they fly away<br />Come on now<br /><br />Instead of whining when the kid next door plays music too loud<br />DANCE – you know you wanna, barefoot on the sidewalk<br />Groove to it <br /><br />If you feel rhythm coming out of nowhere<br />It’s the universe calling<br />Move to it<br /><br />This world craves sheer delight and whirligigs<br />No faking if you have the heart of the child<br />We know you do<br /><br />Scare up a little trouble, nothing harmful<br />Charmful, maybe… rhythm smiles free hugs to strangers<br />Let go today<br /><br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-86950260005830195132010-06-04T14:54:00.000-07:002010-06-04T14:55:01.280-07:00The Door to Deceitful DelightsTHE DOOR TO DECEITFUL DELIGHTS<br /><br />The door to deceitful delights<br />she discovered within<br />Plied with that first fizzy fun punch<br />Pried open wider by a toke of particularly prime pot<br />Finally flung open with the abandon possessed by<br />twenty-something Immortals<br /><br />This same door dwelled<br />in her mother and others long passed<br />Smothering, smoldering smoke and<br />various places to place opium<br />by hookah or<br />by whodathunkit<br /><br />Twenty-something was wise<br />She grew tired of wasting time<br />Time to grow up<br />We can’t all be Peter Pan<br />or Tinkerbell, even<br />She shoved her full weight against the door<br />Forced it shut and with it all the shit, shove-stored<br /><br />She knows she could open it again<br />on a whim or over a heartbreak<br />But she willingly tossed the key<br />into a pool of other bad memories<br />where she chooses not to swim<br />knowing she’d only sink like a stone<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-36959612054969535832010-06-03T13:21:00.000-07:002010-06-03T13:27:18.919-07:00MOONING (An "Erasure" poem)A new form, thanks to We Write Poems, my Thursday hangout for poetry prompts. Take a piece of literature, any piece, and "erase" text until you have a poem. This is based on a classical text, and I found the exercise quite fun. If you want to try, go to this link and you will have fun, too!<br />http://wavepoetry.com/erasures/<br /><br />The whole text of Aristophenes' work can be found on the site, but here is my first "Erasure," although unfortunately this website will not allow me to show all the gaps... so again, try it yourself and you'll see!<br /><br /><br />MOONING HAS ITS CONSEQUENCES<br />An Erasure based on Aristophenes’ “Clouds”<br /><br /> ready set Moon<br /> commanded the Athenians and<br />their allies and then declared<br /> dreadful things openly. first<br /> for torches;<br />“Boy, buy a torch, moonlight<br />is beautiful.” And confers benefits<br />on you, that observe<br />correctly, but confuse<br /> constantly threatening when they<br />are defrauded , and depart home, not<br />having met the regular feast<br /> . And you<br />sacrificing,<br /> observing fast,<br />mourn , pouring libations<br />and laughing. For which reason , having<br /> the lot be<br /> deprived by us ; for thus he<br />will know better that he ought to<br /> Moon.<br /><br />Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-12357724420359028032010-06-01T20:08:00.000-07:002010-06-01T20:11:05.150-07:00TVolutionWatched "Good Night and Good Luck" again, David Straithairn's virtuoso turn as Murrow and thought about how the evening news and the minds who brought us "Your Show of Shows" are gone with the corporate (stinky cheese) wind.<br /><br />TVolution<br /><br />In the beginning was creativity<br />Watch This - brought to you by<br />Buy This<br /><br />This pattern morphed over time in sinister ways<br />Buy This bought out the creators of<br />Watch This, thereby dictated the watching<br />Watch This was shuffled about according to Buy This trending<br /><br />Our only anchor was the anchorman<br />the Network Evening News<br />Buy This pulled up that anchor and we were adrift<br /><br />Then Buy This created<br />Watch This Happening Now, which became<br />Watch Only These Bits, then<br />Watch Only These Bits And Think This About Them<br />And Anyone Who Disagrees With Us Is A Socialist <br /><br />Now we’re narcotically glued to the tube<br />Dancing With America’s