Pre-orders are now being taken for my chapbook, Price Reduced Again.  Don’t worry, y’all.  I won’t chase you around the internet and demand a purchase.  I’m just trying to be better about spreading the word.  So here she goes.

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Price Reduced Again is the first release from Backpack Press.  Crystal Folz, who has created beautiful journals such as Shoots and Vines, is the owner of the press and has done an amazing job with layout and editing.  I love the look and the feel of the book.  It’s not glossy and I like that.  It shouldn’t be.

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My daughter, Amber Yoder, created the awesome cover art.  Amber hand cut each of the tiles with a knife and pulled a print.  It fits the theme perfectly.  You may not be able to see it from this web picture, but there’s an old house on there and also a nickel with the word “LIBERTY” on it.  Thank you, Amber.  I love it!

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The poems are all new and not posted on the internet.  I originally set out to tell the story of my own financial struggles.  But I always meet people who touch my soul.  Their stories are in there, too.

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To reserve a copy and for more info., click HERE.

Requests and checks can be mailed to:

Shoots and Vines
Backpack Press
PO Box 489
Poseyville, IN 47633

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The actual mailing of the chapbook will begin after its December 14 release.

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The cost is $8.00 U.S.

$11.00 for orders outside of the  U.S. (the extra charge is to cover shipping).

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Many thanks to Crystal Folz for this beautiful opportunity.  It’s not about money.  It’s about creation.  Being a poet and writer herself, Crystal understands the need to create and share words.  She has been much more than an editor.  She is a dear friend.

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Thank you all for your support and encouragement.  I appreciate you very much.

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Millie’s Egg

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

They glued a yellow ribbon

to a plastic pink egg

and hung it on Millie’s door

as a beacon, so she won’t get lost

in long, white mazes of sameness.

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Still, Millie floats down the halls

in her dirty blue slippers.

She sneaks up behind nurses.

She bothers the visitors.

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Her hair is long and knotty white.

Her pale fingers peck the hem

of a thin gown, buttoned wrong.

One long, heavy breast hangs out.

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She is looking for the drawer

where those witches have hidden

her baby boy–among old papers,

behind tubes and wires, maybe

inside the brown bottles of pills.

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Here, Millie.  Let’s go find your room.

See your pink egg?  That’s a good girl.

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She’s not good, damnit.

And she’s not stupid.

She’s not a puppy to be called.

She doesn’t need an egg

to tell her to go to hell.

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This is not her room.

It is a stranger’s womb, a sallow

sinking of wet concrete walls

where she swims in a thick elixir

of piss stale breath, surfacing

in moments that open, then close.

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She wants to slap the nurses

and the skinny old man

who rocks back and forth

over the bed, calling her Mama,

pulling stiff sheets to her chin.

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She wants to grow tall enough

to reach the egg on the door.

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She will tear it down.

She will crack it open

and find her baby boy inside.

She will wrap him in her

soft red checked shawl.

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They will sail off the edge

of this flat white world

in a dirty blue slipper,

and that damned pink tomb

will never hold them again.

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Issue number four of ouroboros review is out!  It is jam packed full of excellent poetry, photography, articles, and interviews.

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Some of the poets in this issue are already on my favorites list, like Michelle McGrane, Scott Owens, and J.P. Dancing Bear.  Some of the poets are new to me, and I am happy to have become one of their fans.

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As always, I will probably regret mentioning individual names, because I will leave someone off the list who deserves a big shout out.

But I just have to say…on a personal level…how much I enjoyed Julie E. Bloemeke’s poetry and photography of abandoned places in the Southern US.  Check out her poems Mobile Home and Mailbox.  If you know me, you’ll know why I love her work.   Sophie Mayer’s poetry also felt beautifully personal for me.

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Of course, it’s all excellent and worthy of praise.  Congratulations to the contributors and to the editors–Jo Hemmant, Carolee Sherwood, and Jill Crammond Wickham on a fantastic job.

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You can read ouroboros HERE.

