Attention, Language and Time:
Selected Poetry,
2016 - 2026
By Michael P. Garofalo
This WebBook is a collection of poems, quips,
quintain stanzas, resource links, lists,
onions, quintain sonnets, docu-poems,
concrete and Text-Art poems, koans,
and hypertext diversions.
All by Mike Garofalo.
Poetry WebBook, 75 pages, No Ads!
It features lifestyles and locales
in the Pacific Northwest.
It traces the evolution of the poetic voices
of one old man
during a decade.
It offers many examples of
Quintain Stanzas and Quintain Sonnets.
It essays the front and flanks of Time.
It has a Poem Title Index
and a Subject Index.
It provides a free audio-recording
of a reading by Mike Garofalo.
September 20, 2026. Ver. 29. Texts-PreSS Couve Pubs.
The Beginning Years: 2016 - 2019
Backyard Zendo
my zazen was writing
pencil in hand—
sitting still for minutes
no special breathing
just moving my hand
in-breath
out-breath
unconsciously
enables me
to Consciously Be
Stepping Over Epiphanies
Affecting all the molecules in me
the pull of moon and sea.
I felt the call to walk the shore...
I opened the door.
Tides and time sent their signals:
step nimbly over epiphanies
flipped up and left
in the turning sand.
Ignored by all about me.
I'm just a fleck of cold fire
flung out on this sacred space.
I tired to shout, but I was mute
Shore pines paint a background scene
short stubby crooked trees
swaying gently in the persistent breeze
mostly in shades of shadows and greens
Stunned by the crisp clean colors,
savoring the sweet scents of the sea,
enchanted by the relentless pounting surf---
I began wondering.
What I see is painted by me,
created for free in a brain for me,
suckled from the breasts of reality.
Why is this reality made by me?
Tiptoe over bull kelp strands
or over broken white clam shells
avoiding the driftwood piles
the tide keeps moving in swells
My granddaughter and I once walked
beside this Bandon Oregon dune;
not very long ago, it seems to me---
I Remembered. Barely...
Vancouver Hometown Miniatures
a stillness
a hardness
a bleakness
a shiver—
February: the essence of winter
six blind baby puppies
sleeping in a warm box
dreaming about milk
and their mother's licks---
we all just watched
Noticed a long black bug
crawling up my shirt---
Accidental tourist
on for the ride.
I brushed it aside.
Old Highway 99 is Main Street,
with Kiggins Stadium on the hilltop by I5,
into Downtown Vancouver's Upscale Riverfront.
The impressive Columbia River on our South Side.
The clock on the garage wall
Stopped working months ago;
Timelessly stuck on 12 to 4.
Needs a new battery.
Time requires Energy.
My wife, Karen,
digging in the west garden,
pulling weeds, watering...
has drawn a crowd of crows
waiting for her to go.
Tired
worked hard
job done---
resting now
sipping rum.
I felt crappy today,
nobody gives a shit anyway.
We all have too much crap to do,
plus pick up all the shit
from the human zoo.
Hometown poets
at Ghost Town Open Mic—
sharing insights about their life
and living together in space and time
our environs shape connected minds.
Snow on Mt. Hood and Mt. Saint Helens.
Chocolate on a vanilla ice cream cone.
A brown hat was tilted on her blonde head.
Green lottery tickets smiled on a white counter.
Waitress wiping off table tops.
white moth
fluttering
down and up...
breezes in leaves
of dogwood trees
pasta
sauce
bubbling.....
my dead dad's
recipe
I was the occasion
involved in the occasions
that occasionally occurred
for me amongst others
in places familiar every day
Let things be as they Are,
that is, as we, truly,
encounter them,
from near or from afar;
elusive as they Are.
Not Walking With A Dog
My dog ran on Wednesdays.
A few summers ago---
frantic zoomies, so bizarre.
My dying dog Bruno looked into my eyes.
We knew our walking days were over.
..... Sigh
My dog died on Thursday.
Three months ago---
I miss Bruno.
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.
The match flares against the cold,
brief and stubborn in my hand.
Kindling waste paper curls into orange petals.
The splintered kindling shifts as if waking.
Fire learns its shape slowly.
Tall trunks stand just beyond the glow,
their crowns lost into the dark.
The fire paints the pine kindling in strokes:
Of copper, white flames,
rust-red coals, seared splinters,
black charred remnants, orange flames...
Smoke threads upward in loose spirals,
finding its own quiet route.
A kettle hums near the campfire coals,
steam rising like a soft prayer chanting.
Night creatures accept our presence.
Voices soften as the flames stay steady;
words drifting like sparks.
Some tales are true, some nearly so,
all of them shaped by our minds.
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 seems curious.
The fire shrinks to a quiet glow,
its edges cut with flickering flames.
Ash gathers in pale drifts,
the remains of what kept us warm.
What 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 smiles and falls asleep.
Five Elements Embracing
Soil, sea, sun, rain, sky ...
Five Elements embracing,
Intertwined in mind.
Unfathomable Matrix;
Scaffolds on scaffolds
Grounded in Otherness.
Below sky, gardener, bees, soil,
seeds, leaves, stems, roots, water...
Below wet cells embraced,
Below atoms dancing on Energy...
Deeper and deeper below
Into What?
A Plenitude, a sacredness.
Emptiness in full bloom.
Make it Interesting
The noun asked the adjective,
"Why do you speak of superficialities?"
The adjective replied,
"Because you're not very interesting
as a mere noun, unqualified."
Weeding Your Way to Kensho
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.
Salmon Moon Magic
Midnight moon spells cast
into glowing zones of mist-fog
honored by the swaying willow trees
guided by incessant mystic gravity---
All marvelous results for me.
Replant the Memories
Crape myrtle, brilliant red, bursting forth;
Hiding the garden.
Some days, only the Garden, entire, serene;
Yet, hiding from sight, shy, single plants.
Seeing Both, seldom, but as One:
Sweat poured from my startled brow,
Dripping on the dry earth.
And all became Sunshine
And shadows of surprise unraveling.