Next Apprentice Survivor Idol<br />Plasma spasma extravaganza<br />Minds restless, but legs so lazy they got their own syndrome<br />and consequently their own drug<br />well-advertised, saturating the market like Crisco<br />and every bit as healthy<br /><br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-21729861622852430742010-05-31T18:44:00.000-07:002010-05-31T18:46:24.540-07:00A Snow-Globe Mind (Meditation vs. Reality)A SNOW-GLOBE MIND<br /><br />God, grant me a snow-globe mind<br />where visions swirl in sensuous patterns<br />lovely and peaceful<br />Only to settle and wait to be stirred again<br />at a time of my own choosing<br /><br />Better than this incessant strobe light<br />An intermittent blinking neon sign<br />Shining through my eyelids, shaking awake my mind<br />It has me on my knees<br />begging for a blackout<br />if only to cease the pulsating distraction<br />of a senseless, endless, unrelenting<br />throb of thoughts<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-56179417793270858502010-05-30T11:36:00.000-07:002010-05-30T11:37:49.843-07:00EMERALD ISLE (The Soil From Which I Spring)EMERALD ISLE<br /><br />The soil from which I spring<br />Land from whence came the Laughlins, the Gordons, the Dunns<br />who made it over the Atlantic during the Famine<br />probably in steerage -<br />never much cash on Mom’s side of the family<br /><br />The fields of green they no longer remember<br />Too far from home for too many generations<br />But there remains an impish, macabre sense of humor<br />that makes for stifled laughter in church<br />coupled with acceptance of the inevitable:<br />The English rule us<br />Invaders roll our women over and give us brown-eyed kids <br /><br />All of this dances in my soul, a reel of real destiny, a pride<br />My Dad’s side was Mayflower, doncha know, D.R.A. <br />(Me drinking tea with that many white women? Don’t think so)<br /><br />I am my mother’s girl<br />Pigs in the parlor, bathtub gin, poker in the back room<br />I love the smell of a beer-soaked tavern floor<br />Shanty Irish til the day I die<br /><br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-58537852510810231812010-05-29T10:02:00.000-07:002010-05-29T10:13:54.527-07:00Frances by Night (the cruelty of gay-bashing)Based on a person from my hometown, name changed for dignity's sake. No one should ever have to suffer because they live without lying about who they are.<br /><br /><br /><br />FRANCES BY NIGHT<br /><br />Frances took a lot of shit<br />back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood<br />On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines<br />Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps<br />The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her<br />Sometimes she’d get bounced early for <br />flouncing around the married guys too much<br />They were undercover, like the CIA<br /><br />This was back in the day<br />when you came in the back door and showed ID<br />Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances<br />who had to show her license with her real name, Frank<br />It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her<br /><br />A few cocktails would set her right<br />She’d be fine ‘til closing time<br />If no prime escort took the bait<br />she’d wait as long as she could<br />before leaving for good (or for worse)<br /><br />Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat<br />Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”<br />Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!” <br />No cops were ever around that part of town<br />despite the shouts of the frantic rumble<br /><br />She put up a good fight, that little queen<br />for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper<br />Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles<br />of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her<br />but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies<br /><br />“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”<br />“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!