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Yes, it’s completely free to click the link.  But I urge everyone who has funds to purchase a copy.  Ouroboros Review is a great treasure to keep on the top shelf.   The first issue of ouroboros was in December of last year, but it’s not too early to say Happy Birthday Ouroboros Review! Here’s wishing you many more.

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Blog note:  Please excuse me for being slow this week.  We’re having a holiday in the US, and I’m traveling this week.  I will be around as much as possible to chat with everyone.  But I may be even slower than usual, if that’s possible

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Have a beautiful week!

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What do magic, mythical gods, and   the streets of New York City have in common?  You’ll find it all in          The Third Age, a webseries which is being launched today by Blip.TV.

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Written, directed and shot by           Patrick Meaney and Jordan Rennert and produced by Amber Yoder (my daughter), The Third Age has been billed as a “psychedelic remix of classic mythology, telling the story of ordinary people caught up in an eternal war between gods waged on the streets of New York City.”

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I love classic mythology, so I was instantly intrigued and happy to have a chance to preview the first seven episodes.  A war between gods and realistic scenes of gritty, city streets is definitely a modern twist on an epic story.  But the way the story is told is exciting and unique.  A god gets kidnapped.  A drug dealer finds himself simultaneously hiding from the cops and getting involved in the middle of a struggle between science and magic.  Fantasy meets asphalt.  I can’t wait to see more.

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The Third Age begins with scenes from a laboratory and has an X-Files feel to it, which is excellent.  Then we are introduced to the main characters. Christopher Zinone is not your typical drug dealer on the corner—his clients are young and wealthy.  But Christopher is depressed and wants to change his ways.  Determined that he has made the last drug deal of his life, he heads home one night and meets a beautiful woman who is crying on the street.  Her name is Morning.  She is far from ordinary.

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The laboratory scenes weave into the story well, and this background builds much suspense.  We meet a scientist named Jerrod Woolf who had a vision thirty years ago.  He dreamed of creating a drug that would one day save the world.  Jerrod Woolf’s world of science, the “real” world of Christopher Zinone and the magical world of Morning collide to make for a story that is keeping me on the edge of my seat.

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As a person who spends her life writing stories, I am impressed by the richness of the storyline in The Third Age.  It is complex, not in a way that is hard to understand, but in a way that makes a fiction writer nod her head and appreciate the sophistication of what these filmmakers are doing.  Don’t get hung up on the word “psychedelic.”  There’s a very real story here.

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The writers of this series respect my intelligence as a viewer and do not bombard me with obvious explanations, as some series do.  The characterization of Christopher Zinone is fantastic.  He unfolds with details that create a rich blend of character that is much more than meets the eye.

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Obviously, I dig well developed characterization and an interesting story.  If you’re somebody who reads this site every week, you probably do, too.  I also know that many of you enjoy fantasy writing.  Of course, there are more elements that make the series excellent.  But I’d rather let you check it out.  The first season consists of thirteen seven minute episodes, and it will be released weekly, starting today.  A second season will follow with thirteen additional episodes.

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The series has already been previewed at screening events in New York, including Big Screen, Little Screen and Industry Power Play.  It is produced by Respect Films, an independent production company that creates innovative content for the web and traditional media.

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You can read about the making of The Third Age by checking out the website HERE.  The behind the scenes work is fun to read.  You think you have challenges as a poet or a fiction writer?  Imagine having to find real locations and good actors for your characters.  Then lug around equipment and film them in a way that is professional and true to your vision.  Oh, yeah.  And do it on a budget.  I know the genres aren’t the same, but the physical aspects of film make me really respect what they do.

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The Third Age has already received great reviews.  Check out one by Tubefilter News HERE.   It also tells about Respect Film’s current work with ESPN.

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Please take a few minutes to check out episode one of The Third Age HERE and bookmark the page.

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I rarely turn on the stupid box (aka the television).  But I’ll be clicking on          The Third Age every week.  The story is a fantastic ride.

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First, a couple of notes:

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♦ Thank you to everyone who has been asking about my chapbook.  The first time I mentioned it, I said it would be out in late summer.  Oops.  I was wrong.  But it’s all good.  Crystal is working on layout now.  I can only imagine what a big job that is.  Everything she does is beautiful.