The Bodhi Forest Cut Down
The Mind is a vast Bodhi forest,
The body a Bodhi tree.
Dirt is in every cranny,
Flowers blossom, leaves fall.
The Bodhi Trees have been cut down,
The Bright Mirrors shattered.
Beginning with nothing,
Replant the trees, remake the mirrors.
Make one's mind like a mirror,
One's body like the Giving tree.
Reflect accurately and impartially;
Give fruit and shade.
{{{ trees cut down by mpgarofalo}}}
0. Counting the Moons Over La Push
1. Moon of the Wind
2. Moon of the Shaman
3. Moon of the Raven
4. Moon of the Grandmother
5. Moon of the Summer Sun
6. Moon of the Blackberries
7. Moon of the King Salmon
8. Moon of the Trail to Tacoma
9. Moon of the Maiden's Wishes
10.
Moon of the Snow on the Hills
11. Moon of the Father's Arrows
12. Moon of the Memaloose Ghosts
Emerging Through the Green
By mid-morning the sun,
illuminated all the laurel leaves,
bright brilliant vibrant growing Green.
The intensity of the living leaves
spoke clearly of Here and Being.
Seeing the Trend Towards...
Sixty John Deeres
wait for buyers
no lookers, no purchases
Forty rings
in the jeweler's tray
locked up all day
Twenty tables
not dancing
in a closed cafe
Fifteen vendors
left today
puddles of forlorn rain
ten girlfriends
all graduate
fling hats in the air
five boats
left early
the docks lost track
three boys
went fishing
returned with nothing
one woman
disappeared on Sunday
Basho’s Frog Redux
Playing my harmonica
quietly
A pine cone falls
bounces by
I heard it clop Surprised
My Ears Hear Celestial Music
My bones have some stardust,
my brain some
reptilian vestiges,
and my soul
some of the Earth.
Vampires in the Hoh Forest
In the Town of Forks live Vampires,
teenage blood suckers on the night prowl, and
teenage Werewolves howling, running fast.
Humans afraid of these creatures’ wrath.
Human, not so human, called by the Night,
confused, resisting, teenagers losing the fight
against inner demons and lusty needs
and ordinary life with real human beings.
These beings fight and kill to survive;
wily, tricky, stealthy, with a Hunter’s pride.
The Horned God has history on his side.
Hunger keep us all on the Edge,
ready to amorally pounce from a hedge
and slaughter or harvest what is just ahead.
Hood Canal in May
Mt. Walker flanked
slender long Rainbow Falls---
a salmon hatchery
on the tiny Quilcene stream,
returned the hatchlings to the sea.
The Hood waterways
blurred in hazy mists,
dull gray obscured today---
flashes of sunlight
cut through the trees.
Strawberry Moon
hung low
orange glow
midnight rose
over Lilliwaup Cove
The Halfway House Cafe was empty
except for me
eating fried Hamma Hamma oysters---
while the perky young waitress
told me her stories
bird songs crossed
the hanging skies
while
emptiness hummed
in the strong branches alive
Full moon
morning sky---
a white silhouette
faintly traced
for uplifted eyes.
I’m not in Beijing, Rome,
or Buenos Aires---
just in the Geoduck Cafe (in Brinnon),
eating juicy clams, drinking beer,
listening to friendly locals, gazing at the Hood.
Elk heads stuffed
on the Geoduck Cafe wall.
Still life taxidermy. Hair
bristling. Comatose.
I heard the elk's stifled moan.
Wavelengths Away
For me
a crow is black.
For other Animal Eyes
a crow is --- Rainbow Colored,
Brilliant and Bright.
Fresh Figs, Rotten Plums
Winter weeks we huddled by the hot stove,
Spring days we shivered in the sun,
Summer hours we sat in the shade,
Autumn minutes we stared at the moon.
We had idle thoughts, we had no thoughts.
Life lifted our spirits high, despite our toils.
The ordinary, the exceptional,
the chosen, the accepted
the beautiful, the deformed
fresh figs, rotten plums
They appeared and disappeared
Samsara and Nirvana...
Here and Gone
The End
I watched my
mother and father
Die!
Unconscious before me,
drifting away so peacefully.
Is As Is
'Is' is an insistent perplexity
of sometimes being identity
of sometimes being temporarily
of sometimes being actuality;
Yes!, 'is' even postulates = equality.
Water Falls Into the Gorge
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 millennium;
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.
Double Visions
An eager face staring into the rich silence
Of mirrored space devoid of mind;
Not projecting or connecting, but reflecting.
Supreme non-fictions, Things
Naked as they are, as they are.
Inevitably, as sunshine blares on stones,
Green erupts from brown.
Curiosity Swings across the mind
past junkyards of ideas, peeling metaphors,
rusting rhymes, and concrete clichés.
We are as we are:
Twofolds, Fourfolds, Eightfolds of
Realities and Possibilities.
Pushing on. Pushing on!
Mountains on Paper
I really hiked to the Top of:
Mount Whitney & Mt. Lassen,
Mount San Gorgonio & Mt. Baldy & many more---
but only imagined understanding
the symbolic ideas of Mount Analogue.
Many Words for Rivers
Chinook People had many more words
for the Cowlitz waters than I.
Falling from my lips,
many words for electricity.
Lived places dictate vocabulary.
Writing Solo
I'm a poet
of a body, not a poet
of a soul, yes
I sing solo.
Yes, I wish Milton's Heavenly Muse
would dictate beautiful poetry to me.
But, unfortunately,
She never appeared, you see,
leaving me, seriously, with
the only Muse I hear—Me!
Every Detail Shined
Spring morning:
a young man stands,
listening to earphones,
waiting for the bus--
Downtown Camas soaked in mist.
every leaf
twitching to
the gentle breeze
thru morning dew
Even the little details and flaws
Shined like diamonds;
Caught our attentions!
Were called beautiful---
The Beauty of Imperfections.
Is it?
It scatters
It gathers
It advances
It retires---
What is It?
What is warm, then cools
What is wet, then dries
What is ice, then melts
What is rock, then shatters---
Time's arrow falls to the ground.
