A SNOW-GLOBE MIND
God, grant me a snow-globe mind
where visions swirl in sensuous patterns
lovely and peaceful
Only to settle and wait to be stirred again
at a time of my own choosing
Better than this incessant strobe light
An intermittent blinking neon sign
Shining through my eyelids, shaking awake my mind
It has me on my knees
begging for a blackout
if only to cease the pulsating distraction
of a senseless, endless, unrelenting
throb of thoughts
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
EMERALD ISLE (The Soil From Which I Spring)
EMERALD ISLE
The soil from which I spring
Land from whence came the Laughlins, the Gordons, the Dunns
who made it over the Atlantic during the Famine
probably in steerage -
never much cash on Mom’s side of the family
The fields of green they no longer remember
Too far from home for too many generations
But there remains an impish, macabre sense of humor
that makes for stifled laughter in church
coupled with acceptance of the inevitable:
The English rule us
Invaders roll our women over and give us brown-eyed kids
All of this dances in my soul, a reel of real destiny, a pride
My Dad’s side was Mayflower, doncha know, D.R.A.
(Me drinking tea with that many white women? Don’t think so)
I am my mother’s girl
Pigs in the parlor, bathtub gin, poker in the back room
I love the smell of a beer-soaked tavern floor
Shanty Irish til the day I die
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The soil from which I spring
Land from whence came the Laughlins, the Gordons, the Dunns
who made it over the Atlantic during the Famine
probably in steerage -
never much cash on Mom’s side of the family
The fields of green they no longer remember
Too far from home for too many generations
But there remains an impish, macabre sense of humor
that makes for stifled laughter in church
coupled with acceptance of the inevitable:
The English rule us
Invaders roll our women over and give us brown-eyed kids
All of this dances in my soul, a reel of real destiny, a pride
My Dad’s side was Mayflower, doncha know, D.R.A.
(Me drinking tea with that many white women? Don’t think so)
I am my mother’s girl
Pigs in the parlor, bathtub gin, poker in the back room
I love the smell of a beer-soaked tavern floor
Shanty Irish til the day I die
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Frances 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.
FRANCES BY NIGHT
Frances took a lot of shit
back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood
On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines
Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps
The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her
Sometimes she’d get bounced early for
flouncing around the married guys too much
They were undercover, like the CIA
This was back in the day
when you came in the back door and showed ID
Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances
who had to show her license with her real name, Frank
It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her
A few cocktails would set her right
She’d be fine ‘til closing time
If no prime escort took the bait
she’d wait as long as she could
before leaving for good (or for worse)
Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat
Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”
Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!”
No cops were ever around that part of town
despite the shouts of the frantic rumble
She put up a good fight, that little queen
for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper
Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles
of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her
but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies
“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”
“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!
You need it more than I do”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
FRANCES BY NIGHT
Frances took a lot of shit
back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood
On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines
Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps
The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her
Sometimes she’d get bounced early for
flouncing around the married guys too much
They were undercover, like the CIA
This was back in the day
when you came in the back door and showed ID
Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances
who had to show her license with her real name, Frank
It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her
A few cocktails would set her right
She’d be fine ‘til closing time
If no prime escort took the bait
she’d wait as long as she could
before leaving for good (or for worse)
Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat
Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”
Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!”
No cops were ever around that part of town
despite the shouts of the frantic rumble
She put up a good fight, that little queen
for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper
Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles
of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her
but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies
“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”
“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!
You need it more than I do”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Friday, May 28, 2010
AFRODISIAC (alert: not for the prudish)
AFRODISIAC
Hey, it was lonely on the island
Living solo, slaving six nights slingin songs
My friend went stateside and brought me a present
Something Special
a vibrator – not just any vibrator, mind you
The biggest, fattest, most finely articulated, blackest dildo in creation
“He’ll keep you company,” she winked naughtily
That night, I tingled, mind wandering amid music
about the wonderous wanker wand
I named him Billy Preston (it was the 80s, mind you)
Billy was waiting for me
under my pillow
ready for our first close encounter
Finally home, just the two of us.
Billy, meet Betty (don’t ask)
Working our way into a complete union
Then I flipped on the switch
and screamed (but not in a good way)
Billy Preston had an impressive thermonuclear engine
Not a purr, nor a roar – something more excessive
like a jet revving before liftoff
I pulled out fast
(now, that’s weird for a girl to say)
and in my haste to extract the genital buzzsaw from my fertile forest
I flung it clear across the room
He landed in the wastebasket, still cruising at 120 mph
The basket overturned and Billy Preston was
“goin’ round in circles”
like a poodle on double espresso
Poor Betty still flinches when she recalls the trauma
Doc said you can’t treat a twat for PTSD, only VD
But she was gently cajoled and healed
by the real thing
eventually
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Hey, it was lonely on the island
Living solo, slaving six nights slingin songs
My friend went stateside and brought me a present
Something Special
a vibrator – not just any vibrator, mind you
The biggest, fattest, most finely articulated, blackest dildo in creation
“He’ll keep you company,” she winked naughtily
That night, I tingled, mind wandering amid music
about the wonderous wanker wand
I named him Billy Preston (it was the 80s, mind you)
Billy was waiting for me
under my pillow
ready for our first close encounter
Finally home, just the two of us.
Billy, meet Betty (don’t ask)
Working our way into a complete union
Then I flipped on the switch
and screamed (but not in a good way)
Billy Preston had an impressive thermonuclear engine
Not a purr, nor a roar – something more excessive
like a jet revving before liftoff
I pulled out fast
(now, that’s weird for a girl to say)
and in my haste to extract the genital buzzsaw from my fertile forest
I flung it clear across the room
He landed in the wastebasket, still cruising at 120 mph
The basket overturned and Billy Preston was
“goin’ round in circles”
like a poodle on double espresso
Poor Betty still flinches when she recalls the trauma
Doc said you can’t treat a twat for PTSD, only VD
But she was gently cajoled and healed
by the real thing
eventually
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Thursday, May 27, 2010
WAYS TO... two poems
From our Poetic Asides prompt, Ways To...
I have two. One fun, one deeper. Enjoy.
---------------------------------------
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
I have two. One fun, one deeper. Enjoy.
---------------------------------------
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
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
IT'S COMING (Shadorma)
IT'S COMING (a shadorma)
It's coming
Slimy black monster
No escape
Not our fault
Tragedy wrought by their greed
Killing our homeland
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It's coming
Slimy black monster
No escape
Not our fault
Tragedy wrought by their greed
Killing our homeland
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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