Cuttings: November
Haiku, Senryu, Brief Poems
Autumn Season
1998 - 2025
By Mike Garofalo
Place, Setting, Location:
Vancouver, Clark County,
Columbia River Valley,
Washington, 2017-2025
moonrise—
the dark night of a soul
lifts
in-breath
out-breath
unconsciously
enables me
to Consciously Be
Carrying home
her baby sister—
a sermon walking.
dawn—
every leaf drips
backlit by fog
Place, Setting, Loacation:
Red Bluff, Tehama County,
North Sacramento Valley,
California, 1998-2016
the cold hard rain
comes and goes—
in between, distant voices
mixed memories
of 68 Novembers past
dissolving—
quacking ducks
flying by
disappearing
in the foggy morning sky
Cowboy music
Cozy Kitchen Cafe—
steaming coffee.
Later,
loading lumber
Home Depot lot—
splinter stings thumb.
a boy
in the body of a man—
twelve birthday candles smoking
Splitting dry kindling
on a damp November day—
wind chimes tinkling.
My eyes
trace her figure—
the dog sniffs.
A trillion seeds
wait for the rain—
dry autumn night.
Yolly Bolly awakens
baby blue dawn—
a sip of java.
The first rain
comes at night—
cozy bed.
He drives up
above the fog—
her mind clears.
Salmon leap
up Deer Creek—
El Día de los Muertos.
Ripe red berries
massed along the tavern wall—
drunken blue jays.
Maybe she knew
but could not say—
Mom's last day.
two laughing girls
arm in arm
walking home
Autumn leaves
speak of sad memories—
poppies in lapels.
"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields."
- Colonel John McRae,
In Flanders Fields,
November 11th - Veteran's Day,
Armistice Day, 1918
A duck and its image
float serene—
clouds in the pond.
Chico State Blues 11
Every luscious cut and curve so
sharp and clean
in jeans as tight as I have seen
Pulled low. Blouse high
accentuates her swaying thighs.
Bare waist, navel ring,
tattooed butt...so sweeeeeeet, I sing:
"When the moon hits your eye
like a big pizza pie."
a hint of winter
off the wind—
split pomegranates
Overhead, the past lives of galaxies retreat,
Below, the bubbling red lava holds;
Between, the voices of the night
bouncing between my ears
disappear into dying campfires.
The last seed
falls from the sunflower—
empty pond.
The long awaited
rattle of rain on rooftops—
Thanksgiving Day.
Clapping, calling,
her whistle crosses the night—
the dogs turn home.
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.
Saturated yellow leaves of the little white birch,
Cover the earth, thinly, gently, sans mirth.
Baby shower
"oohs" and "aahs"—
ripe persimmons.
Football weekends
kicked back—
big screen dreams.
Egret perched
on a dead oak—
snowless Shasta.
Elephants bellow, donkeys bray;
Most voters silent on Election Day.
Ludicrous, man, that Son of Sam,
Bible in Hand, born again, a saved man.
Forgiven by the blood of a crucified man.
Can This be true?
No way, no way, for that killer-man.
Blind belief, first in Satan then the Lord,
By Gullible Sam, Jonestown fools,
or the bin Laden clan;
All worshipping worn-out words of desert bores
Babbling from the Bible or Koran.
“God Bless America” makes me cringe.
God, Allah, or Jehovah
Cannot bless our heartless sins.
my hand
jumps off the hot pot—
news alert
his lips part
quivering
pain in his eyes
Life is such a quirky clutter of impressions,
sublime simples, flowing to and fro,
from breath to death, elusive as mountains,
as solid as the wind never centered.
Pieces upon pieces, moans and groans,
songs and sighs, till we leave alone.
We scattered some of my aunt's ashes
on Lake Shasta;
all standing in sunburnt silence,
each rocking on our own heart-beats,
till our own souls
took their long swim down, down, down
to the bottom of our bones.
I wish I could give you a big hug,
read you a poem,
make you laugh...
it would help to console me.
Squeezing her waist,
holding his hand—
puppy love.
