Cuttings - November

Haiku, Concrete and Short Poems
November Collection I

 

By Mike Garofalo 
Red Bluff, Tehama County, Northern California

 

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November Collection I        November Collection II

 

 

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

 

 

moonrise–
the dark night of a soul
lifts

 

 

a boy
in the body of a man–
twelve birthday candles smoking

 

 

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

 

 

My eyes
trace her figure–
the dog sniffs. 

 

 

Carrying home
her baby sister–
a sermon walking.

 

 

A trillion seeds
wait for the rain–
dry autumn night.

 

 

Yolly Bolly awakens
baby blue dawn–
a sip of java. 

 

 

The first rain
comes at night–
cozy bed.

 

 

He drives up
above the fog–
her mind clears. 

 

 

Salmon leap
up Deer Creek -
El Día de los Muertos.  

 

 

Ripe red berries
massed along the tavern wall–
drunken blue jays.  

 

 

Maybe she knew
but could not say–
Mom's last day.  

 

 

two laughing girls
arm in arm
walking home

 

 

Autumn leaves
speak of sad memories–
poppies in lapels.

 

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields."
-   Colonel John McRae, In Flanders Fields, November 11th - Veteran's Day, Armistice Day, 1918

 

 

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

 

 

Chico State Blues 11

Every luscious cut and curve so
sharp and clean
in jeans as tight as I have seen
Pulled low.  Blouse high
accentuates her swaying thighs.
Bare waist, navel ring,
tattooed butt ... so sweeeeeeet, I sing:
"When the moon hits your eye
like a big pizza pie..."

 

 

a hint of winter
off the wind–
split pomegranates 

 

 

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. 

 

 

The last seed
falls from the sunflower–
empty pond.

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

 

 

Clapping, calling,
her whistle crosses the night–

the dogs turn home.  

 

 

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.

 

 

Saturated yellow leaves of the little white birch,
Cover the earth, thinly, gently, sans mirth.

 

 

Baby shower
"oohs" and "aahs"–
ripe persimmons.  

 

 

Football weekends
kicked back–
big screen dreams. 

 

 

Egret perched
on a dead oak–
snowless Shasta.

 

 

Elephants bellow, donkeys bray;
Most voters silent on Election Day.

 

 

Ludicrous, man, that Son of Sam,
Bible in Hand, born again, a saved man.
Forgiven by the blood of a crucified man.  Can
This be true?  No way, no way, for that killer-man.  

Blind belief, first in Satan then the Lord,
By Gullible Sam, Jonestown fools, or the bin Laden clan;
All worshipping worn-out words of desert bores
Babbling from the Bible or Koran. 

“God Bless America” makes me cringe.
God, Allah, or Jehovah
Cannot bless our heartless sins.   

 

 

my hand
jumps off the hot pot–
news alert 

 

 

his lips part
quivering
pain in his eyes 

 

 

Life is such a quirky clutter of impressions, sublime simples,
flowing to and fro, from breath to death, elusive as mountains,
as solid as the wind - never centered.  Pieces upon pieces,
moans and groans, songs and sighs, 
till we leave alone.

We scattered some of my aunt's ashes on Lake Shasta;
all standing in sunburnt silence,
each rocking on our own heart-beats,
till our own souls
took their long swim down, down, down
to the bottom of our bones.  

I wish I could give you a big hug,
read you a poem,
make you laugh ...

it would help to console me.   

 

 

 

  

 

 

Squeezing her waist,
holding his hand–
puppy love.  

 

 

A new tattoo
on my son's chest–
another revelation. 

 

 

Gardens are demanding pets.
Time is something everyone runs short on and finally runs out of. 
An important gardening judgment -  When to Do Nothing! 
Remember that gophers also need to make a living; preferably in somebody else's garden. 
A garden is made up of stories, not things.
You are given Today - make it matter.  
A callused palm and dirty fingernails precede a Green Thumb. 
To garden is the reward. 
Absolutes squirm beneath realities.   
Your garden will do for you in proportion to what you do for it. 
Pulling Onions

 

 

Broken by strokes,
Fragments of Mind gone awry–
Lost in his own home. 

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

In the gentle breeze,
shimmering mulberry leaves–
oblique sun. 

 

 

Weird dreams of sex and sour
    wild white streams inside you
Flowing into me, bloody seas,
    of dark foaming fertility.

 

 

nibbled brown fields
turn to green,
November Spring

 

 

Imagination scaffolding imagination,
bees in a feeding frenzy.
E-mailing at 11 pm.

 

 

Leafless peach trees
standing in golden leaves–
November drizzle.

 

 

unclear
near or far;
old eyes

one sip too many:
double vision
            double vision

 

 

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

 

 

gradually,
kensho–
a new born calf 
    wobbles 

 

 

Pruned
Naked vines–
Skeletons 

 

 

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

 

 

Tripping no more;
feng-shui books picked up
off the floor.  

 

 

for me,
walnut leaves
stir up a breeze

 

 

dawn–
every leaf drips
backlit by fog

 

 

Eager to be free
the dog paws at the gate,
rattling her lusts.

 

 

Smelling something, she barks
into the blackest night
moonless.

 

 

Curled and purring in my lap,
Seeking warmth,
My thin white cat.

 

 

Ahead of my words–
pencil shadows
moving precisely 

 

 

five puffs up,
two tickets to Atman,
no nightmares  

 

 

 

     1   -   1   =   0   =   1   -   1

                     

                                                                     ['crete'oems:mpg]

 

 

 

A mud covered frog
croaking in the horsetails–
for fun, purely fun.  

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

swollen nipple
between his lips–
arching hips

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cuttings:   September     October     November     December     January   

November Collection I        November Collection II

 

 

 

 

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 

 

 

 

 

 

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Copyrighted © 2008 by Michael P. Garofalo. 
Green Way Research, Red Bluff, California.
All rights reserved.

 

I Welcome Your Comments, Ideas, Contributions, and Suggestions
E-mail Mike Garofalo in Red Bluff, California

 

Who is Mike Garofalo?

 


Cuttings:  November, Collection I
Haiku, Concrete and Short Poems by Michael P. Garofalo
First Distributed on the Internet WWW in September 1999.

 


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Cuttings - Haiku, Concrete, and Short Poems by Mike Garofalo

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Months, Seasons:  Poems, Quotes, Sayings, Lore, Celebrations, Myths, Gardening Chores