<br />You need it more than I do”<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-60478829049822210452010-05-28T10:27:00.000-07:002010-05-28T10:28:52.439-07:00AFRODISIAC (alert: not for the prudish)AFRODISIAC<br /><br />Hey, it was lonely on the island<br />Living solo, slaving six nights slingin songs<br />My friend went stateside and brought me a present<br />Something Special<br />a vibrator – not just any vibrator, mind you<br />The biggest, fattest, most finely articulated, blackest dildo in creation<br />“He’ll keep you company,” she winked naughtily<br /><br />That night, I tingled, mind wandering amid music<br />about the wonderous wanker wand <br />I named him Billy Preston (it was the 80s, mind you)<br />Billy was waiting for me <br />under my pillow<br />ready for our first close encounter<br /><br />Finally home, just the two of us.<br />Billy, meet Betty (don’t ask)<br />Working our way into a complete union<br />Then I flipped on the switch<br />and screamed (but not in a good way)<br />Billy Preston had an impressive thermonuclear engine<br />Not a purr, nor a roar – something more excessive<br />like a jet revving before liftoff<br /><br />I pulled out fast<br />(now, that’s weird for a girl to say)<br />and in my haste to extract the genital buzzsaw from my fertile forest<br />I flung it clear across the room<br />He landed in the wastebasket, still cruising at 120 mph<br />The basket overturned and Billy Preston was<br />“goin’ round in circles”<br />like a poodle on double espresso<br /><br />Poor Betty still flinches when she recalls the trauma<br />Doc said you can’t treat a twat for PTSD, only VD<br />But she was gently cajoled and healed<br />by the real thing<br />eventually<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-67821602889927700732010-05-27T20:15:00.000-07:002010-05-27T20:18:54.351-07:00WAYS TO... two poemsFrom our Poetic Asides prompt, Ways To...<br />I have two. One fun, one deeper. Enjoy.<br />---------------------------------------<br />WAYS TO TRAIN YOUR CAT TO OBEY<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil<br /><br />-----------------------------------------<br /><br />WAYS TO SURRENDER<br /><br />Give it up<br />Push it away<br />that ego, whispering “me me me”<br />(like a bad soprano warming up)<br /><br />Let it go<br />Listen to the echo<br />(the voice that says the world revolves around you)<br /><br />Let it in<br />Breathe it in<br />Creation, the Creator, who loves you<br />(and only wants you to give love back to the world)<br /><br />Come full stop<br />Close your eyes<br />Let love catch up to you<br />(you were running too fast anyway)<br /><br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-29295390440192301522010-05-26T06:32:00.000-07:002010-05-26T06:38:14.507-07:00THERAPY (Two places. WWP)At We Write Poetry, we were asked to write about two different places we had been recently. This was a no-brainer, or rather a scattered-brainer and sore-shoulderer!<br /><br /><br />THERAPY (Two places, WWP prompt)<br /><br />Strrrrretch two-three-four-five<br />Relax<br />Bend this way<br />Now resist when I pull on your arm<br />…eight, nine, ten. Good<br />The film showed<br />some damage<br />You may need to up the pain meds<br />Possibly surgery<br />A little ultrasound and that’ll be it for today<br />Schedule our next PT session for Tuesday<br /><br /><br />It’s a stretch<br />to relax<br />when my brain is bent this way<br />I’m resisting, but I view<br />the film again<br />slow-motion emotional damage<br />I may need to up the anxiety meds<br />But I won’t need surgery or ECT<br />A little more crying and that’ll be it for today<br />Schedule our next counseling session for Wednesday<br /><br />Therapy: Physical, Psychological<br />Both to stretch and strain<br />Both with all to gain<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-79833001966902613222010-05-25T12:03:00.000-07:002010-05-25T12:05:52.114-07:00IT'S COMING (Shadorma)IT'S COMING (a shadorma)<br /><br />It's coming<br />Slimy black monster<br />No escape<br />Not our fault<br />Tragedy wrought by their greed<br />Killing our homeland<br /><br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-87007740541429924402010-05-24T12:02:00.000-07:002010-05-24T12:07:32.721-07:00SLICK (For Linda and other Gulf Coast dwellers)Poem by poem, many of our community are venting our anger about the Gulf Coast tragedy, which was completely preventable. It's true that writing poems does nothing to hands-on help victims or restore the environment; it's a way to vent. I post this is hope that it will get you on the phone to the White House and Congress, demanding heavier regulation of the oil industry; an end to off-shore drilling; and finally, get us walking to the store more often instead of driving.