Cuttings: August

Haiku, Short Poems, Sonnets, Tanka
Summer Season
1998 - 2025

By Mike Garofalo

Place, Setting, Location:

Red Bluff, Tehama County,
North Sacramento Valley,
California, 1998-2016

Buzzards circling
higher and higher—
bright sky.

Duck feathers
drifting on the pond—
dappled dusk sky.

Numb feet
despite the August heat;
a diabetic's lament.

High beams
brighten the lane—
low yellow moon.

I sit, still.
The canyon river chants,
moving mountains.

Sunset!
Mosquitoes attack,
we retreat.

lightening
and lightening bugs—
beyond words

tiny fly
alone on a leaf;
motionless

Getting older—
my grandfather's or
my face in the mirror?

swaying cottonwood trees
hiding the moon—
daybreak

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.

dark green
bean field—
blazing sun

Working in the new garden—
a big ol' toad
halved by the hoe.

black figs fattening
in the bright sun—
birdless skies

Dusk, finally,
heat drops away,
fading summer day.

Limp hummingbird
held in my hand;
one wing broken.

Darting at full-speed
to tag the tree—
"Mollee-ollee-in-free."

a field of star thistles—
full of sound
at twilight

Beyond barbed wire
Beyond, beyond, far beyond—
Cows marching Over.

Freely
jumping over
our childish
limitations.

Shriveled gourd
all wrinkled and brown—
Halloween mummy.

the willow's shade—
ducks and I
mutter about the heat

Fence line Capped in
Red Bottlebrush Blossoms!

"Dirty old man"
says she, with a wry frown;
slipping her panties down.

"Put some sugar in my bowl,
Put a hot dog in my roll;"
Bessie Smith would sing those sexy Blues,
Long ago with Chattanooga Soul.

Exuberant young dog:
wants in, wants out,
wants everything.

At the "water" pump
Helen Keller's first word—
her soul's birthday.

Crunching
spoonfuls of Grape Nuts—
day breaks.

skunks, dogs, opossums, cats,
their last walks taken—
flat on hot asphalt

Snapping
long green beans—
sitting at the red table

The fly ball
falls over the fence—
silent fans.

Rattlesnakes scared
the ghosts away—
Igo graveyard

Plenty of e-mail, but
none from her—
virtually snubbed.

"Turn off the porch light!"
she calls from the bedroom—
two dogs curl up.

Fountain's spray
splattering over the pond—
breezy morning.

all heads bowed
all eyes closed
all ears ...
prayers for the sick

Going to and fro,
footprints on the gravel path
silently pacing.

Tall white fountain in the garden's shade,
Or cold white mountain beyond the glade,
Or brighter lights at the tunnel's end?
Stunned, but undead, awakened to begin
Again - Second Chances; seven lives left.
Tricked the Reaper, death stolen;
a celebrated theft.
With a nod to Vladimir Nabokov's Pale Fire, # 750-815.

Over-flowing ditch,
breezes make the cottonwoods hum;
strangely, birds are quiet.

Something strange hides in this day:
what will it be, what will it say?

Distraught woman
on the rooftop:
Jumps
!!
!!
!!
!!

Wasps in a frenzy
looking for their missing nest—
I'm the home wrecker.

Jackrabbits munching in the garden,
shotgun in my hand—
yes or no? No!

All the cottonwoods
swaying in time,
midnight breezes.

Flies flutterbizzling
circling, stinging, stickerring ...
Slap, Whack, Swatttttthethings!!

My tired steps are slow,
dead grass crackles underfoot,
this dry land we know.

rice, beans, tortillas
corn, squash, salsa, cervezas—
worth the heartburn

quitting time—
the hiss
of bleeding air tanks

Sputtering candles—
grandpa coughs, coughs blood,
then dies before dawn.

The deep shade is hot
over one hundred degrees.
I'm tired of summer.

My big hairy legs, white as new roots,
pulled from my pants - she teases and hoots.

A full beard hides the scars and the flaws;
too bad big bellies have no camouflage.

Trinity Canyon

shivering rafters
pull to shore—
the river moves on

one by one
jumping into the deep pool—
a swinging rope

honking horns
echo down the canyon walls—
falling rain

zig-zag walk
along the rocky riverside—
falling pine needles

I'm sitting, still.
The chanting canyon stream
is moving mountains.

On August 22, 1999, a violent dry lightening storm set scores of fires in Tehama, Trinity, Plumas, Butte, and Shasta Counties. Over 35,000 acres were burnt in Tehama County, over 58,000 acres in Trinity County, and more in the other counties. Over 15,000 firefighters struggled for six weeks afterwards to bring all the blazes under control.

Fires rage in the hills,
stinking gray smoke crawls downward—
I sit and sniff death.

My neighbors to the southeast are C.B. and Gertie. They are retired, and always busy working around their house, gardens and property. C.B. and I chat often, share vegetables and ideas.

C. B. hoeing corn.
Metal valves in his warm heart,
Puttering along just fine.

The Fremont Poplar tree sports
a few yellow leaves—
a hint of autumn.

I first met Chang San-Feng
above the forest, 
near the clear spring,
when gathering clouds
darkened the day,
and Mt. Shasta was silent.

His long beard was black
as emptiness,
ear lobes to his shoulders,
holding obsidian in his hand,
pointing to the sun,
eyes staring into infinity,
his long body clothed in silence.

We exchanged "hellos"
smiled and bowed,
a barbarian and an Immortal,
both panting from the climb,
laughing,
ten-thousand echoes
between our rocky minds.

After billions upon billions of heartbeats past
(for he must have been 888 years old),
I was so bold
as to ask the ancient one
for the sacred mantra of yore.
He lifted his whisk,
and brushed my face,
I could not speak,
my lips were stone,
ideas stopped - 
I was alone.

Place, Setting, Location:
Vancouver,
Clark County,
Columbia River Valley,
Washington,
2017-2025

Coming In July of 2025

Awakening: Wednesday, 2/5/2025, 3:33 am

From the depths of my restless shallow sleep
My crusty eyes fluttered and blinked so slow
My fine dream scenes disappeared like snow
Melting on Rem Mountains wide and steep

I tried to remember those passing fancies
those jumbled meandering dreamlike flashes
those jerks and shudders over things fantastic
those jagged memories flowing fast

I stirred and stretched and opened my eyes
my mouth was a cotton ball of spit all dry
my back ached again on that damn left side
the bed creaked as I shifted where I lie

Too early to get up, turn on the lights, and read?
Or, fall back asleep, and birth more dream seeds?

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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 and library science, and did further studies in business and education. He has been a web publisher since 1998.

25 Steps and Beyond: Collected Works

Cuttings: Haiku and Short Poems
Arranged by the Seasons

Text Art and Concrete Poetry