Cuttings - January
By Mike Garofalo
Red Bluff, Tehama County, Northern California
Pointing at the moon,
making a point–
her lovely fingers.
Narcissus stems
slowly rise again–
cool rain.
Black birds
swarm on
by ...
filling
sunset
skies.
Transfixed,
I watch–
listening ...
A screeching hawk
drifts on the wind–
so lonely.
Bent low
by the dying dog
he cried
by the grimy roadside
as cars whizzed by.
Boxcars rumble
through Red Bluff–
winds whip Mt. Lassen.
Interview with the master, over before it began;
He rings the bell, next dokusan.
Red Bank bridge
swept away–
circling hawk.
New Year's Day–
fog covered
mucky clay.
frozen puddles–
the crack of axes
from four directions
January sun–
puddle after puddle
becomes mud.
Buddha is dead.
But, if you meet the Buddha
don't invent another god
or behead another demon; just
sip some tea under a tree.
"If you meet the Buddha, kill him."
- Linji Yizuan (Rinzai Gigen, Jap.), c 866 CE
Narcissus blooming
over wet clay–
dreams of Easter.
Red berries
on evergreenss–
Chinese New Year
Ripping out
a walnut orchard–
diesel
smoke.
Mother and son
hand in hand–
a gentle rain.
Bulbs, dirt rows,
the noonday sun–
but where is the One?
She gave away
everything today–
leaving for the next world.
57 reasons for celebration
oatmeal in a bowl
coffee in a cup
another birthday today
gulp
colored cards on the counter
cold ashes in the stove
wrinkled face in the mirror
old, older, bold
Midnight–
humming hard drive,
ticking clock.
He giveth and
taketh away–
pruning roses.
back gate open
dogs gone–
foggy dawn
Somehow
wrinkled and gray–
another decade.
In the blink of Time's Eye
we lived, we died;
while stone faced Shasta was silent.
The center never was within.
The box of monsters was empty.
We break apart from the edges,
Slip away piece by piece,
Washed away by a half-million hours.
She grunted out a last squat rack rep,
Under gleaming steel speckled with sweat.
Standing in the dark
backlit by a thousand stars–
pissing on gravel.
Surrounded by raindops–
walkers
at daybreak.
An old man
steadies his father–
a rainbow appears.
baby blue
empty sky–
dawn of a new year
Four by four tire-tracks
criss-crossing green fields–
the karma of TV
commercials.
tinted green,
it puddles in my brain
cold rain
She walks by
followed by my eyes–
desires linger.
The moon's low, a crow caws,
The landscape's laced with frost.
Under the riverside maples,
Lit by fishing lamps,
My sadness keeps me from sleep.
Beyond old Suzhou town,
Down to the traveler's boats,
Han Shan's Temple bell
Rings clear -
Right at midnight.
- Zhang Ji, circa 780 CE
"Night Mooring at Maple Bridge"
Rephrased by Michael P. Garofalo
Cold
Mountain Buddhas
Scraping ice
down the windshield–
squeaking fanbelt.
leafless twigs
appear in the fog–
a robin spies a worm
Of things mechanical I have
little ken,
I fumble and fuss from start
to end.
Where a mechanic pushes
right
I pull left till things
stick-tight,
And bend things that I
shouldn't bend.
Raindrops on windshields
whooshed away–
dark
roads.
The black widows'
cottony eggs in cordwood–
in flames.
Old Highway 99
zoned for trailer trashers–
appliance museums.
Side-stepping every
sidewalk crack–
my cellphone rings.
A staff in his right hand,
a pearl in his left,
Jizo at the
crossroads.
frosted grasses
white dawn,
New Year's Day
sock cap
pulled
down
cozy ears
Ono roadside cafe–
three gleaming Harleys
catch all eyes.
Far below
Clear Creek bridge–
smashed
pumpkins.
Oranges sway
in the cool breeze–
sunlight on a pitchfork.
When the bitter Winter falls on the
rootless tree,
And the strong winds bend it low,
It often snaps dead-free,
And breaks apart on the frozen snow.
I turn and stare into the foggy mist;
Wondering, wondering, about what I missed.
