Uncle Mike's
Summertime Adventures

By Michael P. Garofalo

     Cornstalks swaying
knee high—
Fourth of July.

Thunderstorms on the Fourth
   do flash and roar;
flag folded, fireworks boxed,
   we watch from the door.

dry roadside shoulder—
   orange poppies
   among the weeds

a hole in my boot—
    deep cracks
    in the baked brown clay

A bit stiff and sore
we sip water in the shade;
our day's gardening done,
admiring what we've made.

Hot night—
       my panting dog
       stares in the screen door.

          The back door
               bangs shut!
        September gust.

Sierra in September—
warming my hands
at our campfire.

Dried grasses
crackling underfoot—
     singing summer songs.

Only hours before they die;
      dragonflies
wildly mating
       before our eyes.

  Pond rising,
unfilling, filling ...
  a blur of ripples.

Cuttings - Haiku - July

July - Quotations & Poetry

Uncle Mike's Cellphone Poetry

sipping 7 and 7
lazy eyed;
the sun sets

Holiday weekend slipping away,
children depart—
one last hug.

Crushed in a book—
   a flat oak leaf
   kindles a deep memory.

Short Poems by Michael P. Garofalo

Haiku, Brief Free Verse, Photos
Tercets, Concrete Poems, Quartets
Cinquains, Waka, Senryu, Couplets
30 Characters Max Per Line of Text
Uncle Mike's Cellphone Poetry Series

Far below
Clear Creek Bridge—
       smashed pumkins.

Yosemite summers
from the Ice Age of my youth—
"Let the fire fall!"

smoky campfires
border the cold Merced—
young mothers laugh

my first cup of coffee
one cold morning—
bigwig Junior Ranger

mountains to mountains
the Great Valley—
sweltering haze

sun burnt
wasted land
bristling with star thistles

Memories of her are dimming
          in my old mind;
yet,
crossing two decades,
mom's soft smile still shines.

"cool summer morning"
     three words
     from the lips of Eros

Cuttings - Haiku - August

August - Quotations & Poetry

The Spirit of Gardening

114° F
(few move)
                    even ole
                             an
                          ders
                             dr
                              o
                              o
                               p

       My wife
picking tomatoes and squash—
       a smile on her face.

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

Swaying cottonwood trees
hiding the moon—
            daybreak.

Worldwide
many suffer
even as peaches ripen.

Exactly at noon—
the branch cracks,
loaded with peaches.

One by one they drop
on the ground—
over-ripe peaches,
squishy and round.

Cuttings - Haiku - September

September - Quotations & Poetry

Uncle Mike's Cellphone Poetry

Lightening
and lightening bugs—
         beyond words.

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

        Drunken gun zealot,
loud-mouthing his rights;
Everyone else silent,
put-off,
uptight.

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

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.

      Shadowless dusk
          growing colder—
      squealing teakettle.

       Limp hummingbird
       held in my hand;
       one wing broken.

     She darts at full-speed
     to tag the tree—
     "ollee-ollee-in-free."

Crunching
spoonfuls of Grape Nuts—
   day breaks.

Seconds, minutes, hours;
days, months, seasons;
July, August, September.
Woman, Child, Man;
Heaven, Human, Earth;
Past, Present, Future—
   Threesomes of Reasons
   for the comings and goings
   and stayings of Things—
   signs of a mystical "Three".

A wet pile
of dead doves—
Labor Day sports.

Quieter now,
the cooing of doves;
unloaded shotguns.

Branches filled with blackbirds
Chirping time in swaying leaves.
Spent the hour, and were heard,
Then disappeared.
Leaving silent leaves.

Lined along barbed wire
shitting cows staring me down—
      I piss and stare back.

morning coffee sans sugar
     sipped in silence—
still her cold shoulder

Memories of Pacific Coast Places

Four Days at Grayland Beach

Short Poems by Mike Garofalo

Memories of Pacific Coast Places
Travels on US Highway 101 & 1
West Coast Snapshots & Snippets

By Michael P. Garofalo

Exploring Willapa Bay today,
From Tokeland Marina
    to Raymond's river beds that stray,
By huge stacks of Douglas Firs
    waiting to be cut up a dozen ways;
To South Bend's grassy sloughs,
    piles of shelled oysters white and grey,
To the cliffs and river near Bay Center's docks,
    where oystermen work away.
Memories of this Pacific Sea
    and my septuagenarian life swell up today:

Our photograph of the young surfer
    remains in my hand,
    that teen has become a man.
The razor clams sucked the food
    from the foaming sand,
    for ten million years
    following an identical plan.
At low tide the muddy Willapa Bay,
    scary like quicksand, keeps me away.

At the gaping Mouth of the Columbia,
Stands Astoria, dank and Old,
    with harbor seals barking loud
    on the docks so cold.
Chinooks and Chelais Peoples
    once camped near the Grayland strand,
    diseases erased them all from this Land.
The Quinault River flows to the sea,
    through a rain forest Olympic born,
    so very very green as far as you can see.
Grays Harbor for a change is in clear skied sun,
    fishing boats hustle
    to get into the King Salmon fall run.

Loaded Logging Trucks Rumbling
Up and Down Daily on 101,
In WA and Oregon.
They bring Timber to the Mills,
Where machines and men,
Shape Douglas Firs into 4x4's
For the Home Depot bins.
Timber and the Northwest,
    an USA economic mainstay;
Replanted forests the norm
    in these 2022 days.

Memories of Pacific Coast Places

Shriveled figs
hang on the branch—
    hospice courtyard.

      This cat in my lap
      purring, eyes closed,
       ears back—
      fur on my fingers.

Uncle Mike's Cellphone Poetry

The Spirit of Gardening

A few cards
short of a full deck;
he played well anyway.

The freight train rumbles by:
     a few almonds drop,
     star-thistles quiver,
off steel wheels bounce rocks.

                  Daylight peeking in
through the parted window blinds;
I pull up my pants.

      Logging rigs and river
roaring down Klamath Canyon—
      cold rain falls.

     leaf after leaf
     turns yellow—
     the fall of summer

Last day of Spring;
only glass in the picture frame—
    form is emptiness.

First day of Siummer;
no money in my wallet—
    emptiness is form.

Poetry by Michael P. Garofalo

Uncle Mike's Cellphone Poetry Series

Cuttings: Haiku and Short Poems

Pulling Onions: Over 1,000 One-Liners

Green Way Research Subject Index

Cloud Hands Blog

Facebook

Four Days in Grayland

How to Live a Good Life

The Spirit of Gardening

Uncle Mike's Cellphone Poetry Series #4

Text, graphics, photos, and webpage design
by Michael P. Garofalo.
Many photographs by Karen Garofalo.

Updated: June 25, 2022

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