Cuttings: Autumn, Fall (October, November, December). Haiku, Concrete and Short Poems by Michael P. Garofalo.

Cuttings - Autumn

Haiku, Concrete and Short Poems

Poetry by Michael P. Garofalo

Red Bluff, Tehama County, Northern California, 1998-2017; Vancouver, Clark County, Washington, 2017-

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mums flowering,
zinnias seeding ̶
me wondering

back door
bangs shut!
September gust.

fuzzy halo
around a half moon ̶
foggy night

The Last Second of Summer

The bare branches of an old shrub
Above its fallen scarlet leaves─
Emptiness or forms?
Chrysanthemums in full bloom
Below clear blue skies─
Forms and emptiness?

The first second of autumn,
The last second of summer─
Neither Forms nor Emptiness,
The spaces of past time,
The realms of dead minds;
Or, bereft of Space and Time,
The Singularity of the Big Bang Sublime.

- Mike Garofalo, 9/22/2020,
Thinking about: Buddhist Theory: The Heart Sutra

Up in an old oak
a woodpecker knocks ̶
the sky opens.

Rumbling thunder
through the drone of rain ̶
folding the flag.

The Other-Fulfilling Prophesy comes true:
What you never thought you'd become, you do.

Shells of Chevrons Fade to Powerout

Gleaming gas pumps
In the fluorescent night.

Slaves of the Almighty Dollar,
Pouring oily leaf slime
Into the bellies of Chevies.

Ding! Ding! Gallons go down.
Wallets open and fold.
Acid fogs melt steel-belted moons.

Headlights come and go,
Flashing over the dry Lakes of Petro.

Only dead ends ahead;
For us, for OPEC, for Fords.

Traffic halted
to clear a rockslide ̶
the scent of cedars.

plastic skeletons
scattered by pranksters,
resting in pieces

This Halloween night, we cut and eat,
Fuyu persimmons, firm and sweet.

nonlocal minds
keeping out of touch
outside space and time,
an eyeless bunch, not saying much.
mouthless, what can they say?
they can't even pray.

Flashing
his fake ID ̶
casino lights blink.

the toad
hop by hop towards
home

Chimney smoke rises
from house after house ̶
hazy autumn foothills.

moonrise ̶
the dark night of a soul
lifts

Pulling up
twisted tomato vines ̶
long autumn shadows.

candies, cakes,
Christmas pastries ̶
tighter pants

Clapping, calling,
her whistle crosses the night–
the dogs turn home.

Facing off, fists up,
eyeballs to eyeballs;
two boys gather a crowd.

Live long enough and the losses pile up,
Till you're tossed away like an old cracked cup,
All stained and worm, dulled by time,
Useless, leaking, not worth a dime.

Egoless, your flesh falls away, a skeleton
Lost in Nirvana; lights out, all done.

Then, the Skeleton Woman drinks your dry tears,
Drums your still heart, and sings away fears,
Slips under the quilts and gives Love a Whirl -
Spinning, twirling, your reborn as a Girl.

Forget yourself, crack the cup on the floor,
Speak in a new voice, the past is no more.

bright yellow
mulberry leaves
spinning in the brisk breeze

bitter pills 10

Life is an open book in a language we can't read.
Doing something involves undoing something.
Independence depends on others.
Blame is often a dirty mirror.
"God's Will" explains little except resignation.
When your "problem free" your dead.

his hand
jumps off the hot pot–
news alert

Canned tomatoes
pulled from the pantry–
summer in a Ball jar.

Pulling up
twisted tomato vines–
long autumn shadows.

hot hot,
nostrils flared:
wasabi

Splitting dry kindling
on a damp November day–
wind chimes tinkling.

dawn--
every leaf drips
backlit by fog

Stalled imagination, repeating plot's old,
A dull shovel lifting wiser men's gold.
Thinking when reading, otherwise not;
Museless, unleavened, a nondescript pot.

The cold hard rain
comes and goes;
in between, distant voices.

gate ajar
twisted hinges
creaking wind

From Maybe to No is the path of the facts;
I'm too old for another cul de sac.
Door after door is locked this time,
Only a few to open with these keys of mine.

The last seed
falls from the sunflower–
empty pond.

The long awaited
rattle of rain on rooftops–
Thanksgiving Day.

dead
dry herbs–
freezing wind

To dance at the still point of the Time beyond time,
Beyond pasts, within futures, this Moment
Now and forever, beyond minds.
Not knowing of Who or why
We stroll in rose gardens, and Love.
Precious flowers in the sky.

A fly on my finger
rubs his feet–
every hair alive.

I was thinking about "the Absolute"
(whatever that is)
yesterday. (Philosophers enjoy
the rush of mental masochism:
bondage to leathery ideas,
painful flagellation with cutting words,
the humiliation of utter confusion.)

Absolute Zero - Death!
Clearly, a deep shivering Super-Conducting
Absolute No.