<br /><br />SLICK<br /><br />Big Oil greased the palms<br />of elected officials<br />Thousands weep; their lives destroyed<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-43536618694064284582010-05-22T16:47:00.000-07:002010-05-22T16:50:07.501-07:00Elementary School (a pivotal moment)Robert Lee Brewer asked us to create a poem based on an "aha" moment (shades of Oprah!). This was one of the formative moments of my childhood.<br /><br /><br /><br />ELEMENTARY SCHOOL LESSON<br /><br />I knew a lot by second grade<br />The alphabet, counting to one hundred<br />How to write my name in cursive, and perfectly<br />What not to try to flush down the toilet<br />(for example, all my broccoli smuggled in via dinner napkin)<br />How kittens get born<br /><br />One thing I didn’t know <br />was something the whole class learned at the same time<br /><br />The grownups were mumbling something about<br />President Kennedy<br />A grownup was sobbing in the hall<br />and Mrs. Darrow almost fainted<br /><br />Until second grade<br />I didn’t know that teachers were allowed to cry<br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-40676743216269381322010-05-20T13:00:00.000-07:002010-05-20T13:01:07.260-07:00"Lunes" - sweet, sad, saltyRobert challenged us with a new form: the Lune. A Kelly Lune works in 3-5-3 syllables; a Collum Lune in 3-5-3 words. Here are attempts at both… a little sweet, a little sad, and a little salty!<br /><br /><br />PHONE CALLS FROM L.A.<br /><br />My daughter calls<br />No matter when or where<br />I pick up<br /><br />Speaks of days<br />School, friends, gigs, new paintings<br />I listen<br /><br />We are different<br />Yet our laughter’s the same<br />And our crying<br /><br /><br />FATIGUE <br /><br />God I am so tired<br />Yet my eyelids will not close<br />Tomorrow hovers<br /><br /><br />ACTUAL PICKUP LUNES <br />(GUARANTEED 100% UNSUCCESSUL)<br /><br />Come here often?<br />Are you a real blonde?<br />Live near here?<br /><br />Wake me up…<br />I must still be dreaming<br />Want a Quaalude?Amy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-33359234126320142462010-05-19T21:00:00.000-07:002010-05-19T21:04:37.479-07:00Back home... to a new form!Well, after a wonderful gig in Binghamton where I played a full hour overtime and with lots of friends (and some new friends) present, I am back at my little computer, yippee. God bless my wonderful husband, Lex, who lugged all the equipment, etc., because the bursitis in right shoulder is not getting better... OK, enough about real life.<br /><br />Poetic Asides has a GREAT interview with The Poetry Bomb (check out his bright blue suit on his Facebook profile) and a new form, called a Lune. There are two forms - one 3-5-3 syllables; one 3-5-3 words. Sort of a haiku broth with some extras. This is based on a Long Beach, Long Island walk in the 80s.<br /><br /><br />FOUND DELIGHT<br />Barefoot beach combing<br />A purple and white stone<br />the simplest treasure<br /><br />Pleasures my pocket<br />Keeps me warm silent company<br />Til I'm homeAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-28967589571888754822010-05-17T10:27:00.000-07:002010-05-17T10:29:08.722-07:00A quick and less-than-stellar poemHey, all... Wanted to let you know<br />I'm on the road with "music to go"<br /><br />I'll be back again quite soon<br />To post my moon, June, spoon!<br /><br />Amy<br /><br />(Hey, that's all I have in me... I'll post better stuff when I'm home again on my own computer!!) Peace to all, AmyAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-67902549998169159642010-05-16T06:26:00.000-07:002010-05-16T06:30:07.168-07:00BOX ROOM (adult theme)Is this a form? Is it my own form? Who knows? Feel free to comment! On the We Write Poetry prompt for Boxes.