Slow Down: Conjure Woman Ahead

Photo by Lindsay Niles

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Conjure Woman

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

She gathers magic

beside the highway.

Just the right things

will be ingredients

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for potions and poultices

incantations and chants.

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The deep pockets of

her blue sack dress

hold insects, rocks,

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sun dry bones that laid

in the shape of a cross.

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Green pieces of glass.

Hard chewed up gum.

A crushed turtle shell.

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Red tipped feathers

that fell with a whisper

next to hot asphalt.

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She had a stroke

five years ago.

Her left arm sways

like meat on a hook.

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Still she looks,

busily sniffing

through weeds

beside road trees

because she knows

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a dead snake

pointing east

cures heartache.

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A wad of red hair

fends off enemies.

A fallen baby bird

prevents stillbirth.

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Pink lipstick on the rim

of a plastic cup

curses a cheating lover.

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The conjure woman was here

when the road was blue clay,

she was here before it all

quickly rose above her head

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in embankments, overpasses,

exits on the way to vacations.

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She does not see concrete

or hear the hiss of tires.

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She does not know

they put her picture

in a brochure

or that they call her

the Vulture Lady.

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She just keeps walking,

searching for bits

of meaning

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in smoke blown woods,

the gentle blood

of crossing hooves

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and human remnants

tossed from windows

without a thought.

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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I will be offline later this week.  My loved ones are coming to see me, and I’m

very excited. I’ll try to hang around for a couple of days to chat with

everyone.  After that, I’ll see you in about a week.  Feel free to turn

up the music while I’m gone.

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This is one of my “Miss Eula” inspired poems.  The title will probably change.

But I was getting tired of calling them all Miss Eula.  Miss Eula is a

combination of a few different women I have known in my life.  Yes, conjure

women are real.  The ones I met were fascinating and beautiful.

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Thanks so much for reading!   I hope you all have a good week.

To Market, To Market

My husband and I are trying to sell our old house.  I throw back my head and laugh now.

Our story is pretty typical these days.  We moved to another state when a plant closed.  There were no jobs.

The foreclosure in this poem has not happened to us.  In reality, life is very good.  Even if it happens, life is still good.  We are fortunate.

I write about these things to expel the demons.  Then I am okay.  I decided to share a couple of the poems, because so many people are experiencing the same worry (or much worse).

For me, ownership was a sweet illusion.  My mortgage was cheaper than rent.  It meant freedom from slumlords.  It was a great home while it lasted.  But a mortgage is not ownership.

There are many positive surprises, though.  For the first time in my life, I have a landlord who is a very good person.  He reduced the rent (a lot) when he heard about our situation.  If not for him, I don’t know what we would have done.  A lot of people don’t have this opportunity.  I wake up every day in a beautiful place because of the kindness of a stranger.

I plan on having another creaky old illusion someday, complete with fifty acres of woods and water.  The stairs will be crooked.  The wallpaper faded.  It will have the lingering aura of the people who lived there a hundred years ago.  It will smell of trees, vines, and rusty window screens.  I will love every creak and every crack.

But I’m also privileged to be living in the here and now.  There’s a herd of deer grazing by my front porch.  I just saw a wild turkey.  The woods are thick and the sun is hot.  I am home.

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Photo by Chance Agrella

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Illusions

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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There are blue

forget-me-nots

next to our

old white house.

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There are handprints

we pressed

into new blacktop

on the driveway.

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There are five pets

buried beneath pink

Rose of Sharon trees.

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There’s the fence

we painted red,

a pond full

of lily pads

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a black and white

foreclosure sign.

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I walk the twisted woods

at night, a quiet trespasser

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who stares

at our dark house

through thick vines.

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There’s a full moon

floating in a puddle.

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For a moment,

I think I can

scoop its gold

into my palm.

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The ring is muddy.

The dream, a trickle

we never really held.

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The Bones of Saints Under Glass

Sometimes, a book of poems comes along that is beautifully written, but it also portrays life in a way that is very personal to me.

The Bones of Saints Under Glass by Jeff Fleming is one of those books.

The poems in this chapbook deal   with death, love, and family relationships.  There is sorrow sprinkled with bits of joy.  There is the death of a mother.  There is the beauty of young sons.  It is real.  It is the story of life.

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Jeff Fleming paints a vivid landscape with an economy of words.  Each word is carefully placed within the landscape.  In the title poem, the narrator is hiking.

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“There is no trail before me

but a rough, jagged path

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flows out behind,

slowly disappearing

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as the plants I’ve crushed

stand upright again.”