A new tattoo
on my son's chest—
another revelation.
Gardens are demanding pets.
Time is something everyone runs short on and finally runs out of.
An important gardening judgment: When to Do Nothing!
Remember that gophers also need to make a living;
preferably in somebody else's garden.
A garden is made up of stories, not things.
You are given Today - make it matter.
A callused palm and dirty fingernails precede a Green Thumb.
To garden Is the reward.
Absolutes squirm beneath realities.
Your garden will do for you in proportion to what you do for it.
- Pulling Onions
Broken by strokes,
Fragments of Mind gone awry—
Lost in his own home.
Faces in the rolling clouds;
Thinking out loud, nothing strange,
Always Mind at its Game.
a bold zero
inked on the scroll—
fancies of one hand clapping
In the gentle breeze,
shimmering mulberry leaves—
oblique sun.
Weird dreams of sex and sour
wild white streams inside you
Flowing into me, bloody seas,
of dark foaming fertility.
nibbled brown fields
turn to green,
November Spring
Imagination scaffolding imagination.
Bes in a feeding frenzy.
E-mailing at 11 pm.
Leafless peach trees
standing in golden leaves—
November drizzle.
unclear
near or far;
old eyes
one sip too many:
double vision
double vision
Our future stood on its head,
flipped over,
by that ruffian, Death.
gradually,
kensho—
a new born calf
wobbles
Pruned
Naked vines—
Skeletons
Coming in
let me nourish
like rain on a garden.
Going out
let me disappear
like geese going south.
Tripping no more—
feng-shui books picked up
off the floor.
for me,
the walnut leaves
stir up a breeze
Eager to be free
the dog paws at the gate,
rattling her lusts.
Smelling something, she barks
into the blackest night;
moonless.
Curled and purring in my lap;
Seeking warmth,
My thin white cat.
Ahead of my words—
pencil shadows
moving precisely
five puffs up,
two tickets to Atman,
no nightmares
A mud covered frog
croaking in the horsetails—
for fun, purely fun.
Golden glow
of rabbit brush in bloom—
fall in the foothills.
whispering—gently—tenderly
in my ear—up close—placing
her breath—her love—her kiss
swollen nipple
between his lips—
arching hips
First rains fall,
russet and scarlet leaves
fill the grimy gutters.
Counting calories
for the umpteenth time—
failing at subtraction
Stumbling, coughing, stoned on pot;
A grinning clown, but smart he's not.
A webpage of koans
puzzle the browser—
nothing on file
the toad
hop by hop towards
home
Billions of sharp sunbeams
Cut the cracked glass sky
Splitting shadow after shadow
Down, down the ancient elms,
Down the red and black brick
Walls of Laxon Hall.
The clarion sounds—
the sun's pace is
traced in shadows.
[California State University at Chico]
Two dogs here, two dogs there
sharing noses—
men chat at the fence-line.
God banned him from Heaven,
The Devil banned him from Hell;
So Jack the Trickster was reborn a ghost,
Flickering in pumpkin shells.
an ugly grin—
the carved pumpkin
sags into itself
For a hot breakfast
a homeless woman begs—
a wallet opens.
The frosted lawn, so white, born at dawn's light;
Limp basil leaves, so black, killed last night.
The library fills
with more chattering children—
the rain falls.
[I worked three days per week during
the elementary (1-6th) grade school
year from 2001 to 2016 for the Corning
School District, CA. I was the Technology
and Media Service Supervisor and
District Librarian. This District had
five schools.]
Bellowing teacher
loud classrooms—
seeds under the tree.
withered
Fall blossoms
drop in the downpour
Windshield wipers
back and forth, counting miles
and miles of dark rain.
preaching the Dharma
incessantly—
the suchness of things
[A heartfelt thank you to R.H. Blyth]
Here on vacation—
scanning the Big River's edge
a great Blue Heron.
Seeing my love's white hair
Above my black gravestone
Troubled me; one spared of cares,
Ageless and alone.
Twenty one guns salute—
walkers at the River Park,
some limping veterans.
shelves of Books
Dumbstruck
without the Readers
A touch of green
amidst the brown dry grasses—
rain of late Autumn.