<br /><br /><br />BOX ROOM<br /><br />Awakening<br />Counting ceiling tiles, blurred<br />She loses track<br /><br />Wondering<br />Was that a scream she heard<br />falling through a crack<br /><br />Speaking<br />Her words not quite right, slurred<br />The drugs’ve made her whack<br /><br />Feeling<br />Straps on her wrists, tethered<br />Detox. The Rack.<br /><br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-80877373930334868492010-05-15T08:22:00.000-07:002010-05-15T08:25:03.604-07:00The Pine Box (We Write Poems prompt)We were asked to write about a box. Any box, literal or imaginary. These types of prompts are grist for the mill - they challenge the poet to think OUTSIDE "the box" and go deeper, ever deeper... this is about no one in particular. It's an amalgam of too many funerals over the years. <br /><br />THE PINE BOX<br /><br />First<br />it’s being left behind<br />No matter how long the letting go<br />a piercing pain of loss permeates<br />every point of human contact<br />The look in their eyes<br />Phone calls from relatives you wrote off long ago and<br />acquaintances from bridge and board meetings<br />They’re all so sorry (they never really knew him)<br />They remember him (vaguely, but you never had us over to dinner)<br /><br />Then<br />The Viewing<br />A blur of <br />I’m sorry call me are you OK (duh) call me<br />he was such a good man what a loss to the family<br />the community<br />the world<br />call me<br /><br />Finally<br />The Funeral<br />Same readings as your parents’ services<br />Same minister, even (wow, he’s getting old)<br />At the words, “In my Father’s house there are many rooms”<br />you break down, everybody cries, all fall down<br />Whoever wrote that part of the Bible <br />really understood torch songs<br /><br />The minister drones on about our beloved<br />He didn’t really know my husband<br />This is more my church than it ever was his<br /><br />If funerals are for the living<br />they should skip the eulogy<br /><br />Soon The Box will be planted <br />but our love will continue to grow <br />through tears and healing and memories and stories we tell<br />He was just that good<br /><br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-53233187808906822662010-05-14T20:06:00.000-07:002010-05-14T20:08:29.089-07:00THE WRINGER (Me, Mom, and laundry)THE WRINGER <br /><br />I was the baby so I<br />spent a lot of time with Mom<br />watching her perform the mundane tasks<br />of suburban housewifery<br />that would eventually lead her to alcoholism<br /><br />But back then they were fun<br />The radio was always on<br />Roger Miller singing King of the Road<br />We'd sing along<br />She taught me to harmonize when I was four<br /><br />Downstairs to do laundry<br />A humungous circular washer, a wringer<br />And a clothesline out back<br />To her this was heaven<br />having survived the Depression<br /><br />All these conveniences<br />meant just for her<br />In those days, she saw her life as luxurious<br />And she saw me as company<br />and the only friend around<br /><br />After poking a stick into the washing<br />to make sure the detergent had really dissolved<br />She drained it and refilled to rinse<br />Man, she really took the stick to that<br />Everything had to be clean, perfect, worthy<br /><br />But the best part<br />Before the hanging on the line with wooden clothespins<br />(Someone should invent something with a spring,<br />she said absentmindedly one day<br />Her mom was a genius, too)<br /><br />Was the wringer<br />The clothes being strangled as they<br />gave up almost every drop of their being<br />I pretended they were bad people who were being punished<br />I prayed for them but secretly relished their fate<br /><br />Back then it was easy<br />We'd go upstairs and have coffee (mine was mostly milk)<br />She light a Lucky and we'd sit<br />gazing out the window to the fields beyond<br />Soundtrack by The Lettermen and Peggy Lee<br /><br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-91786568791871322382010-05-13T14:27:00.000-07:002010-05-13T14:29:07.738-07:00MONSTER BREWING (HIV/AIDS)MONSTER BREWING<br /><br />First it was a stomach bug bugging him<br />two, three times a night I’d hear the bathroom door squeak