Time travel ----- imaginary
Fictional ---- hypothetical-figurative
Back to the Future --- reel time
Forward to the Past -- speculate
Fantasies in the Now - create
Magazines of Stale Memories
Opened the Door of his Mind:
Mostly a hoarder's rooms inside.
Filled with magazines of stale memories.
Packed with boxes of unpleasant dreams.
Piled with the dirty dishes of despair.
Winter Death
February fogs—
among the rotting brown leaves
a squashed dead frog;
Winter is a Brutal King
freezing beings one by one.
Disappeared and Never Returned
I will be gone someday
never returning
to walk or play.
Signed my Last Will to say
to whom my possessions are given away.
Coming in
let me nourish
like rain on a garden.
Going out
let me disappear
like geese going south.
More Poetry and Creative Work
From the Beginning Years: 2016 - 2019
Bundled Up, Volume 1
Wakas, Quintillas, Tankas, Quintets, Northwest
Haiku, Cinquains, Docu-Poems, Quintains
Quintain Poems 1 - 1,000
Bundled Up, Volume 2
Gogyohkas, Limericks, Seashore, Moods
Rhymes, Remarks, Listenings, Insights
Quintain Poems 1,000 - 1,500
Bundled Up, Volume 3
Octets, TextArt, Epigrams, Commonplaces, Onions
Quintain Poems 1,500 - 2,000
At the Edges of the West
Highway 101 and Hwy 1, Docu-Poems, Ocean, Quartets
Cuttings: Haiku, Senryu, Brief Poems by Months
Pulling Onions: One-Liners, Quips. Sayings
The Beginning Years: 2016 - 2019
Title Index to Poems in this WebBook
The Middle Years: 2019 - 2023
Alone in Time
second by second
hour after hour
week by week
month after month
year after year
decade after decade---
longevity adds up
The forces of the winds
and the roaring of the surf
kept me awake in camp that night—
my 76th birthday
alone at Cape Lookout
Will Cherished Ideals Survive
No Guarantees that to the End
Our cherished ideals will survive,
Our great great grandchildren will thrive,
Our monuments stand ...
Our guarantees?
This tree my great great grandmother planted,
This dog-eared Leaves of Grass on my desk,
This classic folksong on my breath,
This heirloom apple in my hand ...
This day,
no guarantees
for or against.
Good! So we strive on,
Their and our hopes in our hands now.
Ten Moves to Mate
The chessboard patterns
different each time...
Like my changing life,
complicated and intense.
Reacting when others move.
Enduring Monument
The lastingness of Mount Rainier
Fixed still standing aside the Salish Sea.
Nature's monument to Indestructibility.
Those seemingly forever lasting Things
That mark the geography of our destiny.
The Spiderwebs of Time
Fossilized seashells hold the tide's old hours.
The leafless gray trees keep their rings to themselves.
Children at play outgrown their shoes.
Mt. Rainier's glaciers glitter at noon.
A Hood Canal Raven breaks open the Clamshell of Time.
The cold ocean waves at Grayland Beach shiver in time.
The lazy Nehalem River Bay waits for summer.
The moving Reedsport sand dunes bury the hours.
Remembering is time, forgetting is time.
Great and small doubts reveal time.
Dreamless sleep dissolves time.
Hungry ghosts and naked demons haunt time.
The Spiderwebs of Time are Legion.
Multitudes of nows and thens;
Uncountable heres and theres
unhitched
from any Eternal Present
everywhere.
Chanting Canyon Streams
Opening bell
echoes from the canyon walls---
raindrops on the river.
The sounds of rocks bouncing off rocks;
the shadows of trees traced on trees.
I sit, still.
The canyon river chants,
moving mountains.
The sermon spun on the still point:
dropping off eternity, picking up time.
Letting go of self, awakened to Mind.
Rafting Down the Trinity
The river said go easy, so we pushed off, letting
the raft find its own argument. The current kept
offering us opportunities: a bend, a hush, a Class 3
rapid, fear, a jolt, a twist, a quiet float, a sudden lift.
We followed,
not knowing how far trust could
carry us,
only that it kept insisting "Yes!"
Twisted by river stones, paddles, muscles, current,
wind and the long drag downhill on rushing cold
water ..... the rubber raft slipped into its becoming,
guided by a curious flotational logic.
Sunlight leaned into the canyon, finding us still
and
stuck
where the current slowed. There the
small trout dallied without hurry on the rocks
below.
We felt the day open, wide as the bend ahead.
Later, the wind arrived, ruffling the surface into small
disagreements. We answered with hard strokes that
tried to match the river’s impatience. We bounced back
and forth on the raft's edge. Two people had fear in
their voices. Even the river banks and forest seemed
to listen, cottonwood trees leaning in, as excitement
intensified.
The water shook us and we were fully ready, paddling
the raft past the damp bark of the alders. We let the
river tumble us over the large boulders and growling
rapids,
bouncing us with sudden shakes and breathless
glee. Only the arguing water, our soaked clothing,
and the joy and laughter mattered.
Paddles touched the hush, the canyon walls held
their breath. Water knows the way. We follow its
subtle speaking, thinking to ourselves.
Toward evening the canyon settled into closure.
We stopped, made camp, ate dry bread and hard
cheese, drank cheap wine, talked by the fire. The
river retreated into the closing darkness. The night
gurgled a restless tune off key.
Two dreamed of being tossed off the raft.
Polished Till It Glowed
Tumbling river stones
In the raging river borne along.
Polished smooth for decades past,
Till all the edges are cut smooth and slick,
Then the polished colored pebbles sink home.
Halfway Between the Equator and the North Pole
I live near
the 45th Parallel North, along with:
Lincoln City, Salem, North Powder, Salmon,
Eagle Butte, Chippewa Falls,
Wausau, Minneapolis,
Montreal, Stewiacke,
Ocean...
Grenoble, Turin, Bordeaux, Belgrade,
Bucharest, Simferopol, Qyzylorda, Feodosiya,
Karamay, Harbin, Wakkanai,
Ocean...
Same latitude, one April,
many different Spring weathers.