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Near a cluster of yellow flowers, the narrator sees the skeleton of a small bird, bleached white.  Like all of the poems in this book, it is a moment in the palm of a hand.  But it is so much more than that.  The moment echoes with questions and observations about life.

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Ratchet is a poem that tells the story of an “ordinary” day.  Even an ordinary day paints the larger picture of a family.

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“Most days, my mother

sat in the living room

knitting. Her sneezes

sounded like questions.”

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The poem then pivots to the father.  With a wonderfully light touch, Fleming shows us the divide between father and son.  The father takes the son out to the garage on weekends and patiently explains “the intricacies of everyday/machinery…”

The narrator ends with a gentle understanding.  “It was the only poetry he had.”

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Each poem in this book breathes.  The subjects are universal.   No matter who we are or where we are born, we all have to deal with relationships and the loss of loved ones.  Jeff Fleming does it in a way that is not overly dramatic.  It touches me in a way that I can apply to my own life.

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Of course, not all of the poems deal with death specifically, and all of the poems make me think.  But as we pass that “invincible” age, many of us begin to think about death in a different way.  I am fortunate that my mother is alive.  I have acted very immature during the death of other loved ones.  When the time comes for me to say goodbye to my mother, I hope I can remember the wisdom in these poems.

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Swimming in Beauty and Light shows the physical death of the mother and how the narrator deals with the pain.

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“I am alone, crumpled

in a chair at the foot of your metal

bed, a cage trapping you in this life

a little longer…”

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There is deep pain.  There is beauty in the physical act of dying.  And there is also acceptance.  The narrator thinks of how others will deal with his own death.

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“They will see me pass

and sadness

will overflow their hearts

and consume them for a time,

but when they break the surface

of pain and breathe the world

anew, the sky will seem washed clean,

Cradled by life,

they will own their days again.”

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In the end of the poem, the narrator imagines himself in that “otherwhere” with his father and mother.  They will be “swimming in beauty and light.”

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Even with resolution, the questions and pain do not end after a physical death. Orphan Poem One punched me in the gut for many reasons.  The narrator’s cell phone rings.  It is the narrator’s mother.  The mother begins to talk.  She even acknowledges a couple of the narrator’s questions.  But the narrator cannot understand what she is saying.  She is dead.

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The last poem in the collection, Empty Farmhouse, leaves me breathless.  An old house was abandoned when the crops failed.  An apple tree has been blown over by a storm, and it leans on the house.  Yet it continues to grow apples and drop them into the house through an open window

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“leaving seeds that struggle

to grow among

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abandoned furniture.”

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Like the seeds that struggle to grow, we are left on this earth when our loved ones are gone.  But there is beauty, even in death.  There is joy as the next generation takes its place.  And there is the comforting thought that someday, we will swim together in that beauty and light.

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I’d better stop myself now, or I’ll examine every poem in the book.  Whether you’re a dorky language nerd like me or someone who just enjoys a good read, I highly recommend The Bones of Saints Under Glass.

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I should also mention the great cover art, which was done by Hosho McCreesh.  Hosho is another poet on the top of my list.

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You can order the The Bones of Saints Under Glass HERE.

Note the low price!!!  I am a HUGE fan of Propaganda Press.  The work is high quality, and the prices are affordable, which puts poetry where it belongs.  In the hands of people.

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Jeff Fleming is also the editor of nibble, which is an awesome poetry magazine.  Be sure to check it out.  A new issue is in the works.

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And as always…

None of us poets are jack squat without you, the reader.

In other words, I appreciate you very much.  Thanks for reading!

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Along Life’s Way

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Mile Marker 359

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Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

I take Greyhound

for a long ride on a

one hundred five

degree day.

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Fifteen freaking

hours to go

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with the fumes

and the breath

and the rhythm

of sweaty heads.

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Trapped inside

the rectangle;

heat slamming

through glass.

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Air condition

don’t work

worth a flip

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in the back seat

next to the john.

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Somebody’s kid

crapped a diaper

and somebody else

smells like cheap

grape wine and

three week old pee.

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A buck tooth boy

snores and drools

down the seat

right next to me.

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We slow down

to merge

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and on the side of

an eight lane highway,

there’s a girl, maybe

fourteen-years-old.

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Skinny, dark skin

in a blue tube top,

she walks next to a

no hitch hikers sign

on mile marker 359.

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Beside the girl,

there’s a lady

maybe

three feet tall;

straw blonde hair

dirty pink dress

and no shoes.

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Next to the lady

is a skinny old man.

He wears goggles

and an aviator cap

with ear flaps and

carries a backpack

bigger than he is.

