Buddy Ruff

Why does my neighbor who is older than my grandmother say, "Buddy Ruff' and his dog barks every time? It's a game they play daily and never did I wonder where it came from until last night. We sat in the cool under trees which drop pecans and as salt tears glazed his eyes, I listened to him re-sight  a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called, The Village Blacksmith. Then he told me about his village Blacksmith named, Buddy Ruff.
This poem necessary followed. Enjoy -


Buddy Ruff

He shares the Blacksmith’s song

that fades with the eve’s sun setting
Eyes glazed, staring back into past
letting me in as much as he can

 

The Smith, dressed himself in denim

Metal clasps just above the breast
Calloused marked hands- his signature,
to mask the callous places within


No one knows where Buddy came from
or why he travelled where he did
Rolling hills of muscle frame
his stance; the details striking still


 Hammer heavy pounds, over and over
And over again. Through days of golden red,
of smoke, of soot and sweat. Beading blood drops as
metal bends to bow before his command
 

Making metal to pierce, to perfect, to purpose.

His smut stained hands settled the town-
within fields and farms, the wheels and picks
looked back at you with Buddy's brow.
 

Longfellow knew this Blacksmith Song

Do you know who Henry is?
Though I know, not really, who ‘The Smith’ was
I attempt to sing … and fade with him as well.

 (c) Emily Murphy           April 19th, 2012