Held Up in a Decade
We ourselves are immersed in the Facts
Working our way from first to last,
Living each day, not our last...
Surviving here and there, in somewhere cast,
No choice in our decades,
and our specified spatial-spiritual trap.
American Investments
they had no books
in their home
and in their side yard
a $35,000 travel trailer
gathering dust and moss
Nighttime Chores
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.
Recalling Errors
The door forgets being closed.
I remembered forgetting.
The sentence forgot a few words.
something was missing
after I looked
Not retrieval---reconstruction!
Each week I remember
some rebuilt recall---
a pinch of error
and something slightly new, that's all.
I remember remembering
a museum of portraits
each one of my faces
each face at a different age
asking me quizzically:
"Are you still here?"
Details on Details, Zoom In
The endless treasures of the everyday,
the uncommonness of common things;
Ordinary mind does point the way
to unspoken wonders of myriad beings.
Whether a leaf, the moon, a plastic spoon,
or a shoe, an eye, an infant's cry;
the endless parade, zoom out, in zoom,
Details on details, thick, piled high.
Cellular seedpods pulsing pure time,
Flowering brains clone families of minds
that revel in thinking to the Infinite edge,
agog over life, and love of knowledge.
Whether a quasar, a hand, a DNA strand,
Fantastic journeys in the Minds of Millions.
Fumble Fingers
Of things mechanical
I've little ken,
I fumble and fuss
from start to end.
Where a mechanic
pushes right---
I pull left till
things stick-tight.
Bending things
I shouldn't bend,
unfortunately---
Till they ain't right.
It's just so, so it is,
fumble fingers my fate it is.
Shifu Miao Zhang
The Taoist Cane Master
I. Sudden or Gradual
Master Pita asked Shifu Miao Zhang,
"What is sudden enlightenment?"
Shifu Zhang immediately
threw his staff on the muddy ground.
Master Xita asked Shifu Miao Zhang,
"What is gradual enlightenment?"
Shifu Zhang stomped on
his muddy staff three times,
and yelled "Get to Work!"
II. Slicing Through Nothing
Mayoku walked around his old
Daoist friend, Shifu Miao Zhang,
three times, and he then thumped
his oak staff once on the ground.
Miao Zhang stood up,
walked around Mayoku once,
tapped his pine cane
three times on the wall, and said,
"The power of the wind can topple trees
and is gone by morning.
My cane can cut through the wind."
III. From the East to the West
Master Sound of Bitterroot Mountain
asked Shifu Miao Zhang,
"What is the meaning of the
Bodhidharma Phato emerging in the West?"
Shifu lifted his cane
placed it in his mouth,
saying nothing.
Later, zany Zen liar that he was, he wrote:
"No minds, no Dharma.
No-mind, much Dharma."
IV. I Will Take Your Staff Away
Zen Master Baqiao told his old friend,
Shifu Miao Zhang, "If you have a staff,
I will give you a staff; if you have no staff,
I will take your staff away."
Shifu Zhang replied "I have a cane and
you don't. Would you like to borrow yours?"
Baqiao replied, "Miao Zhang, you will
likely have to walk into Hell!"
Miao Zhang raised his eyebrows and said,
"Well, Baqiao, then I will need to
borrow my cane for the long hot walk
with you.
Sorry, but I can't lend your
broken staff to you."
V. Same or Different
Zen Master Seung Sahn held up his staff
in front of Shifu Miao Zhang, and said
"Then, Miao Zhang, what are this staff,
this sound and your mind? Are they the
same or different? If you say "same," I
will hit you thirty times. If you say "different,"
I will also hit you thirty times. Why?"
Miao Zhang lifted his cane slowly,
grounded himself, prepared to block
Seung Sahn's single strike, and then said,
"Don't know! Same or different,
nobody can hit the sound of our minds."
VI. Quacking Questions
Shifu Zhang enjoyed a month's retreat
At a cottage in
Willow's back streets.
One night he dreamed:
And before the Northwest Ones appeared,
Forty million years of ducks in the mud.
Lighting two candle lanterns
a hundred miles away
Cutting up a duck for dinner.
A dog barks at smells.
A thousand ducks twitched---
winds of winter.
Do the ducks have Buddha-Nature?
"Sssshhh!
Stop quacking like a duck."
Meetings with Master Chang San Feng
Shifu Miao Zhang Points the Way
Zatoichi and Kung Fu TV Characters
Entropy Points Its Finger
The Arrows of Time
never rest,
moving forward unrelenting
irreversible:
from hot towards cold
from stream to Sea
from organized to disorganized
from past to future
from moving towards stillness
from life towards death.
Or, so it seems, to us,
with our little particulars,
with our home brew views,
with our social habits a must.
A Gardener's Sutra on Time: Excerpts
One purpose of a garden is to stop time in one place.
Take the time to melt into the Details.
Time will tell, but we often fail to listen.
Gardeners turn into the soil their lifetime.
Beauty is the Mistress, the gardener her slave.
Gardeners learn to live in worm time,
bee time, and seed time.
In the right place at the right time,
tomato worms on tomato vines.
Gardens are demanding pets.
Time creeps, walks, runs and flies---
it is all about moving things.
That something is eternal is unverifiable.
The seed idea for "God" is springtime.
The ten thousand things are more enchanting
than the Silent Divine One.
Dogmatists are less useful than dogs.
When the divine knocks, don't send
a prophet to the door.
Time prevents too much from happening at once.
Time is rooted in Place.
What you see depends on when you look.
Perfection can be the opponent of betterment.
A working hypothesis is far better than a belief.
Most laws of Gardening are merely local ordinances.
Mother Nature is always pregnant.
A callused palm and dirty fingernails
precede a Green Thumb.
Chaos breaks its own rules to allow Order to play.
Without vagueness we are bored with literalness.
Somehow, someway,
everything gets eaten up, someday.
Pulling Onions 1,053 Quips, One-Liners, Aphorisms, Jokes
Plodding Along
Accomplish the Improbable?
Make The Normal passé?
Cure a cancer? Make solar panels gleaming?
Create new arts. Manipulate the Future?
