Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Porch Buddy
I've read books in which dogs mourn for their master. It always made me sad to imagine a faithful dog sleeping by the chair of the man who owned him but now will never return.
Or waiting patiently for the sound of his master's automobile.
I thought that was a fictional dramatic scene authors put into their manuscripts to create emotion in me, the reader. But now I've seen it first hand, and I know it really happens. Rocky was miserable Monday night when I came home without his master to our little house on the side of the mountain. After I fed him, played with him for awhile, he found his hedgehog, the only toy he ever likes, and began walking all over the house crying like he was in pain. He went to the door of the bedroom where Barry had slept for months now, shutting Rocky outside when we had to worry about infection or when Barry feared the dog might bump his painful leg.
The door was open, but Rocky stood there and cried with his toy in his mouth.
"Go," I said. "You can go in now." He finally entered the room, but quickly came out again. Still crying with his hedgehog in his mouth, he meandered down the hall and back again.
"Come on, baby," I said to him. "Come in here."
He came and stood beside me, his brown eyes begging. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to jump on the bed with Barry as he used to do before the cancer got so bad. But Barry was not there.
I scratched his ears a bit and moved over. "Come on up here. Bless your heart, you are grieving, too."
The ten year old dog with the graying muzzle didn't need any extra urging. In just a moment he was snuggled beside me. In minutes we were both asleep. I wonder how long before he will transfer all his love to me, perhaps begin to ease the sorrow of his loss. At least we made a start.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder, our guest blogger today
It is a pleasure to be at Glenda Beall’s site this week. She is an excellent poet and writer, and her work touches a chord deep in my soul. I can’t wait to read her chapbook. I have been excited to meet Glenda and other Carolina poets and writers since moving back to my state. It is a place that is rich with many different cultures and stories.
When I first took my broke-handle suitcase and headed off into the world, family and friends reminded me to always remember my home. “Don’t forget where you come from,” they said. No, that’s not a typo. They say come from, which is beautifully poetic to my ears. It’s also great advice.
I would never want to forget. In many ways, I don’t think I ever left. The people in this state are a big part of who I am. We were formed by its landscape. Every mountain, every ocean wave, every red clay rock. It all sings my name.
Don’t Forget Where You Come From
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
You drop little bits of it
wherever you go.
It’s under your fingernails.
It curls through your veins.
It shines behind your eyes
like blue ridge mountains.
That place remains
in every sway
of salt marsh reeds
embedded deeply
between your teeth
in each piece of sand.
It leaves a permanent taste
of red clay on your tongue
scales on your arms
a fish house in your bones
a curving river in your spine.
It formed your voice, your beat,
the way you move your hands.
You have the rhythm of wind,
old men on benches, the rock
of a boat under hard tar heels.
Its summer thunder
flashes valleys
in your synapses
through blue-gray roots
thick twisted woods,
the swirl of currents
over mossy rocks.
It sets itself up
like an old car on blocks.
It’s in your cupboards
hanging like a mullet net.
You breathe it, eat it,
wash it in your hair.
It follows you
through city streets,
creates a wake
with each footstep
a heartbeat, a shimmering
pink light on the horizon.
It will be your last thought
before dying, your last breath
cornbread in a fat black pan
a guitar whispering
your name
on thick cricket nights
a light on a front porch
a full moon that wraps
a gold rope
around your soul.
Never forget
how you were
created in
its image.
Never try
to leave it
by the side
of the road.
It will be there,
forever
patiently waiting
for you to get
where you are going.
When I first took my broke-handle suitcase and headed off into the world, family and friends reminded me to always remember my home. “Don’t forget where you come from,” they said. No, that’s not a typo. They say come from, which is beautifully poetic to my ears. It’s also great advice.
I would never want to forget. In many ways, I don’t think I ever left. The people in this state are a big part of who I am. We were formed by its landscape. Every mountain, every ocean wave, every red clay rock. It all sings my name.
Don’t Forget Where You Come From
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
You drop little bits of it
wherever you go.
It’s under your fingernails.
It curls through your veins.
It shines behind your eyes
like blue ridge mountains.
That place remains
in every sway
of salt marsh reeds
embedded deeply
between your teeth
in each piece of sand.
It leaves a permanent taste
of red clay on your tongue
scales on your arms
a fish house in your bones
a curving river in your spine.
It formed your voice, your beat,
the way you move your hands.
You have the rhythm of wind,
old men on benches, the rock
of a boat under hard tar heels.
Its summer thunder
flashes valleys
in your synapses
through blue-gray roots
thick twisted woods,
the swirl of currents
over mossy rocks.
It sets itself up
like an old car on blocks.
It’s in your cupboards
hanging like a mullet net.
You breathe it, eat it,
wash it in your hair.
It follows you
through city streets,
creates a wake
with each footstep
a heartbeat, a shimmering
pink light on the horizon.
It will be your last thought
before dying, your last breath
cornbread in a fat black pan
a guitar whispering
your name
on thick cricket nights
a light on a front porch
a full moon that wraps
a gold rope
around your soul.
Never forget
how you were
created in
its image.
Never try
to leave it
by the side
of the road.
It will be there,
forever
patiently waiting
for you to get
where you are going.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)