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I’m very pleased with the freedom of expression she has given me (we’re underground folk…no uptight rules).  My daughter, Amber, made the print for the cover.  I can’t wait to show you that awesome piece of art.

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It will contain all new work that has not been posted on the internet.  Unless, of course, we change our minds and slip something old in.  Again, that’s the beauty of underground freedom.  But right now, it’s all new.  I will let you know all of the details as they unfold.

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♦ The same thing goes for my poem in Plain Spoke.  There was a delay, but it looks like things are rolling along.  I’ll shout it out as soon as I know for sure which issue it’s in.  They’re also good people, and I highly recommend any issue.

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♦ I just had a poem accepted by Southern Women’s Review.  That made me happy, because I really love what they do.  That should be coming in January.  I’ve been way too slow about submitting, so I’m trying to make myself get back out there again.

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As always, thanks so much for your support.  It means a lot to know you’re here.

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And now, on with the poem…

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Eulogy For A Midwife

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She grew up with muscles,

rosemary braided in her hair,

wild onions on her tongue,

large feet firmly planted

on those red clay roads.

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She walked ten miles one-way

with blood stained buckets,

rosewater, talcum, ginger.

Hot peppers to encourage birth.

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On chicken feather beds,

her big hands spanned

those moaning globes,

gave them roots to chew,

breathed life beating music

back into their wombs.

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They are all hers—the farmers,

the speakers, doctors, preachers.

The twins who came out holding hands.

The ones with big pretty eyes.

The club footed boy, now an old man.

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She brought them into the world

and now they give her back.

They plant her with ginger and onions

under the sweet breath of sassafras.

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Her descendants will not sit

in sterile clinics, they will not

moan lonesome echoes

down cold, white halls.

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They know the midwife’s hands

shaped them in her image.

They know those hands

will always stir the earth,

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wrapping her people

in that soft cloth of ages,

strong and dark as blood.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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Salt Water Girls In An Old Chevy Truck

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Pammy Wammy

is the queen

of carburetors

and axle grease.

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She knows how

to rev up

that dusty

blue tank.

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Son, we love

her truck with a

rattling passion

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with a crick-crack

of the dashboard

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pouring oil

throwing bolts

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and 98 degrees of

rolled down wind.

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Neither law men

nor horny boys

can catch up with

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our sun tan legs

bouncing on

hot vinyl seats

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in time to the

Allman Brothers.

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Just a couple of

saltwater cowgirls

on high tide roads

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with one eye

on the potholes

and two fingers

on the wheel

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downshifting

fishtailing,

slinging mud

in our wake.

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Yessir, honey,

that old mule

will take us

across the state.

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It won’t matter

if we break down,

Pammy Wammy

just cusses under

the steaming hood

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til she gets her

blue smoke

rolling again.

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Rev her up and dump her, son!

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You’d better

believe us,

Cappy Jack,

cause we ain’t

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coming back

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til the fat lady

tells our mamas

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and we cat drag

our sorry selves

through the door

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reeking of no good

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lies between our teeth

and a bunch of stories

we’ll not admit in court

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even if a .38 Special is held

against our pretty heads

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even on our deathbeds

even if that old truck

ever breaks down

for good.

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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This poem was inspired by a dear friend.  I can’t even describe how

much I love him.  But it’s also intended to be a big tip of the hat to all the

good folks who still value the beauty of “slow” human communication via

letters and e-mail.  It is an art form, and you do it so well.

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Even the small amount of time I spend on the internet sometimes gets to

me.   But you are real.  You are beautiful.  I print out your e-mails, and I find

your envelopes in my mailbox.  I take your words into the woods with me

and read them away from the mind numbing hum of the computer.  Thank

you for taking the time to send your soul.  You keep me sane.

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The man with the mandolin in this poem is real, but I don’t know who he is.

I just thought it was perfect that I heard his singing on the day my friend’s

letter came.   His words are music.

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A Friend Sends Me Letters

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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I walk barefoot

to the mailbox

at the end of

my dirt road.

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Two hills away,

a man sings and

a mandolin plays.