Appropriate the Everything
passing quickly by---
cellphone computers in every hand,
machines that mimic the mind,
menkind walking on the moon,
real human/environmental costs ignored.
Lasers opening up an eye,
MRI slicing up your brain.
A skyscraper's glass two miles wide.
A nuclear reactor making steam;
The Hanford reactors were a lie.
Wine from California in Japan,
COVID vaccine shipped worldwide,
New wheat seeds bio-engineered in labs,
Around the world jet airplanes roam.
twelve tone music in your left ear
an orthopedic mattress making your bed
transforming sand into computer chips
air frying frozen bagels for your lips
Cargo ships shipping grain out from Port Kalama.
Cargo ships unloading wind turbines at Port Vancouver.
Cargo ships unloading Toyota cars in Port Longview.
Cargo ships loading products at Pier 16 at Port Portland.
Cargo ships and barges and tugboats and fishing vessels.
Cargo ships passing the ferry launch at Cathlamet
Cargo ships loading timber for Japan at Port Longview.
Cargo ships off loading fuel at the power plant at PGE Beaver.
Cargo ships crossing the Columbia Bar in good weather.
Wonders upon Wonders—New!
Faster than a speeding bullet train
Leaping to Mars in a single bound
Yet, seeing the deadly arrows in flight
Pollution our Kryptonite.
Broken Down
My great nephew,
Joshua Loya his name,
a troubled, sick, tired fellow.
We tried to help him and failed.
A soul free of conventionality.
His mom died when he was 10
he never recovered!
He lived with us for over a year.
A lazy fellow!
Straight F's in high school.
He was a homeboy styler
a skinny fellow
dressed in
baggy pants.
Hanging out with cholos
for a fine machismo time.
I drove Josh back to his father in Fresno.
Larry and I, frustrated in the night.
A few years later, a more confused Josh,
faltering after auto accidents and hepatitis,
and fun drug usage most days;
he slowly slipped from us away.
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 and tents sometimes.
He called his Aunt Blanche last month.
He was homeless again
hoping for help from family and friends.
Sadly, he was sick again.
He wished her well at the end.
She sent him cash later that day.
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!
| cruel |
| man |
| gun |
| in |
| hand |
Ugh!
The Day My Religion Started to Die
In the fourth grade, my teacher,
a stern Catholic nun (towards boys),
told the entire class:
My grandmother and I
were going to Hell (her emphasis!)!
Because we attended my grandma's
Lutheran Church on last Sunday.
Shocked, upset, and annoyed was I!
My grandmother was a good person.
Catholicism, for me, on that day shrivelled
and later died.
Put on a New Suit
Delete more adjectives
Cut more adverbs
Remove crayons from the box
Empty the trash
Tell a quarter of the story
Climb out on a limb
Be concise, be precise
Imitate Rae Armantrout
Don't tell it like it is
Neutralize explanations
Get to the point
Even when pointless
Worship the God of Brevity
Handicap the God of Verbosity
More Poetry and Creative Work
From the Middle Years: 2019 - 2023
Bundled Up, Volume 4
Remarks, Rhymes, Seeings, Onions, Sonnets
Quintain Poems 2,000 - 2,500
Bundled Up, Volume 5
Quintain Sonnets, Time, TextArt, Koans, Remarks
Quintain Poems 2,500 - 3,000
Bundled Up, Volume 6
Sonnets, Lore, Time, Language, Thought
Quintain Poems 3,000 - 3,500
The Fireplace Records Koan Collection
The Tao Te Ching: Anthology and Concordance
An Old Philosopher's Notebooks
I Tried to Write Better Poetry
The Beginning Years: 2016 - 2019
Title Index to Poems in this WebBook
The Recent Years: 2023 - 2026
Slippery Sentences Dematerialized
Syntax melts into calligrammes
Dictionaries lack verbs
Pages and pages of punctuation marks
Semantics smack of misunderstandings
Poems simply dematerialized
A limber metaphor walks through water
Messages leak and bleed on paper
Nouns found a time to hum
Periods became black blank zeros
Quintains morphed into Sonnets
Predicates dissolved into Objects
Adjectives unspoooo
oooooo
oooled into Hieroglyphs
Cliches retreated into walls of phonemes
Truth became shy and subtle
The bridge of silence collapsed.
Turn the Clock Back
I turned the clock hands
back an hour in the fall.
Even though, in private time-space,
nobody can ever
turn the clock back at all.
The coffee
in my cup
was Cold!
A compass
for
Entropy.
What Happened to Silence?
The clock in the classroom
Worked hard diligently
To avoid, To Silence---the Present;
Never stopped...
Tick - happens. Tock - happens.
Decades passed,
Left no forwarding address.
Tomorrow dreams of Yesterday.
Today forgets both...
Tick - silence. Tock - silence.
I didn't think
I would live this long
What a unqualified surprise
to be standing silently
on the shores of Lake Quinault.
The Tick-Tock Tractatus: 5.6.4.2
Speaking of Time: The Poetric Investigations
Oulipos Coordinates Conceptualized
I. Punctuated Still-Life
&&&&&
$$$$$
;;;;;
@@@@@
| ##### | Counted | ##### |
| ..... | Asserted | ..... |
| ????? | Questioned | ????? |
| !!!!! | Exclaimed | !!!!! |
| ,,,,, | Paused | ,,,,, |
Compare with four pages of random punctuation
marks by Elizabeth Clark, Between Worlds.
II. Hidden Codes
A26 B25 C24 D23 E22
F21 G20 H19 I18 J17
K16 L15 M14 N13 O12
11P 10Q 9R 8S 7T
6U 5V 4W 3X 2Y
Z1
Compare with six pages of meaningless codes
by Vito Acconci, Removal.
III. We/We/We
we see
we want
we steal
we lie
we use AI
Compare with twelve pages of brief phrases
beginning with the word 'my' by
Charles Bernstein, My/My/My.
