Bundled Up, Volume 8:
Experimental Phase I
All Styles of Poetry
Free Verse
Conversational Style
Confessionals
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
Surrealistic and Symbolic
Epigrams, Couplets, Triplets,
Quatrains, Quintets, Sextets,
Quintains, Sonnets, Haiku
Get Off of Quintain Lane
By Mike Garofalo
55+ Poems
Ad Free Webpage
4000.
We drove out to Dougan Falls in the Spring,
like salmon moving, drawn in by obscure passions.
I followed the ear-opening sacredness that keeps
coming back to me in the rain of memories.
The stream doesn't care about a trillion rocks.
It goes because it's been blind for many millenniums;
unlike what the lanky Douglas Firs discovered
when standing still for decades in the Gorge winds.
My niece never said much about beauty.
I parked the car, we joined the crowds,
walked up to Dougan Falls.
We both looked up and didn't speak.
The noisy songs of Cascadian waterfalls:
from high to low, young to old,
flowing down, colder to cold,
into the Columbia River flowing bold;
till it becomes the salty blood
in the arteries of Oceanus
beyond the south jetty of Living Time.
Is this enough?
I think that's less than enough, right there.
- Oceanus
4001.
"Achieving special effects of wonder
by admitting falsehoods
and impossibilities
and absurdities
which transcend reason."
- Aristotle, Summary of the Poetics, #24
4002.
One night I awoke to the sounds
of cold rain on the hard wind.
The clanking of backyard gongs
till I took them down.
Wiped raindrops off my head.
Opened my fly
pissed on the ground.
Headed back into my bed.
4003.
The moon tilts your image across the dark water.
A billion galaxies drift on a Sea of Nothingness.
Tides sow seeds; the waves bloom at dawn.
We follow brightness down, not wider out.
Coastal pines go blue as glass in the blast.
4004.
I peel another onion from the basket.
Layers fall like old assumptions.
The core is never what I expected.
Tears come for many reasons.
Some are simply part of the work.
4005.
Gray day
Still.....
September noon—
Half-day and Half-night,
= Equinox Equality!!
Poetry Sections on this Webpage
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Bundled Up:
Poetry By Mike Garofalo
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Variety of Poems 4,000 - 4,500
Quintains: 3,500+ Quintains (Free Online)
Quintain Sonnet Forms ( 554, 5252, 555, 553 )
This work is licensed under a:
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No-Derivates
4.0
International License. Bundled Up by mpgarofalo.
4006.
Pulling Onions
The Onion of Being
Never stops growing
Layering layers over layers---
Giving us one peel a day
On our life's way
4007.
We made sex so fun
Fucking outdoors in the sun
A blanket for a bed on the ground
Nobody else ever around---
Oh, to be twenty-one again. So Fun!
4008.
Waiting to be Opened
book unopened
hidden potential
covered insights
closed ideas
Waiting...
4009.
The Uncounted Sky
The Douglas Firs hold the dark.
June brings an extra gold moon tonight,
climbing the ridges,
turning the Klickitat into moving blue blinks,
as if the sky cared for stained glass.
On the lonely dirt road in the black lava hills,
we stopped, killed the headlights,
let the engine go cool under the damp stars.
We want a reason for our dark quests,
some grand excuse to stand in the cold.
But there it is, spilled off the volcano's vomit---
a black world stalled for forever.
4010.
Drinking Its Memory
The river learns the names of the stones,
the riverbanks are stitched together with hands of light,
a little paper boat carries letters we never sent,
the current erases the date of our footsteps,
and the world bends down to drink its memory.
El rio aprende los nombres de las piedras,
las orillas se cosen con manos de luz,
un barquito de papel lleva cartas que no enviamos,
la corriente borra la fecha de los pasos,
y el mundo se inclina a beber su memoria.
4011.
From A to Z
| At the beginning | After the end |
| Before the end | Before the beginning |
| Caught in the middle | Condensed Instantly |
| Divided in between | Discovering emptiness |
| Everything downs | Endlessness ripped |
| For the Record | From that day |
| Giving it away | Gaining something |
| Happy I'd say | Hands on tight |
| Inner work done | Innocent delights |
| Just keeping on | Joining others now |
| Kicked out hate | Kissed my mate |
| Lucked out | Left quite late |
| Mesmerized | Many times |
| Not surprised | Not compromised |
| Oh why | On time |
| People pursued | Pursuers persisted |
| Quite exhausted | Quantities stolen |
| Really afraid | Running away |
| Slowly relaxing | Secure home |
| Troubles gone | Treasures reborn |
| Uu Uu abcdefghijklm uU | uU uU nopqrstuvwxyz Uu |
| Very clearly | Virtouosly so |
| With a Changing Key | Wechselndem Schlüssel |
| Xmas comes | Xanthia goes |
| You think you know | Your known |
| Zany at times | Zendo zone |
- Reference to Paul Celan, Index of Titles A-Z
BU 3614
4012.
