Long 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.

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:

http://www.wavepoetry.com/erasures/erasures.php?poemid=2445

And here's the poem. See other erasures at http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com

LONG LACE FACES
an Erasure, from Dorothy Miller Richardson's "Pointed Roofs"

high, plentiful long
lace faces--
collected sense of misery
lessons were dreadful experiences of
home
a little running
her own part swollen
her fingers
so weak
had
suddenly stiffened
at the end trembling.
dreadful movements. She heard nothing
till the end and as she stood up
she pushed angry way from the
clear red-hot mass of fire
green Chartreuse blue and cream.
stupid people made her play. How angry she had been
the forgotten guest she knew
poked all the girls
her heart trembling and burning eyes
thumping stiff
feelings faint
soundlessly until the thumping began again.
evenings, hoping afresh to be alone. But
she could not discover getting rid of
miserable nervous Mr. Strood
she did him credit, once
in a way that had thrilled her...
The tournament.

2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore (Sharp Little Pencil)

UNTIL WE GET IT (humans and creepy crawlies)

From an April Poetic Asides prompt; we were asked to write to the title, "Until ____"
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...!

UNTIL WE GET IT
There will come a day when aliens land
slimy creatures with tentacles and furry eyes
communicating telepathically
so we cannot tap into their transmissions
They’ll still making hideous screechy noises when they move
probably for simple intimidation
They will roam our streets endlessly
leaving behind trails of a greasy residue
reeking an odd combination of raw sewage,
Tigress cologne, and sausage stuffing

They will, of course, eat their young
from the inside out (because the choice bits
are always on the inside; Tony Bourdain says so)
and when they run out of young’uns, they’ll start eating us
We’ll be chased us into hills and finally have to admit
that those survivalist militia wackadoodles were onto something
(at least as far as stockpiling nonperishable foods was concerned)

And on that day, we may look at each other and say
“You have two eyes and a mouth just like I do
A nose for breathing, a hairy head
We all stand and walk when able
We all speak a language, we sleep when we’re tired
We don’t eat our young; we teach them, we raise them
We all have more in common than not

“Why are we always waging war on each other?
Why does the shade of brown on our skin matter?
Why does our place of worship keep us apart?
Why didn’t we get together every time there was
famine, disease, tragedy, hardship
Why didn’t we help one another while we still had time?”

I hope the hairy eyeball smelly slimy things never come
But until they do (and you know they will!)
Let’s remember what we have in common
and treat each other a little better

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

ONSTAGE (Writer's Island prompt)

UNTIL YOU’VE BEEN ONSTAGE

Blistering hot spotlight captures you
setting boundaries you cannot cross, even with your eyes
Just beyond, people seated in rows shift impatiently
waiting to hear if you’re worth their time
and their ticket

Below, the stage surface reveals
every heel print of every actor whose feet touched it
(since its last cleaning)
Above, an aurora borealis of gelled hues
dancing on the black ceiling

You step up to the invisible line
It’s your moment to show them what you’re made of
Until you’ve been onstage
You can’t understand the peril, the rush, the beauty
the bliss
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

WAYS TO... two poems

From our Poetic Asides prompt, Ways To...
I have two. One fun, one deeper. Enjoy.
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WAYS TO TRAIN YOUR CAT TO OBEY








© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

-----------------------------------------

WAYS TO SURRENDER

Give it up
Push it away
that ego, whispering “me me me”
(like a bad soprano warming up)

Let it go
Listen to the echo
(the voice that says the world revolves around you)

Let it in
Breathe it in
Creation, the Creator, who loves you
(and only wants you to give love back to the world)

Come full stop
Close your eyes
Let love catch up to you
(you were running too fast anyway)


© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

THERAPY (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!


THERAPY (Two places, WWP prompt)

Strrrrretch two-three-four-five
Relax
Bend this way
Now resist when I pull on your arm
…eight, nine, ten. Good
The film showed
some damage
You may need to up the pain meds
Possibly surgery
A little ultrasound and that’ll be it for today
Schedule our next PT session for Tuesday


It’s a stretch
to relax
when my brain is bent this way
I’m resisting, but I view
the film again
slow-motion emotional damage
I may need to up the anxiety meds
But I won’t need surgery or ECT
A little more crying and that’ll be it for today
Schedule our next counseling session for Wednesday

Therapy: Physical, Psychological
Both to stretch and strain
Both with all to gain

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Elementary 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.



ELEMENTARY SCHOOL LESSON

I knew a lot by second grade
The alphabet, counting to one hundred
How to write my name in cursive, and perfectly
What not to try to flush down the toilet
(for example, all my broccoli smuggled in via dinner napkin)
How kittens get born

One thing I didn’t know
was something the whole class learned at the same time

The grownups were mumbling something about
President Kennedy
A grownup was sobbing in the hall
and Mrs. Darrow almost fainted

Until second grade
I didn’t know that teachers were allowed to cry

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

BOX 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.


BOX ROOM

Awakening
Counting ceiling tiles, blurred
She loses track

Wondering
Was that a scream she heard
falling through a crack

Speaking
Her words not quite right, slurred
The drugs’ve made her whack

Feeling
Straps on her wrists, tethered
Detox. The Rack.

(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil

The 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.