IV. Counting Down
eight, eighty, eight hundred,
seven thousand, six million,
five billion, four trillion,
Three, Two, One
Zero
Compare with ten pages of words for numbers
by Claude Closky, The First Thousand Numbers
V. What?
ArE swbath blaZe muteRing empty RocKet
reD ciTIzenS As he desiBA Ntecello golD
comPlaining FocusDownnn Ulla FideNtia
is KelPt stOne CSChUrch btone threadI
mi sPirghi ch'iO gU di pietro Negator' D'usura
Compare with seven pages of misspelled, invented,
and highlighted Non-Words by John Cage,
Writing Through the Cantos.
VI. Seeing Three Ways
| Winter | North | Today |
| Spring | East | Future |
| Summer | South | Past |
| Fall | West | Now |
| Year | Center | Time |
{{{ the power of three by mpgarofalo }}}
Compare with thousands of concrete poems,
text art, calligrammes, ASCII art, and graphic
messages as found in the Index to Concrete Poetry
by Mike Garofalo.
Concrete Poetry and Text Art Exhibits
VII. Alphabetic Trails
Abecedarian Sextet
All bohemians can't do everything.
Formulas give help in judging.
Keeping loving men noticing.
Only perfectionists quickly revise.
Settled truces universally valued.
Worried xenophobe yells zilch.
From ABCDE ... VWXYZ
| At the beginning | After the end |
| Before the end | Before the beginning |
| Caught in the middle | Compromised splits |
| Divided in between | Discovering emptiness |
| Everything dissolves | Empezar de Nuevo |
| For the Record | From that day |
| Giving it away | Gaining respect |
| Happy I'd say | Hands on right |
| 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 nopqrstuvwxyz |
| Very clearly | Virtuously so |
| With a Changing Key | Wechselndem Schlüssel |
| Xmas comes | Xanthia goes |
| You think you know | Your known |
| Zany at times | Zendo zone |
- Compare with:
See also Paul Celan, Index of Titles A-Z.
Bob Perelman, An Alphabet of Literary History.
Harryette Mullen, Blah-Blah, and Jingle Jangle.
Amaranth Borsuk, Show of Hands.
Reference Sources:
Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual
Writing, 656 pages, 2011. Edited by Craig Dworkin.
Artifice and Indeterminacy: An Anthology of New Poetics,
392 pages,
1998. Edited by Christopher Beach.
The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Book: Poetics of the New.
Edited by Charles Bernstein and Bruce Andrews.
312 pages, 1984.
The Marginalization of Poetry: Language Writing
and Literary History, 187 pages, 1996.
By Bob Perelman.
Poems for the Millennium: Volume Two. Edited
by Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris.
871 pages, 1998.
Dying is a Hard Journey
Dying is such a depressing waste
a wasting away of dignity
facing the firing squad of some disease
your own body murders you with ease
twenty names for your miseries.
Can't hide in the woods or city,
Dying spares no home, nor has any pity.
Dying can be over instantly
in an hour, month, season, or years.
Dying can be around the corner
or in a hospital in south Spokane.
Dying ends with an open mouth sigh.
Dying and Death, the Faces of Janus.
Dying is Death's Emissary, both liars.
Dying, my mom, and I shared a final toast;
Before Dying waited for mom to release her ghost.
Managed Needs
/// RATION my cash supply ///
/$$ simplify $$/
??? Do I really NEED it? ???
!!! reconceptualize !!!
Christmas in Red Bluff
Santa folds his list into paper cranes that fly.
Ornaments gossip in the tree about last year's top star.
Reindeer practice tap dancing on the rooftop tiles.
Gingerbread men hold a polite debate with the wind.
The radio forgets its place and hums the carols backwards.
Multiply the Facts
I walked two miles in one hour.
And the Earth rotates at 1,000 MPH.
And the Earth flies at 67,000 MPH.
And our Solar system files at 514,000 MPH.
So, how fast was I really walking?
Yes, facts multiply.
But do they divide into facts?
Yes, the world has many facts
All stacked in rooms now called
"Now and Past."
In the future, we will add more facts.
One Picture of Me
This bony skull of mine
electrified
pictured onscreen for me.
Doctor recommends
some oral surgery.
The brain disappeared,
an empty space.
sliced from
X Ray images retraced.
Eyeless in inner space.
Monkey nose holes,
bony eye glasses,
teeth glowing in the dark.
Inner spaces never seen
underneath my very being.
Skinless, noseless, earless,
a shape, a form---
the images informed.
Stripping away the unneeded,
revealing my pixelated inner core.
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 adjectives
writing waits. Its waiting
Hood Canal, Hood Fjord, Hood Inlet
a conjunction of Names-Nouns
suspended between spruces and Firs
(January) the adverbial cedar bark
speaks only in the direction
of having spoken already
Hood Inlet: a Grammar
Of a valley, peninsula, mountains, and the sea.
And nowadays, fenced in, the Bremerton Navy Yards
and the
Bangor Base
for nuclear submarines!!!
what the Cedar means by standing
at the water's syntactical
edge: to mean?
To stand by
the Hood which curls like verbs
by 101 and the sun
Tight Timelines for Unwanted Advice
In every moment
today is created anew---
pristine possibilities
changing opportunities
depending on you.
Between
two eternities
your brief life
is stretched
! tight !
You're a book unopened:
hidden potential
covered insights
closed ideas
Waiting.....
{{{ the whole truth by mpgarofalo }}}
Altered Identities
My experiences at times
have not damaged or broken me;
but, indeed,
have bent and twisted
my identity.
Under the Water
of my mind
an unconscious Sea
of Memories
guide me through time
Keep me on a course line
send me some signs
become conscious at times...
freedom may a fiction be
controlled by unknown destinies.
Bring the Unconscious,
Sub-Conscious, ego, and Id,
Collective Unconscious figured in---
Over the waves of Consciousness
the flotsam of Unknowns are adrift.
{{{ karma of acts by mpgarofalo }}}
Damp Bandon Docks Bemused
Bandon sea stacks shout at starfish
Hotels hang loose over pillow basalt cliffs
Tourists circled like annoying flies
Our wine glasses toasted our broken resolutions
Summer blackberries were invisible
Cranberry candy softened like flowing sand
Fried fish n chips were savored by avid lips
The seagulls refused to understand our silly plans
We pretended not to know what others knew
Cars on 101 stared intently at red stoplights
Painted sculptures dot the aging wharf
Downtown stores sell shirts and shells
A child's sandcastle outlived the afternoon
The Coquille River shivers with resolve.
