Cuttings - March

Haiku, Concrete and Short Poems


By Mike Garofalo 
Red Bluff, Tehama County, Northern California


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half-way to summer. 



Darkness and trees dividing the great sky
the roaring winds scour the valley floor
The evening is cold, and beyond the drizzling rain
through twisting clouds, a moon immaculate."
   [With a thank you to Ishikawa Jozan]



dress their dolls–
willows leaf out.  



Northbound train
rumbles by–
howling dog. 



leaning over
stirring soup–
hot and sour smells 



Cheering the Yanks
kicking ass in Saddam's Iraq–
Relapse from that 9/11 Osama flu. 



Long storm
stopped.  Suddenly - Shasta,
three miles high.



another gloomy day.  



My world crushed
between skull and brain–



Time is one apricot blossom.
Space, a bee.
The Universe, honey.
And, the Goddess of Spring? 



Flushed purple
redbud shrubs–
creeks gushing. 



He ripped up
their picture–
withered pear blossoms. 



Reading Beowulf
for eight graders–
a thousand years fly by. 



Gently rubbing
sleepy eyes–



Every inch of ground
midday in March.  



their team colors–
Ash Wednesday.

God's Hand tossed on the lawn,
Right-Wing Guards in the White House,
Patriots on speed, unable to weep,
Americans raped as they sleep.

two armies



singing love tunes–
voices of dying winter. 



Shadowless dusk
growing colder–
squealing teakettle.



From dark trees
an owl's hoot–
chilly night. 



New Men
peaceful and giving;
in them, He lives.

Sincere Silence
heads bowed ...

Embracing the Inevitable -
Deepening Spirituality ...
untouched, dusty
Bible on the shelf.

no chanting
no Temple bells–
wind-chimes swaying
-   From:  Above the Fog



Branches in blossom
shake to the rhythms of wind–
bees on rosemary.



A twigless
pecan stick;
working underground.



Counting Crows
to stay awake. 



Alive with bees ...
radiant pink
peach blossoms.



dark barn -
a ray of light
from roof to floor



Green beyond green
below gray skies,
brilliant forsythias.



a few flecks
    of yellow–
forsythias awakening



Snowcapped peaks
in three directions–
wet green valley. 



Evil grins, a damn cruel devil,  
Gold toothed, slobbering blood,
Shouting louder, louder, shrill

Until his belly is filled
And the stench of millions dead
Pleases his maniacal



Redding at sunset:
mauve rain clouds
mountains of shadows.



The plop of shit
down the outhouse hole–
no paper.   







daylight   and   darkness



Shifting around
from ass cheek to cheek–
a long night class.



out of gas–
    watching cars
    woosh past 



Stumbling over words
in an eruption of mind;
deepening stroke.



Gathering dust;
an iron Buddha
just sitting.



lawn tree,
full of flowers.



An empty black hearse
leaving the cemetery;
one gold coffin alone.



Battered boards
twisted still,
a fallen barn.








empty chairs
for Sunday supper;
children married



The long walk over;
my panting dog
still playing.



cold water



paper lantern       reflected
in soup bowl



uncounted grasses
excited by the sun



Upstart mustard-greens
Old guard forsythias ...
Yellow riot.



Her growling snore;
bouncing silence
off the walls.



Bald head,
fallen manhood;
a half-million hours
true to form.



Looking up, dark outside,
Reflections in the window,
a duplicate room with me
Looking back, lighted inside,
Sitting still reflecting.



A poet of yore
whispers to us–
gently turning pages.



Weary and worried
looking for a job;
a broken man cries.



back when
that was then ...
fading as they die



We look up ...
cut by cold winds
snow capped Shasta-Bollys.



One week later
Six Directions of Green
Billions of leaf-buds.



brilliant yellow
border of daffodils
behind barbed wire



soaked cattlepen
layered deep with shit–
reeking downwind



After two winters–
         the heifer now a cow
         suckles her clumsy calf 



field fogs settle–
downward heads of nibbling cattle
grazing the wet earth



the cow's hide
polishing shoes 



Thoughtless about their own demise
Black Angus graze, heads bowed,
Unafraid of Farmer John's eyes.

Vaqueros now ride their Fords
bouncing along, dust behind,
Thinking of carne asada for suppertime.           



one line
John Doe



daughters of daughters
grandma's funeral 



salty echoes
in our ears–



Pizza for lunch:
    a middle school



Workingman's Blues:
Monday Morning

Daydreaming about a seaside walk,
driving to work

an average fellow
eschewing poverty and loneliness
returning to work on payday



killdeers shrieking
meadowlarks trilling–
sunlight breaks the cold silence



One's core fantasies
priming the pump–
gushing passions. 



his karma
caught up with him:
she left him tonight



Lawn mowed low–
          sweeping the sidewalks;
Breezy dry day–
          sweeping the dusty porch.
Sipping brandy in the shade–
          sweeping worried words from my lips.



winter sunshine
    working in the garden
sunburnt bald head

warm sun
    dry grass
        roaring lawnmower



sunlight breaks
cold silence–
a meadowlark trills



Snakes nowhere seen ...
    very cold
St. Patrick's Day.



moving conversations
down gravel roadways ...
crisscrossing ideas



Barefoot girls in the creek bed
laughing winter away–
redbuds on bare black branches. 



day by day
winter disappears ...
millions of new leaves



bloodied corpse
under a sheet–
traffic slows 



blue oaks
leafed out–
robins back 



Springing over
wet wild grass
my charging dog



Microwave tower
blinking all night–
invisible voices. 



wet boots
drying on the porch–
a day's work done



Closing his journals in the blue covers of pain.
Twisted up inside, rotting karma; himself to blame.
Harshly, utterly, darkly -- ashamed.



Yada, yada, yada ...
the sage on the stage
scattered applause.



The ancient stone Buddhas at Bamiyan
Now piles of rubble in Afghanistan;
Blown up by the Islamic Taliban
Ranting about Allah's stricter demands.
Cheering as they blew off the Buddha's hands;
Those arrogant and artless Taliban,
Purifying their homeland, dynamite in hand.
Who's next in their callous Jihadi plans?
Besides those starving in their bone dry land.
The monuments of those infidel Americans?
The Twin Towers gleaming in the Devil's Land?

-   Newslook, The Taliban Destroy the Stone Buddha's at Bamiyan, 11 March 2001 



Big statues or little statues,
Even no statue of any kind,
Really hardly matters a twit,
To those awakened to the Buddha Mind.








Cuttings:    November    December     January     February     March





Months and Seasons
Quotes, Poems, Sayings, Verses, Lore, Myths, Holidays
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Information, Weather, Gardening Chores
Compiled by Mike Garofalo
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January April July October
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March June September December 






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Copyrighted © 1999-2012 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:  March, Winter, Spring
Haiku, Concrete and Short Poems by Michael P. Garofalo
First Distributed on the Internet WWW in September 1999.
Last Updated on March 4, 2012


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Poetry by Michael P. Garofalo

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



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