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The three of them

walk together

through fumes

next to hot asphalt

determined to get

somewhere.

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I dig deep into my

broke-handle purse,

rub my fingers on

the rubber band that

holds my small roll

of sweaty dollar bills.

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The bus whines

as we shift

into high gear.

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A woman up front

begins to sing

Peace in the Valley

slow and deep,

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and I fall asleep

with a seat

on a creaking

stinking bus.

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Glenda C. Beall – Writing Life Stories

I am excited to be a guest blogger at Glenda C. Beall’s beautiful site,           Writing Life Stories.  You can also read Glenda’s work at her blog,                 The Way I See It.   Be sure to check out her poetry chapbook, Now Might As Well Be Then.  Glenda is an excellent poet and writer.  Copies can be pre-ordered at her site.  I can’t wait to read it!

To read my poem, click HERE.  It is under August 1.

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Heroes and Villains

This poem was inspired by an essay my daughter     wrote about her Dad when she was a kid.  It was called Superman.  I wrote the poem a few months ago.

Ruth Pennebaker’s July 21st post reminded me of the poem.  Ruth is a wonderful writer, and I come away from her site with much food for thought.

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©2005 Amber Yoder                                                                                             Exquisite Flaws

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The above picture is from a gallery Amber created about scars.  The gallery contained photographs and stories about people with physical scars:  cancer survivors, a World War II vet, children who had come to the U.S. for surgery, etc.

Amber also put these scar stories in a book she made herself called                     Exquisite Flaws.

The gallery showcased the beauty of scars.  Yes, beauty.  It was a physically beautiful presentation.  The stories were fascinating.

Contrary to what some people think, “survivors” are not pitiful.

My jokes are by no means intended to downplay the seriousness of the subject.  I mourn the friends I have lost.  We are not special people just because we continue to breathe.  Obviously, I still have many fears.

But humor has been a big part of our story.  I hope it always will be.

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Superman Part II

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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I never knew cancer

was funny

until you named

your IV pole Rod.

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Rod was a man of steel

down cold, white halls.

He never left your side.

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The nurses who poked too hard

were Ratchet, Brumhilda, Big Bertha.

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You were Frankenstein after chemo,

hardly able to bend your knees

to walk to our old, hot Dodge

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also called The Batmobile.

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When they put you

in the sterile room,

the man next door died

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so you joked

about tapioca–

your kryptonite,

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my crazy cat eyes

behind the mask,

my pink fingernails

touching you

through lead gloves

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the thin film

of the bubble

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the glow of your

yellow-green skin

your skull, your bones.

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When blood counts

in the last stage were

so low it was not

humanly possible,

you turned into

Dracula’s cousin.

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Over a decade later,

you tell me a joke

about a politician

and The X-Men

at the doctor’s office.

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Yes, it is really over.

Yes, it is really gone.

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Now new villains

hover in a bubble

on the horizon.

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Foreclosure.

Bad credit.

The bread line.

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The growling worry

of getting put

in the woods

with werewolves.

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Still, you come

through the door,

brown eyes blazing

after sixteen hours

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of sweaty work

at a crappy job.

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Under bright

kitchen lights,

you puff out

your chest

and suddenly

I have no fear.

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Captain America

has arrived.

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Let the big screen

bring it on, baby.

We’ll kick ass.

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Or else

we’ll die

laughing.

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Don’t Call Me Plath

Two of my poems have been included in Don’t Call Me Plath.  Edited by Jenifer Wills of Literary Mary, this is a beautiful project that highlights twelve women from the small press world.  It has been a pleasure to meet Jenifer.  I love her poetry and work as an editor.

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You’ll find excellent work in this edition by Lynn Alexander, Leah Angstman, Louise Beech, Aleathia Drehmer, Betsy Lindberg, Lans Nelson, Domeka Parker, Sana Rafiq, Rebecca Schumejda, Cheryl Townsend, and Jenifer Wills.

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You’ll see me on pages 22-25.  Yep, that’s my crazy face.  A couple of months ago, someone was screaming for a picture of me, so I took it in the bathroom mirror after grubbing in the woods all day.  I’m ready for the big time now.  The beautiful one on p. 25 is my Amber.  My poems are Big Barbie and Recipe For Poetic Genius.

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To read Don’t Call Me Plath, click HERE.

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Thanks for reading!

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Foresight is 20/20

Nobody Saw It Coming

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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Sweet Cheeks Jim

got drunk and broke

an empty bottle of

Mad Dog 20/20

and a bar stool,

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then carved up his

girlfriend’s face

under a streetlight

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in the alley

behind

Whitey’s Bar.