open<br /><br />Then came glands standing out on his thin neck<br />as though he had been hard-wired from within<br /><br />The cough, “smoker’s hack,” that became the bronchitis<br />that became the infection that became the ambulance<br /><br />that became a bronchoscopy, my friend lying prone as doctors<br />looked upside-down and straight into his chest<br /><br />All this led to a hot-pink, stigmatizing sign on his hospital door<br />“Blood and Body Fluid Precautions,” because hospitals had not yet<br /><br />gotten the concept that all patients should be treated with the same sanitary care<br />all needles should be disposed of properly, and<br /><br />no patient should have to suffer the indignity of the Mark of Cain<br />tacked up on the entrance to his room, nor friends and family<br /><br />gowned and gloved and masked before entering<br />as though we were thieves (these contrivances we refused to use)<br /><br />The other Monster was in the White House, afraid his son was gay<br />and so he chose denial; he ignored the disease, when he could have<br /><br />nipped it in the bud, possessing the foresight and gumption to tell the world<br />we needed to act. He was called the Great Communicator<br /><br />but he flunked this, the greatest test of our age, and the fire rages on<br />globally. Locally, we each care for our loved ones as best we can<br /><br />If God sent AIDS as a punishment, it’s not just death – but grief of survivors<br />If God sent it as a test, it was to test our response to those in need<br /><br />If God sent it to slay gay men, then sans-needle lesbians are the chosen people<br />If God sent it to break our spirits, we will not let it happen<br /><br />WE WILL NOT LET IT HAPPEN.<br /><br />In memory of G. Jeffery French, my angel<br />(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-28558728613503771832010-05-13T09:15:00.000-07:002010-05-13T09:18:37.995-07:00When First She Knew (ghazal, imaginary)Not strictly autobiographical - I didn't marry because I was pregant, etc. But we were challenged by Robert to write a "ghazal" (Persian form; complicated rules, including using your own name in the final stanza) but gave it a try anyway), so here goes:<br /><br />WHEN FIRST SHE KNEW<br /><br />When first she knew, it was big-deal time<br />A few short weeks to hide, to conceal time<br /><br />To see how the life she’d known until now<br />and the new life within would congeal – time<br /><br />to see if the man she loved would be a worthy father<br />to this child… a critical moment: “I’ll” or “we’ll” time<br /><br />All day, absent-mindedly clicking away at her desk<br />until they meet back home, it’s give her spiel time<br /><br />For if they start a family, it won’t be casual<br />It’s make or break; it’s “get real” time<br /><br />His warm smile says more than his words<br />Her eyes fill with tears, then it’s squeal time<br /><br />A quick but lovely wedding, the blessed event before<br />the blessed event… two hearts make a seal time<br /><br />Life grows within, she grows round and wobbly<br />Harder to find her even-keel time<br /><br />Yet expectation grows in Amy too, keeps pace, keeps peace<br />God watches the child at her breast, baby’s first meal timeAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154330895149613603.post-44029817744748517042010-05-12T19:56:00.000-07:002010-05-12T20:02:52.084-07:00POETIC FORMS (a little commentary/rant!)POETIC FORMS<br /><br />Forms<br />are not within my norms<br /><br />Haiku<br />too small a hoop to leap through<br /><br />(BLEEP)<br />I meant “through which to leap”<br /><br />Ghazal<br />piecing together words, a jigsaw puzzle<br /><br />Shadorma<br />I gave up, frustrated… pro forma<br /><br />Sestina<br />I’d rather eat Wheateena<br /><br />Those <br />who excel in forms, I offer you kudos<br /><br />Me?<br />Just another free-verse devotee<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Online meetings for Haiku Anonymous forming now. All comments must be in 5-7-5 format.)</span><br /><br />© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little PencilAmy Barlow Liberatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13879052881473572095noreply@blogger.com7