A Hard Head Leaves A Dent In The Mountain

I’ve been a little under the weather.  Nothing serious.  Maybe it’s a mild case of the flu or some other bug floating around.

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Actually, this has happened to me since I was a kid.  I go full steam ahead for a few months, and then something knocks me out cold.  I think it’s my body’s way of telling me to slow down and stop burning the candle at both ends.  I call it Hitting The Wall.  Once I hit the wall, it stops me in my tracks for a couple of days.

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Here’s a lil’ poem that describes it.   Just for fun.   I can’t believe they still show this cartoon on television.  Or maybe I dreamed they showed it while I was sweating out fever on the couch.  I still root for the coyote.

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Now I’m back on the earth.  Just groggy.  I’ll return to pester the world again in earnest soon Have a beautiful week.

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Hitting The Wall

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Like Wile E. Coyote in the cartoon,

she walks off the edge of the cliff

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defies gravity for two blue steps

then looks down, begins to fall

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bounces from treetop to treetop

while the orchestra plays,

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lands in a river, makes a ship

out of twigs, crashes over falls,

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swims to dry land–an anvil drops

on her head, so she looks up

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and it’s that damn obnoxious

beep-beeping bird.

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She pulls a phone out of nowhere.

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With a screech of brakes,

the Acme truck arrives.

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She builds a cannon,

puts on a tutu, lights the fuse,

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shoots herself over boulders,

higher and higher to the road

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where that son-of-a-beak runs.

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She does the breast stroke in mid air,

her long, coyote fingers closer, closer.

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He runs in a cave.  She hits the wall

with a splat.  Beep Beep.  Goes flat.

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PlayStation Babysitter

In The Middle Of The Night

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She played video games

on a dirty brown couch

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that reeked of Doritos

and sweaty ass.

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She pulled the heads

off her Barbie dolls

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in a dark apartment

above Charley’s Bar

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where her mother

turned tricks for crack.

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She joined the Army

to pay for college–

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put on boots

and slammed

to Combat Rock.

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Now she sits on a

leather sectional,

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sells adult toys

in Manhattan,

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has 798 friends

on Facebook,

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updates her page

with sexy videos

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and hangs up

when her mother

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calls bawling

in the middle

of the night.

-Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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Spring Is In The Airwaves

The Man on The News Says It’s A Beautiful Day Today                             And A Mother Is Charged With The Murder of Her Toddler

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Sunshine and a dead baby girl

in the same breath from a man

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with slick hair and a suit, a hint

of a smile in his voice, a busty

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blonde next to him, nodding.

Will this be the blue sky day

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when buds struggle to unfold

and either the man or woman

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jump from their chairs, throw

open the window, and scream

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I’m mad as hell and not going

to fake it anymore?

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Up next, a chemical suicide.

A local high school band

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collects cans for a trip to DC

and a Doppler Radar graphic

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of clear skies from here

to eternity.

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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Green Eyes And Grapevines

A post at Christine Swint’s balanced on the edge reminded me of this poem.  In her post, Christine speaks of dreams, dream poetry, and Jungian symbols in dreams.  Christine Swint is an excellent poet.  She’s also one of those people I admire greatly, because she’s taking life by the horns.

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The woman in this poem has been a recurrent character in my dreams since I was a kid.  I’ve never seen her in real life.  She might be the vulnerable side of me.  Or the questioning side.  She’s always looking for something.

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Sometimes, she looks for an object, like a necklace.  Other times, the things she looks for make no sense, like “Wednesday the 28th.”  I dreamed this one after a loved one died, and that may have something to do with it, too.

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Muscadine Vines

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Some thick sweetness calls her name

like a longing, in a twist of wind,

flapping softly in leaves on a vine.

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That whisper is where she will

find her forever, breathing from

blue suitcases on rendezvous

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beside hot mumbles of highways

with lovers and shadows darting

toward the corners of her green eyes.

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Thirst drinks from the inside out,

slices her arms in hidden places–

a drip-dropping of warm red relief

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from the grief of rusty attic trunks,

stale loaves, dust covered brushes,

broken crystal beside an artist’s easel.

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Tomorrow, she will exist.

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Today, she goes down aching stairs

holding thin silver trays, knowing

someday is suddenly a rustle

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on the veranda, an echo of breath

when soft doors close on gardens

that bleed gray clay, and her only

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vision is thickened–her name

is opened, swallowed, tossed.

Lost in a maze of muscadine vines.

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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