Leafless vines
intertwined in the trellis–
Mt. Shasta glimmers
Coming home
long necked geese–
Canadian-Americans.
A warm rest for
coots, geese, and ducks–
wet rice fields.
The white geese
ascend
from the far fields
fleeing
popping shotguns.
The honking geese
a quacking cacophony
flapping overhead.
Flocks of white
geese in the light gray fog–
this way and that way.
rain-soaked soil
sticking on shoes
sopping wet socks
Four green bales
lie in the Chevy's bed–
bellowing cows.
Dutiful dogs
sit and stare–
Sentries at the Borders.
County Jail–
thirty minute visit over
broken phones.
Murmuring rooftop
gurgling gutter lines–
stalled winter storm.
Cold rattlesnakes
let the ghosts play–
Igo graveyard.
dressing
still sleepy
work day
my boys,
bright eyed–
a tray of cookies
Brushing my dog–
the cow licks
her calf's eye.
My poems: often, barely;
when good,
rarely.
Disappearing souls:
empty seedpods,
scattered
bones.
A smile crosses
my lips–
oranges in the sunshine.
Loosing ground from unconscious rounds
Of the "This is Not It" mantra sounds;
Burning holes in my soul
Over and over, no loophole
For escape. None! Replay Mind - Spellbound.
Sadistic eyes
among the crowds–
Stalking his prey.
Lily
out of season
out of the florist's case
(Thinking about Nick Virgilio, who died 1/3/1989.)
Beyond the blinds–
blue dawn,
nude corkscrew willows.
Six steps forward and
Seven steps back–
The Earth remains.
Hidden by the fog,
Mountains,
noisy magpies.
Toying with nine ideas like one old cottonwood holds
nine magpies.
Pica nutalli : The Yellow Billed Magpie of California
Reminding us,
his old finger trembling:
"just one thing!"
Truckers
in lines
miles
in front, miles behind–
rough
right lanes.
don't know mind
as wide as the empty sky
above the dogma fogs
blinding the brilliant eyes
with hazy religious lies
Y2K
came and went
but doomsday daydreams linger
He Awoke
in a tunnel of Light–
only the living tell.
fifty nine years
to the day, today,
since I first cried, and
raised my fingers
towards the sky
Walt Whitman's
stony tomb–
no leaves of grass.
bone
dry
dog turds
laced with frost
The frozen weeds,
dead brown
killed by January.
The flying Sea drops
raindrops on the leafless grove
teardrops of joy.
The leafless poplars sway
A warm and windy Winter's day–
grackles chattering.
Snow geese
flew down from Siberia–
muddy grain fields.
Her snores
muffled in the covers–
counting the minutes.
countless orgasms
waste a man's prana
so Sri Swami says;
Krishna as Kandarpa says
sex is power
[Gita 10.28]
cold floors and feet
slip along numb toes
shoeless at bedtime
Wisely winking
with words
poets laugh in the Winter's night.
This
cabbage, these carrots,
these potatoes, these onions
will all soon become me.
Such a tasty fact.
Bless the farm!
Bless
the market!
Bless
the kitchen!
Five Precepts:
compassion, honesty, fairness,
moderation, sobriety.
Beyond this year
or a year ago–
a growing vagueness.
Wet sidewalks
littered with leaves–
slippery.
Pacific Jet Stream gales
rumbling over backyards;
howling Winter dawn.
Cooks coughing in the kitchen–
suddenly,
I'm not hungry.
his best suit
clean and pressed–
a matching casket
Between the Sun
and the nearest Black Hole,
my home.
the bigot's nightmare:
M. L. King's dream
celebrated tonight
nobody
wins in war
no body
Cuttings: November December January February March
|
Months and Seasons |
|||
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
Cuttings: January, Winter
Haiku, Concrete and
Short Poems by Michael P. Garofalo
First
Distributed on the Internet WWW in September 1999.
Months, Seasons: Poems, Quotes, Sayings, Lore, Celebrations, Myths, Gardening Chores
Cuttings - Haiku, Concrete, and Short Poems by Mike Garofalo