Slices of white apples
decorated each plate.
Everybody was ready,
nobody was late.
All sang Happy Birthday
for her 20th today.
She opened all her presents
and thanked all with hugs that way.
4013.
On the dirty street:
Plastic bags dance with the wind;
Coke cans sit and wink.
4014.
Sweat on my forehead
Sun on my back
Hoe in my hand
Weeds in a can
A gardener I am
4015.
His Hometown in the Rain
Tumuco, Chile:
Pablo Neruda's home town
Poverty, soaked clothes, stifled, unhappiness,
Few opportunities!
People move on...
Tumuco, Chile 1905
4016.
Words expand our reality
Provide schemas for differences
Invoke ideal interpretations
Allow us to formulate abstractions
Play with our imagingation
Speak out our present presence
Write for others to read in beyonds.
Yes, words can reduce reality, like silence.
4017.
"Artificial Intelligence will be determined
by who writes its morality."
- Ken Etter
4018.
Bandon Docks Bewildered
Bandon sea stacks shout at starfish.
Hotels hang loose over lava cliffs.
Tourists flocks like falling leaves.
We poured wine over our good intentions.
Summer blackberries were invisible.
Cranberry candy covered a naked moon.
Fried fish n chips lick black lips.
We pretended we did not know.
A seagull refused to understand.
Cars on 101 stare blindly at orange suns.
Painted sculptures dot the aging wharf.
Downtown stores sell kites and shells.
Children grow old in a day.
The Coquille River shivers with remorse.
We hiked off into eternity.
4019.
A Campfire a Cape Disappointment
Sparks rise through the murky dark,
with brief stars learning how to fly.
I warm my hands, still---
the campfire teaching again
how small flames can calm a mind.
Campfire pops once---
as if laughing at my joke.
I bow to the sparks;
even the flames seem to know
I’m not nearly as wise as I act.
4020.
Not a Single Word
Three old oaks lean together
murmuring secrets in the wind.
I pause beneath their shade,
grateful for the elders who speak
without needing a single word.
4021.
Orbiting the Big Questions
Space opens like a palm of night, vast and patient,
stars stitch small holes through the dark for light to leak,
a comet writes its name in the margin and moves on,
planets keep their slow, polite revolutions,
and we orbit a single bright question without answer.
4022.
Somewhere in a Dream
All clouds are clocks.
The hole is larger than the whole.
The addict pees on the weeds.
She thinks about a Tweaker Hitter.
Hot asphalt rarely walks.
Four plus four is not forever.
The world is often not happening.
She forgot her name last week.
Short of breath and depressed.
Sputtering ... she disappeared in smoke.
Grayland Beach does not speak.
Broken clams sing in murky sand.
She walks her dog in a fluid dream.
She bites and apple, a gift from Adam.
Not this, not that--- something else.
4023.
Two glasses gleaming,
silverware in the cold sun---
breakfast alfresco.
4024.
The Columbia Gorge Splits the Cascades
The Cascades keep their teeth in winter's jaw,
fir and basalt count the slow forgetting,
a river learns its name on each new slope,
clouds stitch the ridges into a single seam,
we climb to find the guide we left at home.
Cascades keep a ledger of fire and rain,
volcanoes mark time with patient,
private calendars,
snow writes white margins along the ridges,
rivers unroll the mountains’ small confessions,
we pass through their grammar and come out lighter.
The Columbia keeps its ledger in river-
silver,
barges stitch slow commas across the gorge,
salmon write stubborn signatures against the flow,
dams fold the light into rectangles of waiting,
we stand on the bank and learn to measure losses by currents.
4025.
The nights never ended
The days reek of drab dullness---
boring apathy
4026.
Los Angeles is a mere child
born on Catholic Mission grounds
near Mexican land-grant rancheros
crossed by the El Camino Real.
Agriculture, oil, sunshine, aircraft,
Hollywood, tourists, and industry;
All helped build a thriving economy
become a giant of American diversity.
East Los Angeles was my home for 52 years.
Still a real measure of me and us.
4027.
winter rain
damp wool shirt
warmer skin
brown wool cap
very cold ears
snotty nose
dry wool gloves
cozy hands
on the go
4028.
Roll Call
"Mike Garpfullo?"
"Here."
"Michael Garbalo?"
"Present!"
The final straw: Micheal Barfalo
4029.
Night Into Day
Midnight drips from the streetlamps, slow as honey.
A stray breeze edits the silence.
Your shadow arrives before you do,
asking what hour we meant to keep;
and I pretend the answer isn’t already late.
Daybreak lays a pale hand across the rooftops,
streetlamps blink like tired witnesses and go out.
A single window exhales the last of its night,
coffee steam sketches a small map of what will happen,
we stand between the hush and the first honest noise.
4030.
Dying is a Hard Journey
Dying is such a depressing waste
a wasting away of dignity
facing the firing squad of disease
your own body murders you with ease
twenty names for your miseries.