Monday Night
overtime game
in the Green Bay rain.
Apricot leaves
orange in the Autumn sunset—
saying "Goodbye."
the naked garden rests
the unemployed scarecrow stares
the rain drizzles
tiny onion sets
down in the soft ground—
barely moonlit
Glorious sunset
No bugs about now—
Ah, Ah, late Autumn.
The magic wand of rain
raised the inchling grasses;
Autumn here, a second Spring.
She sniffs, he sniffs,
He mounts Her—
Renewing their race.
A few plants short of a full flat,
something stolen, tit for tat;
The dullest knife in the drawer,
something inferior,
used by the murderer
to settle a score.
wet earth—
my dog and I
inhale deeply
Hot story
at midnight—
the lightbulb burns out
rolled joints
rolled condoms
High hopes
the alluring
Scent on her blouse,
unbuttoned
Brown mares bolt
back to their barn—
the rain thunders down.
The terrified kitten
cornered in the culvert—
Growling dogs.
Prowling dogs—
motionless ducks
at center pond.
Scatter my ashes over the compost pile;
Mix well, let us become One for awhile.
Blackbirds fly
from field to field—
autumn seeds.
broken-hearted:
tears
down the
c
o
ff
in's side
Lady Liberty streaked with soot,
Uncle Sam kicked in the balls;
We all duck when terrorists shoot,
And when we rise, they will fall.
The earth turns
towards the sun—
the shadows move.
Peaceful neighbors—
some orange some red
pyracanthas
Country lanes
littered with pecans,
careless trees.
A wet stiff possum
past its last Surprise—Dead;
panting dogs nearby.
Ths kaotic mes av spllg Englesh
Wrds, ovr n ovr, tll correct.
The beer cans were piled by our feet,
And chip bits were stuck in our teeth.
We cussed Denver's scores
Cuzz the Broncos scored more,
Another smash mouth Raider defeat.
running out of time
for catching up
with the future
now
Birth Dates, Death Dates,
chipped gray marble gravestones—
forgotten faces.
four magpies
feast at the feeder—
good omens
You shared the spark,
You fanned the flame,
You fed the fires,
You passed the Names.
For all those known and
For all those unnamed,
We raise this toast,
With thanks this day.
The dog's teeth
Gently around my big arm—
We trust, we play.
Yellow willow leaves
drop in the mud—
steaming dog shit.
divorce final—
his alimony check
bounces
the particulars,
minute particulars—
revealing Nothing
One gate leads to another:
some open, some closed;
some we jump over.
Nose twitching, tail held high,
A donkey shits a nest for flies.
Clearing away
spent tomato vines—
the cold earth.
green chilis
turned soft black—
third frost
Tai chi moves
in the fog—
cloud hands.
bitter pills 11
Stripping away the self exposes the soul, and kills both.
Cracking up prevents crack ups.
When the divine knocks, don't send a prophet to the door.
One evil preacher is worse than a hundred hooligans.
Independence is a fish out of water.
The One True God is way over-priced.
Religious liberty is not a hallmark of religious politics.
A real enemy helps many feel alive.
Doing unto others has often been
more reason for others to do you in.
Months and Seasons |
|||
25 Steps and Beyond: Collected Works
At the Edges of the West, Volume 1
Highway 101 and Hwy 1: Pacific Coast
Bundled Up: Quintains and Tankas
At the Edges of the West, Volume 2
Highway 99 and Interstate 5
Poetry Research by Mike Garofalo
Mike Garofalo lives in Vancouver,
Washington.
He worked for 50 years
in city and county
public
libraries,
and in elementary
schools. He
graduated with
degrees in
philosophy,
library science, and
education. He
has been
a web
publisher since 1998.
25 Steps and Beyond: Collected Works
Cuttings: May, Spring
First Distributed on the Internet WWW in September 1998.
This document was last edited, revised,
reformatted, added to, relinked,
changed, improved, or modified
by Mike Garofalo
on May 8, 2025.