Posts Tagged ‘mother’

Sweet Seeds



November by the river.

You give me bitten apples

from your pockets.


I taste your little hands

inside the peelings.

Wondering at the hush

of teeth, I sink into the skin.


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.


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.


Busily, your fingers find

the inside soft of fallen trees,

muddy underneaths of leaves,

steep slick edges, mossy clouds.


The dampness of the breeze

against your skin, you ask me

if the earth will lose its spin

and when.


Daughter, you will discover

we make our way on broken clay.

I did not leave a trail.


Your voice falls in fragments

mud jelled in footprints

beside the shadowed

bruises of a river.


You say God lives in all small places,

frozen in the limbs of autumn trees,

in the apples, the leaves, the rocks


and unless we lose our way

we should walk softly

not to wake the rocks.


We will not lose our way, I say.


We leave your sweet seeds

along the twisted path

to be eaten by the birds

at dawn.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder



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I tried to write a Christmas poem, but this one came out instead. So it will have to suffice. This time of year makes me think on a deeper level about loved ones. This one’s in honor of my mother. .She has been so good to me.


Time Warp

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

I felt sorry for myself

in the 1980’s when

I headed for college


with a taped up suitcase,

no handle, three faded

blouses, dollar t-shirts,

fifty nine cent flip-flops,

old jeans, then I opened


the suitcase; there

was a wrinkled

ten dollar bill

and my mother’s

best outfit,

far older than

anything I owned.


White polka dots on

a navy blue blouse,

huge sailor collar

with a tie,

studded pumps,

pencil skirt


nylons with lines

up the back, big fat

plastic red beads,

bracelet to match..


I put on that outfit

ready to fight anyone

who might laugh,

went to a keg party.


It was a hit—the rich girls

thought I was retro cool.

The guys thought I

had Bette Davis eyes.


The next morning,

I thought of my mother

dreaming of her girl

the only one in college,

clicking down echoing halls

instead of scrubbing them.


I thought of Mama’s

sweet red knuckles

washing, ironing, folding

her best, not dreaming


her girl was at a kegger

in that polka dot blouse

hopping up and down

like a purple-eyed fool


to The Time Warp

and Combat Rock.






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