Can't hide in the woods or city,
Dying has no home or pity.
Dying can be over instantly
in an hour, month, season, or years.
Death can be around the corner
or in a metal box home in Antarctica.
Death can grin, scowl, smile, or cry.
Dying is Death's Emissary, both liars.
Death and I shared a final toast
Before I finally released my ghost.
4031.
Death
the opposite
of every breathing being.
The Nemesis
of everything---
it seems.
4032.
People are dying to get into the cemetery.
Don't trust atoms, the make up everything.
I sent you a link for a great sausage website.
Athletes get athletes foot, elves get mistletoe.
A needle has one eye but cannot see.
4033.
Live or Die at Forty Five
She wanted to shock.
Fuck, she shocked.
Intimacies, indiscretions, insanity...
Told it all in her poetry.
Killed herself at 45.
4034.
I enjoyed the easy life,
peaceful days, quiet nights.
Trouble free, no more than ordinary,
lucky, healthy, free to be...
Some worries, unquestionably.
4035.
We seldom spoke
working day after day
side by side
for a decade---
noisy machinery
4036.
Return to the Way!
What Way?
What is the Way?
What shows the Way?
There is no "Way."
There are many ways.
Vast are the ways
Present here this day
Wider than Siletz River
Closer than Cannon Rock
Eating in the Sea of Infinity
4037.
Was it something, or nothing,
that made the child groan?
Yes, dear, it was nothing,
this I know;
for having nothing to eat
makes all of us moan.
4038.
The River claimed Its Gorge, or
gave a name to Its Valley,
watered its farms and orchards,
was another resource for industries,
an under-arching destiny for us living beings.
4039.
Smoke trails over suburban roof tops
Bottomless skies shake fickle rain drops
The smell of dampness numbs my nose
The storm make my skin grow cold
Some day in February found its way.
4040.
hooded
gagged
collared
naked
Monday
4041.
My Current Poetry Reading List
Add more poems to Bundled Up, Volume 8.
August - December 2026:
Rae Armantrout, New and Selected Poems, 2001-2015.
Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual
Writing, 656 pages, 2011
Artifice and Indeterminacy: An Anthology of New Poetics, 1998
Charles Bernstein, All the Whiskey in Heaven, 2010
Lyn Hejinian
Susan Howe
The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Book, 1984
Harryette Mullen, Sleeping with the Dictionary, 2002
Bob Perelman. The Marginalization of Poetry:
Language Writing and Literary History, 1996
Ron Silliman
4042.
even time
sometimes
stands still
gazing at
fading footsteps
4043.
Totally stoned
Friday morn
8 am sunny
time is flying by
on a Dragon-Fly
4044.
20F = -7C
32F = 0C
40F = 4C
50F = 10C
60F = 15C
70F = 21C
80F = 26C
90F = 32C
100F = 38C
110F = 44C
4045.
Jenny, I Need Your Number
I got it! I got it!
I want to make you mine.
867-5309
867- 5309
8675 309
- Tommy Tutone, Jenny, 1985
4046.
Close to the Garden Soil
Weeds in the garden---
persistent green intruders,
teaching patience too.
Kneeling in May mud
each weed pulled up and let go---
mind clears with each pull.
A rubber bin holds
what I pulled from the border---
fresh fades to to dry brown.
The wisteria climbs the trellis wall,
the little leaves catch shadows as they crawl;
a tangled maze where chickadees hide,
and silent spiders weave side to side.
Where single thin vines creep up to the sky.
4047.
The Nouning of Time
The word 'time' does not hide.
Its status as a noun always thrives.
A mainstay noun for all our days.
A noun can be a measurable period
Or occasion---thus: noun/time = time/noun.
4048.
I decided to kill some time
while I was on borrowed time
and found out in the nick of time that:
Time is a Power Word, at the essence of meaning,
a Core Noun,
a Grammatical Being, a Reality Thing.
4049.
Time is a person because it heals wounds.
Time is a bird because it can fly.
Time is impatient because it waits for no man.
Time is popular because everybody wants to know the time.
Time is worthless because it's gone in a second.
4050.
Future Times With Future Pasts
Does time wait?
Is time delayed?
Is time late?
Is time a fake?
Make no mistake...
No time like now--- or never.
Where did time go--- on Christmas' holiday.
In an Age Before Time--- in a poetry epic
He ran out of time--- in a chess match.
His last words before execution--- "Fuck You All!"
Future times with future pasts
Will be unknown to me after I pass.
Ages before are unknown to me
Despite my romance with history.
The Gushen Grove Sonnets # 98
4051.
Red Coals Pulse Like Distant Stars
The last light slips behind the ridge,
a thin ember of day still glowing.
Boots thud softly on the packed earth,
the air cooling with each step.
Evening begins before we notice.
A match flares against the breeze,
brief and stubborn in the dim.
Paper curls into orange petals,
logs shift as if waking.