Then,
The Past: a second ago, a century ago...
Dead Time - absolutely kaputt!

Blue Oaks
Dropping millions of dry leaves
Before Shasta's Throne

exhausted–
time drowns
sinking into sleep

The bowels of darkness, grim and cold,
Turning the heads of the hunted, young and old,
Fearing the rattle in the weeds. White teeth,
Prowling predators, hard claws unsheathed,
Ears up listening, listening, still as knives,
Fangs barred, dripping tongues, hungry eyes.

walking into
falling leaves–
a moonlit path

The True Gardener of No Title deadheads
Persona after persona, shears the hedge
Of endless desires, digs up the dank
Roots of illusions, prunes out the rank
Suckers of sectarian ire, and weeds away
Attachments that choke out the Way.

Clapping, calling,
her whistle crosses the night–
the dogs turn home.

My big black dog burst on by
at lickety-split,
his four legs flying
in a sideways sprint,
his is mouth wide open,
drooling spit.

The gopher snake
hisses and shakes–
the dog's hackles up.

Poetry by Michael P. Garofalo

Carrying home
her baby sister–
a sermon walking.

Between the great black rolling storm-clouds sunbeams dropped
Here and there on the Great Valley floor. The gentle first rain
Lifted up the scent of yearning from the thirsty clay soil.
Cool winds shook the crinkled cottonwood leaves free.
The black puddles danced with raindrops.
Summertime slipped away.

In her hands,
pictures of our wedding;
touching memories.

See the Big Picture
in the smallest of details–
unfolded map.

Wide-eyed staring into the Rich silence
Of mirrored space devoid of mind;
Not projecting or connecting, but reflecting
Supreme non-fictions, Things
Naked as they are, as they are ...

In the dimming days–
suddenly Chrysanthemums
open my dry eyes.

['crete'oems:mpg]

warm sweater
cozy sock cap–
late October

Overhead, the past lives of galaxies retreat,
Below, the bubbling red lava holds;
Between, the voices of the night
bouncing between my ears
disappear into dying campfires.

Working, I squat,
suddenly fart–
everyone giggles.

just one
Trick - or - Treater tonight
just one

without wood
the walls of our world
would collapse

Bird-pecked pears
shrivel on a bare branch–
a cool breeze.

Yellow willow leaves
drop in the mud–
steaming dog shit.

Pouring out
the muddy water–
three drowned mice drop.

He drives up
above the fog–
her mind clears.

the toad
hop by hop towards
home

Egret perched
on a dead oak–
snowless Shasta.

whispering                 gently                     tenderly
in my ear                   up close                   placing
her breath                  her love                  her kiss

A duck and its image
float serene–
clouds in the pond.

swollen nipple
between his lips–
arching hips

A ball of blackbirds
rolling in the wind–
grasses bend westward.

Faces in the rolling clouds;
Thinking out loud, nothing strange,
Always Mind at its Game.

Last Kiss

                                                       C
                                                      L
                                                     I
                                                    m
                                          hard    a   softens
                                           fast    x   slowly

                                                           her smell
                                                           lingers on my lips;
                                                           catching my breath

                                                                  silently
                                                                  closing the back door,
                                                                  our affair ends

Our future stood on its head,
flipped over,
by that ruffian, Death.

gradually,
kensho–
a new born calf
wobbles

Coming in
let me nourish
like rain on a garden.
Going out
let me disappear
like geese going south.

dawn–
every leaf drips
backlit by fog

Golden glow
of rabbit brush in bloom–
fall in the foothills.

['crete'oems:mpg]

a bold zero
inked on the scroll–
fancies of one hand clapping

The tule fog
fills the sky–
Yuletide.

the naked garden rests
the unemployed scarecrow stares
the rain drizzles

Billions of sharp sunbeams
Cut the cracked glass sky
Splitting shadow after shadow
Down, down the ancient elms,
Down the red and black brick
Walls of Laxon Hall.
    The clarion sounds–
        the sun's pace is
        traced in shadows.

preaching the Dharma
incessantly:
the suchness of things

tiny onion sets
down in the soft ground
barely moonlit

You shared the spark,
You fanned the flame,
You fed the fires,
You passed the Names.
For all those known and
For all those unnamed,
We raise this toast,
With thanks this day.

one shriveled pear
on the leafless tree–
the frost melts

Stripping away the self exposes the soul, and kills both.
Cracking up prevents crack ups.
When the divine knocks, don't send a prophet to the door.
One evil preacher is worse than a hundred hooligans.
Independence is a fish out of water.
The One True God is way over-priced.
Religious liberty is not a hallmark of religious politics.
A real enemy helps many feel alive.

The old man
limps off into the fog–
New Year's Eve.

Cuttings: August September October November December

Months and Seasons Quotes, Poems, Saying, Lore, Myths, Celebrations Holidays, Gardening Chores
Winter	Spring	Summer	Fall
January	April	July	October
February	May	August	November
March	June	September	December