Cuttings - September
By Mike Garofalo
Red Bluff, Tehama County, Northern California
The back door
tied in a line
Dead fox head
on the road's edge–
flags at half mast.
A wet pile
of dead doves -
Labor Day sports.
the cooing of doves;
slowly drying ditch–
Branches filled with blackbirds
Chirping time in swaying leaves.
Spent the hour, and could be heard,
Then disappeared. Leaving silent leaves.
A huge nest of
In the Pyracantha's claws
Sharp and still at dusk
T.S. Eliot's last "Meow"
morning coffee sans sugar
sipped in silence–
still her cold shoulder
into the moonflower
A rooster crowed thrice,
Splitting the silence of the night.
Breath by breath,
Over the edge of heartbreaks;
Facing imminent death.
Arrested in a garden,
and dead in a day;
He left behind baskets fine
All filled with bread, fish, and wine.
[The Garden of Gethsemane; Matthew 26:36-46.]
the scarecrow's reach,
hang on the branch–
Bunches of red grapes
handfuls of raisins.
keeps the pace for the place
time after time
(9 + 11 + 01) x Jihad = (- 3300 - 4 - 3) + shock
full of seeds
face the earth
crispy leaves -
sunburnt shrubs, oozing stumps,
raw bulldozer ruts ::::::::::::::
I caught my step;
Stopped, reared back, eyes stuck!
The snake was still.
the smell of skunk
on the southern breeze.
Bad karma bleeding
over centuries of hate;
a heartless eye for a blind eye,
a toothless scream for another.
We wiped away
late summer sunset.
Dust gathered by chance
welcomed home by the porch–
the broom stands askance.
Sacred Heart's steeple
in the half-moon light–
the old church;
clear holy water.
cord of walnut on the way ...
black spiders scatter.
Shadows from a slice of moonshine
Ripple down the sagging vines
Unburdened of their sweet red sex,
Withered, grotesquely bent, impotent.
Yet they live on, now as I:
Mouthfuls of wet seeds turned to chyme,
Reborn as muscles, eyes, and Mind.
a mind stood up
put away the tent. my friend died.
why bother camping lakeside.
She passed away
on her journey of no return;
leaving her bottomless soul.
While sitting in my den
one summer evening, reading and writing, my white cat, Ms. Q, jumped into my lap.
As I stroked her soft fur, and she purred with delight, she bit the edge of the spiral notebook I was writing on:
I write, the cat
the spiral notebook in hand
holds words and tooth marks.
This cat in my
purring, eyes closed, ears back–
fur on my fingers.
Sunset settles on
Mount Yolly Bolly's peak -
Summer has gone.
to sleep with 60 virgins in Allah's heaven?
Men have one testicle too many.
up the stench of burnt corpses–
cheering zealots can't smell.
His rice field
in September sunshine–
he died today anyway.
Oreo is my dog, of
Shepherd-Husky mix - three years old, in 1999, alert,
a wanderer, curious, a troublemaker, always hungry:
Oreo chews a wet
shaded by the low arbor;
the flies wait their turn.
The dog pounced
on the broken-winged dove,
Eyes still alive!
of a dead mourning dove;
blood in the dog's lair.
Cool wind at our
a whiff of summer drifts by–
the dogs' noses rise.
just like a man!
The macho metaphysics
of a bull in a Temple–
Knight of the Creatrix.
Lake Almanor is a large
scenic mountain lake in nearby Plumas County. Douglas fir, ponderosa pine,
Western red cedar and manzanita grow right down to the rocky shoreline. Mt. Lassen and Brokeoff
Mountain, the remnants of ancient Mount Tehama, all volcanoes, loom above all at the northwest end of
the lake. Lake Almanor is a recreational haven for families from the hotter North Sacramento Valley.
Motorboats on Labor Day–
Their waves slap the shore.
gathered from volcanic shores–
the lake swallows more.
Mount Lassen's snow
Mill Creek, Deer Creek, Battle Creek flow ....
Feeding crops below.
wants his cows–
I stumble forward,
pumps Humming ...
runs beyond the tracks and streets–
in the spray of the sprinkler;
the sun dries their wings.
shitting cows staring me down -
I piss and stare back.
Green Yellow Tan
The wilted leaves fallen down;
Crunched by her shoes.
through the parted window blinds;
I pull up my pants.
chatting about the Chinook holes–
trolling for clients.
refusing to retreat–
hovering over puddles–
thirsty for loving.
the winds die away–
clear summer sky.
The fifteenth foul fart
rumbled down my bloated gut–
chewed chili beans.
cutting purple thunderclouds
covering blue mountains.
A few cards
short of a full deck;
he played well anyway.
train rumbles by: a few almonds drop,
star-thistles quiver, off steel wheels bounce rocks.
Logging rigs and river
roaring down Klamath Canyon–
cold rain falls.
The hungry dogs
bark at the back door;
the cat circles her bowl.
Leaf after leaf
the fall of summer.
Good weather all the week, but come the weekend
the weather stinks.
Springtime for birth, Summertime for growth; and all Seasons for dying.
Ripening grapes in the summer sun - reason enough to plod ahead.
Springtime flows in our veins.
Beauty is the Mistress, the gardener Her salve.
A soul is colored Spring green.
Complexity is closer to the truth.
All metaphors aside - only living beings rise up in the Springtime; dead beings stay quite lie down dead.
Winter does not turn into Summer; ash does not turn into firewood - on the chopping block of time.
Fresh fruit from the tree - sweet summertime!
Gardens are demanding pets.
Shade was the first shelter.
When the Divine knocks, don't send a prophet to the door.
One spring and one summer to know life's hope; one autumn and one winter to know life's fate.
Somehow, someway, everything gets eaten up, someday.
Relax and be still around the bees.
Paradise and shade are close relatives on a summer day.
Absolutes squirm beneath realities.
The spiders, grasshoppers, mantis, and moth larva are all back: the summer crowd has returned!
To garden is to open your heart to the sky.
Dirty fingernails and a calloused palm precede a Green Thumb.
Time will tell, but we often fail to listen.
Seeing with one eye and feeling with the other does help bring things into focus.
Round things are very nice - fruit, women, the earth.
Gardening is a passion to continue, despite failure and uncertainty.
The empty garden is already full.
Gardeners learn to live in worm time, bee time, and seed time.
- Pulling Onions, by Michael P. Garofalo
Cuttings: July August September October November
Months and Seasons
Copyrighted © 2008 by Michael P.
Green Way Research, Red Bluff, California.
All rights reserved.
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Who is Mike Garofalo?
Cuttings: September - Hot Dry Summer-Autumn Days
Haiku, Concrete and Short Poems by Michael P. Garofalo
First Distributed on the Internet WWW in September 1999.
The Spirit of Gardening
Quotes for Gardeners
Months, Seasons: Poems, Quotes, Sayings, Lore, Celebrations, Myths, Gardening Chores
Cuttings - Haiku, Concrete, and Short Poems by Mike Garofalo
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