Fire learns its shape slowly.
Smoke threads upward in loose spirals,
finding its own quiet route.
A kettle hums near the campfire coals,
steam rising like a soft prayer.
Night accepts our presence.
Tall trunks stand just beyond the glow,
their crowns lost to the dark.
The fire paints their bark in strokes
of copper, rust, and shadow.
Even giants enjoy a little warmth.
Voices soften as the flames steady,
words drifting like sparks.
Some tales are true, some nearly so,
all of them shaped by the night.
The campfire listens without judgment.
Logs collapse inward with a sigh,
a slow settling of heat and memory.
Red coals pulse like distant stars,
steady, patient, unhurried.
The night grows deeper around them.
The fire shrinks to a quiet glow,
its edges soft as worn cloth.
Ash gathers in pale drifts,
the remains of what kept us warm.
Nothing ends abruptly out here.
The final spark dims into silence,
leaving only the scent of smoke.
Stars settle into their places,
unbothered by our small rituals.
The forest closes gently around us.
4052.
wha th heck
ankle sprained
wha th fuck
limping sucks
crappee luck
4053.
4054.
4055.
Deeper Valley of Silence
Sagebrush shivers softly in the sand,
Wind paints drifting patterns no one planned,
The smells of sun-baked earth rise warm and deep.
Alabama Hills guard the quiet valley,
Mountains watching over secrets they keep.
Sand shifts in ripples shaped by drifting wind,
Heat clings to sweat no matter where I bend,
The smells of sun-baked earth rise warm and slow.
Mt. Whitney towers pale with alpine glow,
Watching the wide valley breathe in the hush below.
I’m trekking through sand where the sagebrush grows,
Wiping the sweat from my eyes and my nose,
The Alabama Hills rise up from the dirt.
The smells of the valley are dusty and dry,
With mountains that look like they’re hitting the sky.
The pine tree smells drift in the heat of the day,
My footsteps feel slower, like time slips away.
Sand whispers soft under each tired shoe.
The mountains near Lone Pine stand so silent and true;
The valley feels endless, holding thoughts lost to me.
4056.
Philosophy of Eating
A crow on the fence
looks philosophical.
I suspect, though,
the crow's thinking
about the dead cat on the road.
4057.
4058.
4059.
4060.
4061.
4062.
4063.
Flies wear tiny umbrellas and hum the alphabet.
Peaches orbit the porch like sleepy moons.
A shoelace learns to whistle and refuses to tie.
Sugar melts into polite confetti flying in the air.
We applaud the breeze as it flings our hair.
4064.
4065.
4066.
4067.
Santa folds his list into paper cranes that fly.
Ornaments gossip in the pines about last year's moon.
Reindeer practice tap dancing on the rooftop tiles.
Gingerbread men hold a polite debate with the snow,
and the star forgets its place and hums the carols backward.
4068.
4069.
4070.
4071.
4072.
4073.
4074.
Cedars Reflecting the Hood Fjord
a syntax of resin the green refuses
its own NOUN holds
what holding means against
the Hood Canal does not
reflect the cedars
The Cedars reflect it
January opens from the inside
the word for COLD is not COLDER
is the water's other name
waiting waits its waiting
the Canal a preposition
suspended between cedars
(January) the bark
speaks only in the direction
of having spoken already
Hood Fjord: a grammar
the mountains wrote
and then forgot
what the Cedar means by standing
at the water's syntactical
edge: to mean
to stand by
the Canal which stands
by Nothing
4075.
4076.
4077.
4078.
4079.
4080.
4081.
4082.
4083.
4084.
4085.
4086.
4087.
4088.
4089.
4090.
4091.
4092.
4093.
Traces of Differences
The square clock counts the taxes of currency, paid to present time.
I tally up the closing years and face the final fee of time.
I cannot find a hitching post to hold the passing days,
The weightless traces of the past are the no-thing marks of ways.
A shredded snake skin curled on the trail is what was left behind,
The fading marks of where we walked become the tracks of time.
An eagle will dive, the wind will blow, and granite will slowly break,
The shifting ways that things interact reveal their intertwining fates.
The chessboard patterns change their shape with every moving hand.
We speak of traces that show our interwoven fates in disappearing land.
4094.
4095.
4096.
4097.
4098.
4099.
4100.
february BURrrrrrrrrr
a stillness
a hardness
a bleakness
a shiver—
a reminder of winter
4101.
How much time do I have left?
Is it a little, or is it a lot?
Are you counting by the official's clock.
I'm anxious as a tumbling rock
As nervous as ships rocking in docks.
4102.
The absence of her presence
in my present state of mine
saddens my sentimental soul---
where, oh where (how
did the delightful decades go.
4103.
Winter in Vancouver
Rain
Light, soft
Hanging, drifting, suspended
Making the world ghostly
Mist
Hail
Heavy, hard
Pounding, rattling, roar
Scaring ghosts in the attic
Steaming street
4104.