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We found her

an hour later

laying in the

sticky light

with no eyes.

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The cops found Jim

at his grandma’s

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eating cherry pie

and vanilla ice cream

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listening to

Coast to Coast

on the radio.

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The next night,

the news team

showed up

at Whitey’s

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and we all said

what a nice guy

Jim had been

in school

and nobody

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saw this coming.

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Then we sat there

quiet, staring

at our beer,

listening

to the ticking

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of loose screws

in bar stools

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trying to hide

the itch

of bullshit

in our eyes.

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ouroboros review

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Issue #3 of ouroboros review is out, and I’m tickled to death.   Translation:

I’m as happy as a little school girl.   If you are a regular reader here, I’m sure

you’ve heard me talk about how beautiful ouroboros is.  This issue is no

exception.  It is outstanding.

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Ouroboros Review is edited by Jo Hemmant and Christine Swint, two very

talented poets who have taken the small press by storm.   This edition

features the work of John Siddique and Denise Duhamel.  You’ll also

find excellent work by John Walsh, Susan Richardson, Louisa Adjoa Parker,

Michelle McGrane, Carolee Sherwood, Karen Head, Matthew Hittinger, and

many more fine poets and artists.  I always get nervous when I start naming

names, because I want to kick myself later.  I don’t mean to leave anyone

out.  It’s all fantastic.

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Also, be sure to check out the reviews and interviews.  Michelle McGrane has

a great interview with John Siddique.  Michelle is my friend from

peony moon.  If you haven’t checked out her blog, you’re missing a world

of great poetry.  Michelle also has a chapbook coming out via

Pindrop Press in 2010.  I can’t wait to read it.  Michelle is the author of

Fireflies & Blazing Stars (2002) and Hybrid (2003).

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Did I mention the art?  Yes, ouroboros review has beautiful art and

photography, too.  But I’ll try to stop glowing for a minute, so you can see it

for yourself.  Check out ouroboros review HERE.   If you would like to

purchase a print copy, click on “Bookstore.”  The print copies are beautiful,

and I love holding them in my hands.

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Congratulations and a big tip of the hat to Jo and Christine on ouroboros

review!

*****

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UPDATE:  The next reading period for ouroboros review has begun and

will continue until the end of August.  One change is the art– ouroboros is

now looking for black and white photos or paintings.

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BIG HAMMER

Three of my poems are in Big Hammer

#13.  The poems are titled Worker’s

Compensation Blues, They Bill Him Out,

and Jobs Are Hard To Find In Rural Ohio &

If You Call OSHA, This Place Will Close.

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I’ve been grinning like a fool for the past

two days, because I’m holding a copy in

my hands.  Edited by Dave Roskos, who is

an excellent poet, Big Hammer is an

awesome zine full of big names and even

bigger poetry. 

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Big Hammer #13 is dedicated to Mary Beth Roskos and Dave Church.

Many people are familiar with Dave Church’s powerful work.  Yes, it is in

there!

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I found a link for ordering from outlaw poetry and free jazz network,

which is one of my favorite places to read on the net.   To check it out or place

an order, click HERE.

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After you click the above link, scroll down and look at that fellow’s picture.

Yep.  Kell Robertson is in there showing the world how it’s done.  If you’ve

read this site for any time now, you know how much I love Kell’s work.  But

I’d better hush about that, or I’ll start talking about flaming arrows going

through my country soul or some such girlie stuff.

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My tip of the hat to Kell isn’t intended to discredit anyone else, though.  I love

it all.

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Dave Roskos has been bringing great poetry to the world for a long time, and

IniquityPress/Vendetta Books publishes high quality work.  If you want

to read poetry about real people, poetry with teeth, blood, soul and sweat,

then this is the place to go.

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Instead of looking at my pathetic attempts to download pictures, look at this

link from outlaw poetry and free jazz network to see more Iniquity

Press titles HERE. There is a great bio of Dave Roskos and his work.  I also

love the description of the people Dave publishes.  I almost fell off my chair

when I read about the old tire soap trick.  I thought my family invented that

one.

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The books are excellent.  Right now, I’m reading light dark light by Tom

Kryss, and I’m blown away.  Thank you, Dave.

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I encourage everybody to check out all the titles and all the Big Hammer

issues in the links above.  It will be easier for folks in the states to order Big

Hammer #13 by sending ten bucks via paypal to iniquitypress@hotmail.com

or by mail (no checks please) to  POB 54, Manasquan, NJ 08736.   The work is

beautiful.

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