Chevron Station at the Edge of Empty
Gleaming gas pumps in the fluorescent night.
Silent slaves of the Almighty dollars,
Pouring costly high-octane gallons
Into the bellies of Chevies.
Ding! Ding! Gallons go down.
Wallets open and fold.
Customers piss, buy coffee, stretch and go.
Headlights come and go, flashing
By the drying Lakes of Petro.
Acid fogs melt steel-belted moons.
Smog smothers each empty black street.
A Dead End ahead, everywhere,
For us, for OPEC, for Fords.
A Bandolier of Manifesto Bullets
Reglas del Juego Ars Poetica
what you don't say
is as important as
what you do say---
and vice-versa
spontaneous perceptions
change directions
willy-nilly Improvised
one perception should
directly lead to
another perception ... Quickly!!
Follow the Breath
like a jazz saxophonist:
in and out, stop and start, getting it down
doubts embrace the hemistich
irony precedes the enjambment
confusion follows the non-sequiturs
randomness hugs ambient metaphors
The poetic work ethic:
constantly prodding,
ever scrutinizing,
relentlessly wording,
swimming in stanzas.
Self-correct like a skeptic.
Delay the punchline ... then Punch!
The unspoken space leaves a heavy silence.
Attend closely to things and perceptions
avoid intellectual digressions.
Focus on Locality---Our Places in Reality!
No ideas but in things.
No ideas but in beings.
Algunas ideas son abrazadas por las cosas.
Solo los seres humanos reavivan las ideas.
Muchas ideas simplemente flotan en el espacio.
Avoid historic styles, meter, rhymes and
"that traditional stuff."
Be more lean and buff!
The open-field is beautiful;
The closed-field grows vegetables.
Take your pick when you're in a pinch.
The desire for the Objectively Perfect:
rooted in our history,
fixed to our place Inside
current real particularities.
words cover the pages post-haste,
don't stop much to meditate---
go, go, Go ... don't hesitate!
Don't tell the readers what a scene means!
Only a special natural object is
the adequate symbol for an idea or inward state.
Present then Stop
reduce the i-me-my
no confessionals please:
Depersonalize
Don't tell a story; hesitate to fictionalize.
Yes, there are characters, but keep them dry.
Narrative suppresses immediate attention.
The story keeps us focused on the story.
The potholes of plots can hypnotize.
Narratives trend towards conventional conformity.
To be more creative---overcome
your fears
of being wrong
or making mistakes.
[Wink: Use one or two of these Manifesto Bullets,
Ignore the rest; let freedom be your guide.]
Even for old news: MAKE IT New!
Making your poetry:
Make it New, Make it Strange,
Make it Now, Make it Yours,
Make it Better, Make it True.
Make it Reveal, Make it Change.
Some poems are better
Read
than
Said.
Let the speaker set the pace; or,
Let the reader set the pace?
The eyes and/or ears
both have plans.
Some verses stretched the mind
Baffled the understanding
Confused the senses
Upset one's peace.
Discomfort can rejuvenate.
- A Collage of Sources:
Charles Bernstein, Robert Creeley,
Allen Ginsberg, Charles Olson,
Bob Perelman, Ezra Pound,
Ron Silliman,
Louis
Zukofsky, W.C. Williams.
Truths about the Future?
For the moment, Now, for me,
the world is the case.
Yesterday, the world was
actually the case.
Tomorrow's events are not the case.
Only the Present and Past are Actual
The Future is bounded by possibilities:
uncertainties, unpredictability, chances,
accidents, unknowns, contingencies ...
And quasi-informative necessities.
God knows the future some say.
I don't think that way.
Some statements about future events
Are neither necessary nor impossible
and have no truth value.
Two Options...
Can't but help
think in Two's
brain aligned so---
Forced to choose:
Yes or No?
Past or Now?
Last day of Spring,
ripe purple plums drop---
form is emptiness.
First day of Summer,
ditch completely dry---
emptiness is form.
{{{ Past-Now Text-Art by mpgarofalo }}}
Closing Time
running out of time
for catching up
with the future
now
a problem
my mind grinds
my times
into memories
so fine
they disappear
Note this:
9 + 9 = too many to carry very far
and & and = a homily that went far too long
6 - 6 = an empty fruit jar
4 - 2 = only half-way to the Columbia Bar
0 / 0 = meaningless questions so bizarre
| < | F | A | R | > |
| * | ? | ! | - | $ |
| 5 | 4 | 3 | 2 | 1 |
| # | ; | : | / | " |
| [ | J | A | R | ] |
| R | @ | ^ | & | $ |
| * | - | = | + | ? |
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |
| { | R | ^ | % | " |
| ~ | ? | H | * | # |
| 5 | B | A | R | 1 |
| # | ; | L | / | " |
| { | []} | F | % | ? |
| t | h | e | n | d |
Body Surfing at Huntington Beach
Meat torpedo hisses and BAMS into the froth-committee
Salty telegrams: SWIM HARD ahead AHEAD ARMS arms FAST
Kick those big black rubber Fins: KICK KIck, Fast and Hard
Foam! Foam! A bureaucracy of Swishy Froth
Lifted by cascading surf---I'm flung, I fly
My arched body negotiates with a seagull's diving alibi
Brine hiccup --- my spine unscrews itself impolitely
Tumble tumble Mike's wet body ...
THRILLING long ride
Fizzling out, I stand: a shallow wet parenthesis, finished
Time Travel to the Outskirts of Words
Objects are Intertwined:
Inter-breeding like space and time
Inter-acting like brain and mind
Inter-relating like the drummer and the band
Inter-locking like fingers and hand
Time is Objectified:
Counted, tallied, recorded, traded;
Clock hands moving, telling time;
Clarion bells singing hours at nine---
Time eats everything; Objects dissolve.