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Last night’s rain

has melted into sun.

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A wild turkey clucks

through muddy reeds;

mist rises by the pond.

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The mailbox shines silver,

creaks open, and there’s

a letter my friend sends

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covered in stamps

and a picture I love

of a stick man

he always draws

on the envelope.

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He writes letters

to me

with two fingers

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on a manual typewriter

under noon day shade

of a black locust tree,

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leaves little bits of himself

on the paper–his words

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smell like a garden

churned butter,

a rumble of thunder.

Warm beer spilled

on a barroom floor.

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He tells me stories

about red chickens,

the wind and the rain.

Guitars, lovers, poetry.

Those hard old days.

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It’s not an electronic card

sent to fifty others

with a push of a button.

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Not a Facebook message.

Not a snippet on Twitter.

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It’s an experience

inside a sunny box

on a wet wooden pole.

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It’s a slow cup of

black coffee,

a piping hot

slice of sanity,

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a soft waltz

in the country.

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An unfolding

of a soul.

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It’s how words

on the page

should sing.

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A Sunday Drive

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The road beside the window, dark with smoke,

grinds beside the glass, it growls, it grows.

Nothing but poles along the road to mark the time

and wires above our heads, thick with breath

and sweat and the pulse of Sunday voices.

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Your hard hands on the wheel hold tight

to some soft thought scraped from plates

then thrown with bones beside dry highways.

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We see nothing but graves rectangled with sun.

Nothing but fields and hills that slowly turn away.

Nothing but nothingness breathes and feeds

and falls across the ground to scrape beneath.

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It is too heavy, too loud, this echo of wind

when no more lights rise from the reeds,

when a baby doesn’t think of drinking bottled air,

when his thin life quickly opened, then closed

like broken breath from an empty chest.

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Outside the window, clouds swell their bellies

and trap us inside the faded white lines of a lie.

Past the point of turning back–this moment

is where we will remember our forever.

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Too numb to sleep, we will not stop the hum,

the breath, the spin of earth under wheels.

We make our way over those small bones

turned to stone, tossed like gravel, crushed

with glass on the side of an unmarked road.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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Things I Learned Early

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

My name is not Rockefeller.

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A clean, faded dress is good.

Dirty work jeans are better.

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Don’t throw anything away.

A twist tie from a bread bag

might save your life.

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Tires found in the ditch

have lots of tread left.

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A cracked windshield

is no big deal.

A cracked engine

gets fixed in the yard.

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Shoes with holes

still walk to the field.

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A large cut will heal

if soaked in the ocean.

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Duct tape is a must

for home renovation.

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A week of flour and lard

collard greens and beans

means you get to eat

for another week.

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Poor girls do not

lay around all day.

Smart mouth girls

get slapped back

into last year.

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Don’t lie, cheat or steal

from the boss who

lies, cheats and steals

from you.

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Whining is a privilege

for people with money.

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Sleep is for politicians.

Dreams are for fools.

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Fragments

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November by the river.

You give me bitten apples

from your pockets.

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I taste your little hands

inside the peelings.

Wondering at the hush

of teeth, I sink into the skin.

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Upside down and too close

to deep water, you ask me

if the earth is octagonal.

Daughter, how can I tell you?

I never knew the sides.

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The sky thickens and you

give me rocks you’ve tasted,

clay shaped against your tongue.

Your breath the smell of mussel shells

hidden in your palm.

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Busily, your fingers find

the inside soft of fallen trees,

muddy underneaths of leaves,

steep slick edges, mossy clouds.

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The dampness of the breeze

against your skin, you ask me

if the earth will lose its spin

and when.

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Daughter, you will discover

we make our way on broken clay.

I did not leave a trail.

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Your voice falls in fragments

mud jelled in footprints

beside the shadowed

bruises of a river.

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You say God lives in all small places,

frozen in the limbs of autumn trees,

in the apples, the leaves, the rocks

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and unless we lose our way

we should walk softly

not to wake the rocks.

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We will not lose our way, I say.

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We leave your sweet seeds

along the twisted path

to be eaten by the birds

at dawn.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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