Katsululu the Lizard, and
Chadada the Kingfisher
met near the Hok-has-ha shore---
Kingfisher was hungry,
Lizard was --- no more.
Clear Lake, CA [Hok-has-ha]
4105.
My ideas about the future:
a multitude of possibilities,
a charcuterie of tasty temptations,
and offering of options...
The actual future, when HERE -- quite circumscribed.
Poetry Sections on this Webpage
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Bundled Up:
Poetry By Mike Garofalo
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Variety of Poems 4,000 - 4,500
Quintains: 3,500+ Quintains (Free Online)
Quintain Sonnet Forms ( 554, 5252, 555, 553 )
4106.
4107.
4108.
4109.
Birds at the Willapa Wildlife Refuge
White sea gulls stitch the air,
salt laughter on bright wing beats---
the tide learns their names.
Over restless blue distances
they borrow the sky, then scream.
Five cries over the pier,
white commas in a blue sentence,
chips stolen mid-thought.
They balance wind on one foot, seagulls,
and argue with the sea.
The Pelican's wings fold the wind down,
old fishermen of the air wait---
pouches heavy with dawn.
They skim the breathing shoreline,
then plunge, prayers breaking water.
High over the bay
Ospreys circle above me
Silver wings pause high
Then the plunge splits blue light hard
Fish flash; talons lift skyward
Ospreys wheel aloft
with talons stitching the wind---
silver flash of fish.
Water breaks, sky holds its breath;
wings rise, sun-salted again.
Along the shore where whispering tides retreat,
Small Sand Pipers stitch shadows in the sand;
They chase the foam with quick, uncertain feet,
Then pause as if to listen and to stand,
Before the sea comes reaching for their band.
At marsh’s still margin stands the Great Blue Heron,
A statue stitched of dusk and drifting reeds;
Slate wings folded, eye a patient ember on
The glassy pulse where minnows trace their beads.
Then lightning strikes---one spear of bone and need.
Plover feet skim wet sand fast,
Pausing at the wave’s bright seam;
One sharp cry, a tilted glance---
Then the flock lifts as a thought,
Leaving silence stitched with foam.
Eagles perch at dawn
Salt wind threads the dark branches
White heads watch the surf
Roots clutch at the edge of tides
Stillness sharpens watching eyes
Terns wheel above the bay at morning,
their sharp calls braiding wind and light.
They hover, then fall like thrown knives,
breaking the skin of water where eelgrass sways
and the tide keeps its quiet, breathing rhythm.
Waves lean into wind,
shore birds stitch the foam with cries,
sand cool under cloud break,
gusts comb feathers into flight,
the sea exhales and listens.
4110.
4111.
4112.
4113.
Rain on the River
The ancient woods are heavy, deep, and silent
Rolling fog obscures the meandering trails
The damp Pacific winds begin to rail
The misty sullen rain a floating gossamer veil
While river stones cease to murmur, so quiet
4114.
4115.
4116.
4117.
Typewriter teeth chew on dry vowels,
syntax shatters an empty sheet,
he nouns a verb into absolute futures.
Rejection slips fold into paper umbrellas,
blue dictionaries bleed green popcorn.
The pivot line turns to sudden rust,
chapbooks rot on unread wooden shelves.
Meaningless oceans swallow the wet ink,
a ghost edits the blank white page
the reader's poem takes a week to die.
4118.
4119.
4120.
4121.
4122.
4123.
4124.
4125.
4126.
4127.
4128.
4129.
4130.
4140.
4150.
4160.
4170.
4180.
4181.
4182.
4183.
4184.
Seagulls Flying South
Along the long sea shore,
clumsy seagulls stitch the edge of waves,
wings flashing like light.
Tide breathes in, tide breathes out---
wings remember ancient paths.
Waves answer with a brassy, endless call,
Salt-silver breakers climb, then hollow, and fall.
Above, the gulls stitch the bright air with wing,
Their raucous cries make the cool dawn rise and sing.
The shore keeps both and murmurs back that call.
4185.
4186.
4187.
A Porch in May
On my Vancouver porch the sun is bright,
Chasing away the summertime dull and white.
I open a book to read of ancient times.
Nasturtiums flare in orange, red, bold and bright,
Their climbing blooms are lanterns to my mind.
4188.
4189.
4190.
4199.
4200.
Books whisper from their shelves.
Each page a seed of thought.
I plant them in the soil of my mind.
Some bloom, some fade unseen.
Philosophy is the garden of questions.
4201.
The clock ticks without apology.
Each second slips beyond my reach.
I grasp at hours like falling sand.
The day teaches me to let go.
Time is the teacher that never rests.
4202.
Time leans against the doorway,
uninvited, tapping its heel on the floorboards.
The afternoon folds itself like cotton,
soft but hard to smooth,
and I breathe in the wrinkle it leaves behind.
4203.
I started on July 1st,
first day for new resolutions,
last day for old mistakes---
Focused actions I need to take
to unresolve my floundering state.
4204.
4205.
Poetry Sections on this Webpage
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Bundled Up:
Poetry By Mike Garofalo
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Variety of Poems 4,000 - 4,500
This work is licensed under a:
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No-Derivates
4.0
International License. Bundled Up by mpgarofalo.
4206.
From a crack in the counter
marching single-file double-time
an army of ants attack
Sweet crumbs stolen
soldier ants pillaging
rape of the cupcakes
4207.
spiders wait and rest
on gray nets hung in space---
patient architects
Under a wet rock
sow bugs eat decayed flesh---
content with darkness
4208.
Unfortunately---
Did my vocabulary
do this to me?
4209.
I taught yoga for seventeen years
three evenings each week.
I stopped teaching when I was 70.
Teaching is a useful form of learning
the joys of sharing our aging being.
4210
Maybe the me that lives and feels
Is not an immediate given, not a fact.
A Slippery Illusiveness, not intact.
A chimera of Identity
An illusive mirage of Mind-Wind.
4220.
She embraces him
Two bodies meet, intertwined---
He plows the path.
4230.
hatred wears you down,
it burns the hand that holds it---
ashes of regret
4240.
Sunshine on the rug
my dogs curls itself into
that soft warm spot
4250.
Rough road shakes the truck
Shocks bounce on gravel ruts
Dusk snakes behind the tailgate
Rocks kick behind the the tires...
The smell of sagebrush fills the air.
4260.
4270.
4280.
Clouds Tie Their Shoelaces
A mountain boils its tea in secret,
black leaves of old lava steeping slow,
sparrows forget the map and learn to hover,
ash writes a polite apology across the sky,
the world inhales, then remembers how to glow.
A ridge folds its newspaper into morning,
goats practice patience on the spine of light,
clouds tie their shoelaces and drift away,
a pine coughs up a small green memory,
I learn to stand still and be the view.
4290.
4299.
4300.
The Windowsill Talks to the Sun
Time sits on the windowsill like a tired coin,
sunlight counts its edges and forgets to return,
I fold my day into the pocket of my shirt---
the stitches hum with singing seconds,
and somewhere a minute yearns to be born.
Daybreak on the windowsill,
a thin coin of light
counts the rooms awake
with an indifferent hand.
The kettle remembers,
steam writes a small apology.
The street folds its shadow
into a single neat crease.
And, we catch and hold
whatever the morning offers.
April sighs through a curtain of mist,
Hiding every secret that time has missed,
On a windowsill where the shadows sleep.
Dusty books humming a soft blue tune,
Counting the eyes of a springtime moon.
Time folds the day like a weathered map,
Resting its paper head in my evening's lap.
Near a windowsill carved from ancient light
I sew a protest patch into Time's sleeve;
Where small, shy clocks never take their leave.
The windowsill was layered in dust and light,
the books kept count when no one looked,
a clock loosened its grip and dripped minutes,
we borrowed a moment worn by our fingers,
while time stood nearby, pretending not to notice.
4301.
A sign on 101 warns:
ROAD CLOSED --- WASHOUT AHEAD.
I pull over and breathe.
Sometimes the world decides for you---
detours are just another kind of path.
4302.
Cellphone uncharged, TV off!
Invisible silence...
Took a walk in the rain.
Listened to the July wind.
Did not celebrate July 4, 2026.
4303.
The Snail on the Move
Slowly he glides across the garden stone,
With rhythmic pulse and steady silver trail,
Beneath the spiral of his speckled jail.
The morning mist provides a cooling veil,
While tiny horns explore the dewy gale.
The snail set off on Monday to cross the street
He carries his house and his mortgage in tow,
He waves at the tortoise who's on the go.
He'll get there by Friday, a glorious feat,
And stop for a rest on a lettuce to eat.
4304.
Summer 2026
sunshine scattered
between scorched leaves
breathing dry brown dust
baked along Paris walls---
she sweated in the summer shade
4305.
Poetry Sections on this Webpage
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Bundled Up:
Poetry By Mike Garofalo
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Variety of Poems 4,000 - 4,500
Quintains: 3,500+ Quintains (Free Online)
Quintain Sonnet Forms ( 554, 5252, 555, 553 )
This work is licensed under a:
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No-Derivates
4.0
International License. Bundled Up, BU by mpgarofalo.
4306.
4307.
4308.
4309.
4310.
4320.
4321.
4322.
"Artificial Intelligence is an insult to life itself."
- Hayao Miyazaki
"AI technology can pose profound risks to society and humanity."
- Elon Musk
"AI creates statements that at first glance appear plausible but are unfounded or betray biases.”
- Pope Francis
18 Risks and Dangers of Artificial Intelligence
4323.
4324.
4325.
Seagulls at Coos Bay
White sea gulls stitch the air,
salt laughter on bright wing beats---
the tide learns their names.
Over restless blue distances
they borrow the sky, then scream.
Five cries over the pier,
white commas in a blue sentence,
chips stolen mid-thought.
They balance wind on one foot, seagulls,
and argue with the sea.
The Pelican's wings fold the wind down,
old fishermen of the air wait---
pouches heavy with the dawn.
They skim the breathing shoreline,
then plunge, prayers breaking water.
4326.
4327.
4328.
4329.
4330.
4340.
4341.
4342.
Highway 101: The Salinas Valley
Northbound at dawn. The Salinas River still half-asleep,
a thin silver line beside the highway. Artichoke fields hold
the night’s cold like a memory they’re reluctant to release.
Rows of lettuce stretch out in perfect geometry---
green equations solved by hand, day after day.
A crew is already in the fields, their motions small but certain,
a choreography older than the road.
The wind arrives early here, pushing through the valley as
if it has somewhere urgent to be. Plastic row covers snap
like flags. A lone egret stands in the irrigation ditch, white
against the dark soil.
Salinas itself rises slowly---packing sheds, taquerias,
a mural of Steinbeck fading on a brick wall.
A freight train idles near Market Street, its cars tagged with names of people who probably never lived here.
Highway 101 cuts straight through it all, unbothered,
unhurried, a spine holding the valley together. Every few
miles, a roadside cross leans into the wind, flowers
bleached by the sun.
Past the city limits, the fields return--- endless, disciplined,
a green sea that never stops moving. The road hums beneath
the tires, steady as a heartbeat.
Somewhere beyond the next rise the fog from the coast
begins its slow inland crawl. The valley exhales. The
highway keeps going.
Memories of Highway 99 and Interstate 5
4343.
4344.
4350.
4360.
4361.
4362.
4363.
4364.
Shadows Fold Into the Hush of Soil
Petals open like small, deliberate promises,
sunlight threading through the ribs of each bloom,
bees write hurried letters in pollen and gold,
the air learns to smell like memory and rain,
we stand beneath this soft, unrolling yes.
Tulips tuck their bright hands into the earth,
crocus cups hold the last of winter's breath,
a child counts colors as if counting stars,
roots practice patience in the dark, patient work,
and the garden rehearses its quiet miracle.
Evening finds the blossoms whispering back,
shadows folding into the hush of soil,
moonlight gilds a single trembling corolla,
hope keeps its small vigil among the stems,
spring keeps giving until our hands are full.
4365.
4366.
4367.
A Buoy Counts the Small Betrayals of the Night
The ocean keeps its ledger in shells and salt,
a gull erases a name with one bright arc,
waves fold like old letters into the sand,
a lighthouse blinks the same apology each night,
and we learn to speak in the pause between tides.
The ocean keeps its ledger in blue ink,
gulls fold their signatures into the wind,
a buoy counts the small betrayals of night,
moonlight irons the surface into a promise,
and we learn to speak in the language of tides.
4368.
4369.
4370.
4380.
4390.
4399.
4400.
The icy breeze
chilled my pink-white ears,
stung my smarting lungs,
stiffened my bony fingers...
Snow and ice everywhere.
4401.
No more ideas,
blank mind.
Where are the words?
Dull pen on empty sheets,
motionless, still, zero.
Rivers of quietude whimper.
Wordless wandering in frustration.
An octogenarian poet's demise,
hung out to dry in the rain,
washed away, humbled, vacant.
Damn! Nothing to day!
4402.
4403.
4404.
4405.
Poetry Sections on this Webpage
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Bundled Up:
Poetry By Mike Garofalo
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Variety of Poems 4,000 - 4,500
Quintains: 3,500+ Quintains (Free Online)
Quintain Sonnet Forms ( 554, 5252, 555, 553 )
This work is licensed under a:
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No-Derivates
4.0
International License. Bundled Up by mpgarofalo.
4406.
4407.
4408.
4409.
Broken Down
My great nephew,
Joshua Loya his name,
a troubled, sick, tired man;
We tried to help him and failed.
A soul free of conventionality.
He was a homeboy styler
a skinny fellow
dressed in
baggy pants.
Hanging out with cholos
for a fine machismo time.
His mom died when he was 10
he never recovered!
From auto accidents and hepatitis
and fun drug usage most days;
he slowly slipped from us away.
He lived with us for a year
a lazy fellow
straight F's in high school,
some thieves and stoners for friends.
Still, we wished him well to the end.
My son and we tried to help
Joshua when down
and others did contribute,
to bring him better around
but his failures ground him down.
He phoned every so often
babbling and rude
wandering in a broken brain;
His long letters, indecipherable,
but with artistic Tagger displays.
He lived in County jails
for petty crimes
and old half-way houses
time after time after time.
In garages of friends sometimes.
He called his Aunt Blanche.
He was homeless again
hoping for help from friends.
Sadly, he was sick again.
He wished her well at the end.
Yesterday, Josh's sister said,
a sheriff told her:
Josh was shot dead!
They found his slumped body
on bloody asphalt
in a City of Industry
vacant parking lot.
Bullets through his broken heart!
(Josh Loya: 6/1980-10/6/2024)
4410.
4420.
4430.
4440.
4450.
4460.
4470.
4480.
4490.
4499.
5000.
Poetry Sections on this Webpage
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Bundled Up:
Poetry By Mike Garofalo
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Variety of Poems 4,000 - 4,500
Quintains: 3,500+ Quintains (Free Online)
Quintain Sonnet Forms ( 554, 5252, 555, 553 )
This work is licensed under a:
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No-Derivates
4.0
International License. Bundled Up, BU by .m.p.g. mpgarofalo.
25 Steps and Beyond: Collected Works
At the Edges of the West
Highway 101 and Hwy 1
Bundled Up: Quintains, Pentastichs, Tankas
Cuttings: Haiku, Senryu, Brief Poems
At the Edges of the Fertile West
Highway 99 and Interstate 5
Texts Press Publications
Free Online Poetry and Studies
Vancouver, Washington
Texts Press Email
Mike Garofalo's Internet
Web Publishing
Objectives, Aims, and Policies:
Provide open access to people worldwide.
People can read my poetry for free: 24/7.
Google translate drop-down menu included.
No advertising or pop-up ads on my webpages.
No cookies log-in steps.
No irrelevant graphics.
No AI generated ads!
No requests for your email before reading.
Not promoting chapbooks or
books of mine or from others to sell.
Since 2024, my webpages are in
CSS format and cellphone readable.
I use my Cloud Hands Blog for
poetry posts, posts on a variety
of topics, promoting others,
and selling books.
In 2026-2027, I am carefully studying
poets from California, Oregon,
and Washington.
My academic background includes:
philosophy, information science,
librarianship, education, and business.
Feedback or suggestions are welcome.
Agents, editors and publishers who think my
poetry has some commercial possibilities
for themselves
are encouraged
to contact me.
I've been employed as a webmaster,
grant writer, and web publisher
since 1998.
25 Steps and Beyond:
The Collected Works of Mike Garofalo
Texts PreSS Couve Publications
Free Online Poetry and Studies
By Mike Garofalo
Vancouver, Washington
Text PreSS Couve Email
Michael Peter Garofalo (1946-) grew up in East Los Angeles, raised well by my parents June and Big Mike, was educated in Catholic Schools, lived with two other brothers, graduated (B.A., M.S.) from local universities.
Married Blanche Karen Eubanks, served in the US Air Force, worked in and managed many City and Los Angeles County Public Libraries, raised two children, socialized, traveled, and learned. Retired as the Regional Administrator, East Region, Los Angeles County Public Library in 1998.
We moved to a rural 5 acre property in Red Bluff, in the North Sacramento Valley, CA. Webmaster since 1998. Worked part-time for the Corning School District (Technology and Media Services Manager, District Librarian, Grant Writer, Webmaster); and as a yoga, Taijiquan, and fitness club instructor until 2016. Traveled extensively in Northern California, Oregon, and Washington.
We both retired, and we moved to Vancouver, WA, in 2017. Currently in 2025: reading, writing, gardening, harmonica playing, home chores, yurt camping, exercise, traveling in the Northwest, web publishing, family events, poetry research, photography, Northwest research, Nature mysticism, Buddhist and Taoist literature, walking, sports events, etc.
25 Steps and Beyond; Collected Works
I really appreciate positive feedback,
reviews, kudos, and encouragement
about the value
of
my free webpages.
Send your comments to:
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Bundled Up:
Quintains, Pentastichs,
Tankas, and Onions
Poetry By Michael P. Garofalo
Pulling Onions
1,000 Quips, Opinions, and One-Liners
A Basket of Ideas from the Backyard
Cuttings :::
Tercets, Haiku, Senryu, and Onions
Arranged by Months
Poetry Sections on this Webpage
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Bundled Up:
Poetry By Mike Garofalo
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Variety of Poems 4,000 - 4,500
Quintains: 3,500+ Quintains (Free Online)
Quintain Sonnet Forms ( 554, 5252, 555, 553 )
At the Edges of the West
A Docu-Poem
Poetry, Quintains, TextArt, Research, Compilation,
Photos, Series, Indexing:
By
Michael Peter Garofalo
© Green Way Research, Valley Spirit Center,
Gushen Grove Notebooks,
Vancouver, Washington
© 2021-2026 CCA 4.0
This work is licensed under a:
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No-Derivates
4.0
International License. Bundled Up, Vol 8, by mpgarofalo.
!!! No AI Poems on this Webpage !!!
Most of these Bundled Up, Volume 8,
poems were written by me after 2026.
The earliest poems on this webpage
were posted online in 2023.
This document was last edited, revised,
reformatted, added to, relinked,
changed, improved, or modified
by Michael Peter Garofalo [mpgarofalo]
on July 27, 2026.