Time is Personified:
Grim Reaper, Stork Baby, Dorian Gray;
Talking Time Machines, Killer Shark AI;
Old man with a crooked gray cane;
Eternal Goddess in a perfectly lazy Sky.
We travel via Time:
All the time, consistently, logically,
Relentlessly, unavoidably, inexorably...
But, realistically--- Entropy ---
Closes the Past with a slap!
^^ We Only Travel in Time in the Now ^^
Words, thankfully, are Free
To thumb their noses at reality
To toss time-places-people randomly around
To invent a Supreme Fiction for us to See---
To create a timeless Heaven for Eternity.
More Poetry and Creative Work
From the Concluding Years: 2023 - 2026
Bundled Up, Volume 7
Quintains, Delight, Strangeness, Things, Beauty
Quintain Poems 3,500 - 4,000
Bundled Up, Volume 8
Experimental, Surreal, Conceptual, Text-Art
All types of Poetry 4,000 - 4,500
The Tick-Tock Tractatus
Speaking of Time: The Poetic Investigations
25 Steps and Beyond: Collected Works
Attention, Language and Time:
Selected Poetry: 2016-2026
The Beginning Years: 2016 - 2019
Poem Title Index: 2016 - 2026
Poem Title Index: 2016 - 2019
Backyard Zendo
Basho's Frog Redux
The Bodhi Forest Cut Down
Counting the Moons Over La Push
Disappeared and Never Returned
Double Visions
Emerging Through the Green
The End
Every Detail Shined
Five Elements Embracing
Fresh Figs, Rotten Plums
Hood Canal In May
Is As Is
Is It?
Magazines of Stale Memories
Make It Interesting
Many Words for Rivers
Mountains on Paper
My Ears Hear Celestial Music
Not Walking With a Dog
Red Coals Pulse Like Distant Stars
Replant the Memories
Salmon Moon Magic
Seeing the Trend Towards
Stepping Over Epiphanies
Vampires in the Hoh Forest
Vancouver Hometown Miniatures
Water Falls Into the Gorge
Wavelengths Away
Weeding Your Way to Kensho
Winter Death
Writing Solo
Poem Title Index: 2019 - 2023
The Day My Religion Started to Die
A Gardener's Sutra on Time: Excerpts
Halfway Between the Equator and the North Pole
Poem Title Index: 2023 - 2026
A Bandolier of Manifesto Bullets
Body Surfing at Huntington Beach
Cedars Reflecting the Hood Fjord
Chevron Station at the Edge of Empty
Oulipos Coordinates Conceptualized
Slippery Sentences Dematerialized
Tight Timelines for Unwanted Advice
Time Travel to the Outskirts of Words
Subject Indexes to Poems
Attention, Awareness, Sensations
A Bandolier of Manifesto Bullets
Time, Duration, Being
Disappeared and Never Returned
A Gardener's Sutra on Time: Excerpts
Time Travel to the Outskirts of Words
Post-Modern, Conceptual, LANGUAGE
A Bandolier of Manifesto Bullets
Cedars Reflecting the Hood Fjord
Oulipos Coordinates Conceptualized
Slippery Sentences Dematerialized
Outdoors, Travel, Nature
Counting the Moons Over La Push
Red Coals Pulse Like Distant Stars
Zen-Taoist-Mystic Influenced
Counting the Moons Over La Push
Personals, Persons, Psychology
The Day My Religion Started to Die
Tight Timelines for Unwanted Advice
Home life, Suburban, Rural, Northwest
A Gardener's Sutra on Time: Excerpts
Halfway Between the Equator and the North Pole
Surreal, Dada, Beat, Oulipos
Cedars Reflecting the Hood Fjord
Oulipos Coordinates Conceptualized
Humor, Jokes, Quips
Facts, Information, Science, Technology
Halfway Between the Equator and the North Pole
Endings, Death
Disappeared and Never Returned
More Poetry and Creative Work
Resource Link Lists
Productions from the Early Years: 2016-2019
Productions from the Middle Years: 2019 - 2023
Productions from the Recent Years: 2023-2026
Reading List: Post-Modern Poetry
Audio-Recordings
Free Audio-Recordings of a Reading:
An Afternoon for Poetry at
The Gushen Grove Patio in Vancouver
November 20, 2026
Mike Garofalo reading his poetry from
Attention, Language, and Time.
Red Coals Pulse Like Distant Stars
Body Surfing at Huntington Beach
Chevron Station at the Edge of Empty
Concrete Poetry and Text-Art
The Power of Three Concrete Poem
Texts-PreSS Couve Pubs Text-Art
Ugh! Concrete Poem
{{{ the onion garden by mpgarofalo }}}
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 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 2026-2027: reading,
writing, gardening, harmonica playing, home
chores, yurt camping trips, exercise, traveling
in the Northwest, web publishing, family events,
poetry research, photography, Northwest research,
Nature mysticism,
Buddhist and Taoist literature,
reading Spanish,
Tai Chi Chuan, walking,
Existential-Environmental philosophy,
sports events, etc.
I am influenced by, but not severely restricted
by, the above cited ars poetica objectives.
Amateur poets like me need to focus my
autodidact poetry studies on reading.
I need examples and options for expanding
and improving my poetic range and
my practical and productive writing efforts.
I wrote effective business prose during my 50
years of employment as a librarian. I've read
poetry all my life, but only since 2021 have
I been a serious
poetry
researcher and theorist.
I
specialized in writing aphoristic
one-line quips,
indie webpage production, and
three line
Haiku and Senryu from 1998-2016. I began
studying Quintains in 2019.
{{{ texts-preSS Couve Pubs graphic by mpgarofalo }}}
25 Steps and Beyond: Collected Works
Texts-PreSS Couve Publications, Vancouver, Washington State
I really appreciate positive feedback,
reviews, kudos, and encouragement
about the value
of
my free webpages.
Send your comments to:
Text Press Email
This document was last edited, revised,
reformatted, added to, relinked,
changed, improved, or modified
by Michael Peter Garofalo [mpgarofalo]
on September 20, 2026. Ver. 29.