THE PINE BOX

First
it’s being left behind
No matter how long the letting go
a piercing pain of loss permeates
every point of human contact
The look in their eyes
Phone calls from relatives you wrote off long ago and
acquaintances from bridge and board meetings
They’re all so sorry (they never really knew him)
They remember him (vaguely, but you never had us over to dinner)

Then
The Viewing
A blur of
I’m sorry call me are you OK (duh) call me
he was such a good man what a loss to the family
the community
the world
call me

Finally
The Funeral
Same readings as your parents’ services
Same minister, even (wow, he’s getting old)
At the words, “In my Father’s house there are many rooms”
you break down, everybody cries, all fall down
Whoever wrote that part of the Bible
really understood torch songs

The minister drones on about our beloved
He didn’t really know my husband
This is more my church than it ever was his

If funerals are for the living
they should skip the eulogy

Soon The Box will be planted
but our love will continue to grow
through tears and healing and memories and stories we tell
He was just that good

(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

MONSTER BREWING (HIV/AIDS)

MONSTER BREWING

First it was a stomach bug bugging him
two, three times a night I’d hear the bathroom door squeak open

Then came glands standing out on his thin neck
as though he had been hard-wired from within

The cough, “smoker’s hack,” that became the bronchitis
that became the infection that became the ambulance

that became a bronchoscopy, my friend lying prone as doctors
looked upside-down and straight into his chest

All this led to a hot-pink, stigmatizing sign on his hospital door
“Blood and Body Fluid Precautions,” because hospitals had not yet

gotten the concept that all patients should be treated with the same sanitary care
all needles should be disposed of properly, and

no patient should have to suffer the indignity of the Mark of Cain
tacked up on the entrance to his room, nor friends and family

gowned and gloved and masked before entering
as though we were thieves (these contrivances we refused to use)

The other Monster was in the White House, afraid his son was gay
and so he chose denial; he ignored the disease, when he could have

nipped it in the bud, possessing the foresight and gumption to tell the world
we needed to act. He was called the Great Communicator

but he flunked this, the greatest test of our age, and the fire rages on
globally. Locally, we each care for our loved ones as best we can

If God sent AIDS as a punishment, it’s not just death – but grief of survivors
If God sent it as a test, it was to test our response to those in need

If God sent it to slay gay men, then sans-needle lesbians are the chosen people
If God sent it to break our spirits, we will not let it happen

WE WILL NOT LET IT HAPPEN.

In memory of G. Jeffery French, my angel
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

The Big Top

THE BIG TOP

Under the big top streaked with gray
They dance and perform; they’re at constant play

One is careening across center ring
in a clown car with spears – a most treacherous thing

The acrobats tumble across beds of nails
Trapeze artists regularly slip amid wails

There’s no net to catch them, so when they have fallen
for sweepers with hoses the master comes callin’

The freak show’s so real even grownups grow faint
There’s one star: it’s me, off my meds - fun it ain’t

A banchee, a dervish, and funhouse in one
My bipolar circus has merely begun

(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

A Poet Is Born ("I Was Pissed")

Robert Lee Brewer prompted us to tell the group how we got started in poetry. This came flowing out in 15 minutes. One hundred percent truth, and baby, I have witnesses! Thanks to Marcia, Jesse, and Riley for urging me to keep at it.

I WAS PISSED

Back in Venice Beach after 20 years
visiting my kid, my gears whirring
I was cheerless beyond belief
There were no familiar haunts left

Like visiting the City and not seeing Grey's Papaya
at the corner of Amsterdam and 72nd
But in this case, Dupar's Diner was gone
and in its place was a T-shirt shop (made in China)

A great historic Black neighborhood
(full of low-income folks, natch) was
going to be razed to make room for condos
and Starbucks were breeding like bunnies

All these thoughts swirled in my head
I ducked into a bodega, bought a pad and pen
and ranted to the empty page
that my Venice was dead, or on the verge of being

vivisected by the rich, disembowled like William Wallace
until only bones would be left to be
picked clean by whoever survived the onslaught
But what do you call something that's

five pages long (later edited) and possesses
emotion and some semblance of alliteration and
internal rhyme, but no format resembling my
well-constructed songs, jazz and gospel?

I read it aloud that evening to some friends
Read it with force, conjuring emotion from
the ocean of words scribbled in haste
and they said, "Shit, Amy, that's some powerful free verse"

And so a poet was born

Message in a Bottle

Now that Poetic Asides' April Poem-A-Day challenge is over, my friend Linda Goin (google her; she's great) suggested other sites for "prompts," which are themes to which a group of poets, etc. write. Then we compare notes! This, from a prompt on Writer's Island, of "Message in a Bottle," titled, aptly...

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

Scrawled on a torn brown paper bag:

To Whoever Finds This,

Whatever your poison, it’s not worth it
Mine fit neatly in this bag and was
smuggled, stashed into the back of the pantry
Kept me company while the kids were at school
and later, while hubby was out nightcapping with the boys

Repeating the methods of my father’s mistakes
to avoid inhabiting my mother’s madness
I thought if I sought less than electroshock
I’d be home free, free at last, thank God almighty

The kids tried to help with An Intervention
the tension was palpable; I wasn’t pliable enough
to get with the AA stuff, or therapy
And today the doctor said my liver’s failing
So I’m off to the beach to deliver this message myself

I’m taking it as far out as I can swim
and then letting it go
and letting go
Just letting you know it was my choice to start
It’s your choice to stop, or not

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil