Secrets of the Night
Disappearing Darkness

Moving shadows born of sunshine rays,
Making dark marks in corners all day.
Unreadable mysterious messages
  from Solar Scribes for me.
Some subtle shadows drawn on moonlit trees,
Blurred and fleeting pockets
  of light's veiled hiding from me,
Lost in the blackness of the nighttime breeze.

Night-Time creeping in, crickets chirping up a din.
No moon, No stars, No city street lights;
Darkness setting slowly and comfortably in.
A few frogs croaking love songs in the dark,
Moths fluttering into a white hot lantern
  addicted to a gleaming spark.
Bats flapping by for breakfast,
  eating fluttering fat juicy bugs.
Surf side sounds rumble over the invisible dunes,
Crabs and razor clams will crawl about
  at low tide soon,
Turtles will waddle up the shore, dig, lay eggs,
Guided by the moon, reproduction, life and doom,
In the restless dark and foamy gloom.

My flashlight sliced a path through the woods,
As entering a dark cave's spooky path.
Hearing the hoot of an owl in the canopy,
I walked along as slowly as I could,
Listening to the mysterious snoring damp woods.

Hera and Hypnos tried to lure me to sleep.
But 19 knot winds kept me shaked awake,
And saved me from Nyx's minions
  from Hades Lake.
Chaos gave birth to Darkness and Day,
Erebus and Hemera - another way to Say,
Gods named and ancient myths for today.
Nighttime gods and goddesses mourning,
Following the Black Way to the Thanatos Graves.

My yurt at Pacific Beach WA shook
  in the Winter storm,
I sat on the covered yurt porch,
  all bundled up and warm;
Dark rain, cold campground so dark,
everyone inside today.
Silence reigned that dreary soaked day.

Coming Dawn, rosy reds, the sunshine
  slides West overhead;
Leaving Dusk, darkening pinks, sun gone down,
  it is said:
     Reminders of the Dead.

The incandescent lamp!
Only one lamp in my yurt, not very bright,
Yet it allows me to read and write all night,
Supported by an electric Coleman lantern light.
The whole world works by electric lights.
Day and night, day and Night, month after month,
For Year after busy Year,
  lighting bright the night sky;
In factories and stores and homes worldwide.
Work, work, work ... earning a living - we try.
Is such serious night pollution really wise?
Did the Milky Way disappear in the bright city sky?
Are circadian rhythms distorted
  and altered by and by?
Will some species become extinct
  from the loss of the precious Night?

Turn off the lights, cuddle in the covers,
Start to slumber, sink into sleep,
Enjoy the darkness of the dreamless
La Petite Mort, alone, in darkness steeped.

At a funky artists colony on Whidbey's Isle,
    or on estates high in Malibu cliff-side settings,
    or at some obscure Skokomich
       Shaker Church's Fjord home,
    or with Beat poets Howling
       in a smoky San Fran coffehouse,
    or in tiny writer's cottages
       in Fortuna or Aberdeen,
    or in a bookstore in the Astoria
       or Santa Barbara downtowns,
    or at cozy art shops
       near the Port Townsend docks ...

    Where artists and creators
    and supporters reside;
    where they thrived and where they died...

    Life and death, coming and going:      
         Saghili pee keekwillie chuck!
         The tide comes in, the tide goes out!

The Beatnicks in Venice still laugh and listen,
    mixed with Yuppies, Hippies, Tourists,
    Millennials, and musclemen.
San Francisco still hugs the hills,
    and the Golden Gate's Bridge whistling moan
    has been stilled.
Both San Fran and LA
    have lively active Alternative Scenes,
    for people of All Persuasions,
    making something New of their Beings.
I walked to the Beach
    from the Green Gulch Zen Farm,
    thinking of Alan Watt's reminders and alarms.
In a stone house by the rocky Sur shore,
    Robinson Jefferson lamented
    the presence of mankind
    and more.

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.
Grays Harbor for a change is in clear skied sun,
    fishing boats hustle
    to get into the King Salmon fall run.
The Quinault River flows to the sea,
    through a rain forest Olympic born,
    so very very green as far as you can see.

The Makah Peoples at Neah Bay
For 3,000 years their Ancestors stayed
  in cedar planked houses warm and dry.
They fished and gathered and stayed alive,
  Carved cedar canoes,
  stitched clothing from hides,
  made tools, harpoons, and art with pride,
  and totem poles to salute their lives.
They rowed round Cape Flattery many times.

Loaded Logging Trucks Rumbling
Up and Down Daily on US 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,
    a USA economic mainstay;
Replanted Managed Forests the Norm
    in these 2024 days.

The Redwood groves soaked up the fog,
    intertwining their octopus roots for centuries,
    confident of a long slog.
Humboldt Redwoods along the Eel;
Temples of Trees! Stupendous!
Unforgettable!  Holy!  Real!
The huge ferns and Redwoods
    along Prairie Creek,
    hide a few grassy meadows where
Roosevelt Elk graze and sleep.
The Muir Redwood Grove,
    by shady trickling streams;
    below oak-madron topped Mt. Tamalpais,
    a symbol of Marin County dreams.
The Avenue of the Giants
winds through Ancient Redwood Groves,
and little 101 towns
like Miranda, Myer's Flat, or Pepperwood.
At the Chetco River,
At Arcata's tulips and lilies,
    the Redwoods stopped—
      Why? Why Not?

Clear Cut

I. Before and Ongoing

Clear-Cut ------------------------------------
               sunburnt shrubs, oozing stumps,
               raw bulldozer Ruts ::::::::::::::

II. Now and Ongoing

We replant more seedling trees every year:
52 million a year in Washington forests,
158 million a month all around the world,
7 thousand replanted every minute.
I planted 200 trees in my lifetime.
Others saved treasured trees in cities.
Julia Butterfly Hill protested for 738 days
high on a loved old-growth redwood tree.
Kenny Chaplin, Wangari Maathai, Li Xiuzhu,
Johnny Appleseed, Constantino Aucca Chutas,
Aila Keto, John Muir, Jadav Payeng,
Saalumarada Thimmakka, Adrien Taylor ...
Tree Huggers, Tree Heroes, Tree Savers,
Tree Planters!! I Salute these Green saviors.

The Weyerhaeuser Company planted
billions of trees
over many decades fostering sustainability.

The Rotting Redwood Tree

The smell of the sea hugged the fog
in the Humboldt redwood trees,
All cool and dank, dimly lit and rank with green,
And in shadowed limbs
    the Stellar jays jabbered free,
And me, standing silently,
    an alien in this enchanted scene.

From behind the mossy brown-gray stumps
the sounds of footsteps crunching fronds of ferns
caught my suddenly wary mind ...
What?

"Hello, old friend," said Chang San Feng.
"Master Chang, what a surprise," said I.

Master Chang sat on a stump, smiled, and said,
"Can you hear the Blue Dragon
    singing in the decaying tree;
Or is it the White Tiger roaring
    in the wilderness of your bright white skull?
No matter!  The answer is in the questioning;
    don't you Chan men see?

In the red ball flesh of this decaying tree
Sapless woody shards of centuries of seasons
Nourish the new roots of mindfulness sprouting. 
Yes, Yes, but how can it be?
The up-surging waves of life sprout forth
    from the decaying tree,
As sure as sunrise rolling over the deep black sea. 
Coming, coming, endlessly coming; waves of Chi. 
 
Tan Qian's raven roosts for 10,000 moons
     in the withered branches of the rotting tree;
     then, one day, the weathered tree falls,
     nobody hearing, soundlessly crashing
     on the forest floor, on some unknown noon.
 
Over and over, over and over, life bringing death,
    death bringing life,
Beyond even the miraculous memories
    of an old Xian like me;
Watching, watching, sequestered from the strife,
Turning my soul away sometimes
     because I cannot bear to see. 

Even minds may die, but Mind is always free
Bounding beyond, beyond, far beyond you and me;
Somehow finding the Possibility Keys
And unlocking the Door
    out of the Voids of Eternities.

Master Chang somehow, someway,
slowly disappeared into the red brown heart
    of the decaying redwood tree.

Then the squawk of the jay
opened my mind's eye to the new day,
Namaste.

The Quinault Peoples Nation in Taholah Village
or deep in the woods in Qui-nai-elt homes,
created a museum with artifacts shown
how life on the Quinault River stayed.

I gazed respectfully at the beautiful baskets
woven artistically by Taholah artist’s hands
working in ancient Quinault People’s lands
in touch with wild plants chosen to last.

Intricate designs, color, fine craftsmanship lasts
on small tools utilized in daily life:
paddles, hooks, baskets, mats, capes, knife.
Locked in caskets of clear museum glass.

Outside, the rain at war again,
floating trees down the Copalis,
Quinault, and violent deep Queets,
driftwood river roads to surf side lands.

The Queets and Quinault river valleys lie
at the western edge of the Olympic hills
heavily fir forested flat lands cut still
harvested and replanted on all sides.

Few people today live this way:
fishing diminished, the sea losing life,
forest cuts take decades to regrow right
and tourism rained out many days.

When you have reached Kalaloch
hung on a cliff at the edge of the sea,
the wide rushing Queets River at your back,
Olympic National Park is at your knees.

Highway 101 from Aberdeen to Kalaloch
a managed farmland of firs for 75 miles
flat and unpeopled, wet and unwild,
loaded logging trucks to Aberdeen fly.

Aberdeen’s mottoes on a huge bridge sign:
“Gateway to the Olympics” or once
“The Lumber Capital of the World” in 1889.
a bit overestimated, ballsy, reminds
me of booster club meeting cheers.

beauty and poverty
simple lives---
just raincoats thrive

[Ocean Shores and Seabrook,
exceptions to the rule,
rich folks in upscale
new houses and condos Rule.]

Coos Bay darkened in the fierce wind and rain;
    while the Indian Casino's on the Oregon Coast
    were bright and gay
    slot machines running night and day.
Salmon still run up the Umpqua River route,
    charging by Reedsport on the way
    to spawn and die in days.
Quiet Brooking, a humble seaside place,
    with the nearby Pelican Bay Prison locking up
    the worst of the human race.
A dead whale in the sand near Orick rots,
    the carrion birds eat and happily squawk.
Eureka-Humboldt Bay, was wasting away
    in the plywood paper mills' scum,
    something needed to be done;
    and, the old nuclear plant's
    abandoned concrete core,
    a statue in the sun,
    had to be undone.
I sat by a Humboldt Lagoon
  a little edgy from lack of food;
  watching sea birds feed and groom;
  eating apples to restore my mood.
On the cliffside forest at Patrick's Point
   The Yurok Peoples made Sue-meng home.
   I sat on the dirt in a Yurok cedar plank house,
   and contemplated the Days of Old,
When a campfire was the only
    night light to behold.




the scissors of my decisions

My brother lives in Carlsbad, high above the sea;
    he walks slowly below the rolling hills
    feeling somewhat free.
We walked among the Torrey Pines,
    on windy cliffs by the sad sea,
    in Winter, on Saturday, decades ago,
With someone,
Who might have been me.

The scissors of my decisions,
cutting the patterns of my life;
shaping my persona and destiny,
and a bit of everything around me.
And, a thousand Others,
from near and far,
shaping our lives, forming our fates,
all ruled by the soil, sea, sky, water, food,
and the One Sun-Star above our noon face.

The West Coast USA with Its Worldview Ways
Rational, Spiritual and Religious Stews:
Catholics, Protestants, Baptists, Mormons, Jews,
Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, and Puritans too;
Rationalists, Scientists, Secularists, Epicureans,
Hip Hoppers, Homeboys, Stoics, and Hippies too,
Conservatives and Liberals argue and feud,
New Agers, Wiccans, and Rastafarians too;
Even Republicans and Democrats, and
Fascists and Socialists in the brew.

A hodgepodge of Beliefs, Opinions,
Religions, Ideas, Theories, Views.
Its all in the News.
Plenty of options from which to choose.
Thinking about them too much,
Makes me anxious, gives me the Blues.

Cliffside at Bandon Beach OR

When young, I climbed mountains;
Now old, I walk flat beaches.
My old heart has new limits;
My mind explores inside limits.

I saunter effortlessly alone;
I struggle to understand The Root;
Reading the Vegetable Root Verses.
I fell asleep, and dreamt I was awake.
I thought three times;
then moved one way.
I took three steps;
then clearly envisioned
the next 333 steps.

From confusion emerged distinctions;
Naming points the way out of chaos.
By Words we find new ways to see;
New ways to discover truths or falsity.
Confucius said, Buddha said, Epictetus said,
Lao Tzu said, the Mystics said, the Yogis said;
Maybe they did or did not - it is said;
Kwan Yin did not say, but helped in some way.

The roaring surf, a splashing chorus;
Reflects my inner concerto of Words.

Moving with intention and concentration is Fire;
Escaping to an excess of quietude is Ashes.
Knowing when enough is enough
and too little is too little;
We light the candle in honor of Wisdom.

I could not walk down and up today
on the many steep steps to the rocky shore;
my legs too weak and wobbly anymore.

My heart's now in a scary atrial flutter,
I'm rather weaker, and out of breath;
Nevertheless, I'm content with my life,
and resign myself to my heart's death.

Booms of Thunder, pouring rain, windy and cold;
Breakfast at a Bandon cafe;
warm, comfy, out of the blowing rain.
Thinking of this 2023 New Year, Jade Rabbits,
and Spring Festival rhymes;
Thankful for the eggs, coffee, and bread,
just enjoying this Winter down-time.

When I move the roaring surf calls;
When sitting still, the silent marsh recalls.
The Coquille River floods it all.

Low tide, high tide: the yin/yang way;
Heart tenses, relaxes: the yang/yin way.

At the south jetty's edge,
a damp altar on a rocky perch:

Little statues, plastic flowers, a plastic heart,
rocks, shells, Angels, wood, cross, kelp, frog,
an Official Warning plastic poster,
all on a washed up log.
It's the lingering intentions that count.
And, the smell of sacred wet sand incense,
offered to Poseidon, Thetis, and Mary,
rises up from the Ground.

The sands blow up the grassy dunes and down;
The seasons follow the Sun, round and round.
Between Heaven and Earth the seagull stands;
While I play Tai Chi Chuan, slogging over dry sand.
We both come and go, then are no more;
Full then Empty are close to Life's Core.

Vandenberg's Space Force Base,
Shooting satellites into space,
By Lompoc's La Purisima,
And flower fields around the place.
Seattle's Space Needle,
  gleaming in the Boeing Sun;
And, Microsoft's little Mouse
  is hard to be undone.
Hollywood's known
    all around the world,
    for creating great films
    to millions shown for money and fun.
Frisco's Bay Area
Legends of science and fame,
    Double down the decades,
    Despite Earthquakes and Flames.
Intellectuals in Olympia correspond
    with intellectuals at UCSD, USC,
   UCLA, UCSB, UCSC, Stanford, UCB,
   CSUH, UO, OSU, PSU, UW,
and many many many more.
    All intertwined via the Net;
    erasing some time-space limits
    in our new Electronic Matrix Age.
The Microsoft Mansions on Lake Washington,
  with computer connections in every room,
  and the Seattle Skyline View to the West—
  Some of the Very Best in the West!

Taking the Gold's Beach
   power boat ride up the Rogue,
   spinning and splashing and speeding along;
   nevertheless, it seems like something's wrong.
From the dark depths of Monterey Bay,
    two whales came up close by our tour boat
    to breathe one day.
Balboa or Coronado Island cottages
    and crowds on summer beach days.
Near the Catalina docks,
    a starlet partied and drowned someway.
   

A tin of Ekone smoked oysters
    and French bread for lunch today,
    and a coffee latte to let my palette play.
All alone with the roaring surf,
    and hungry sea gulls gathering
    close by on nearby turf.
A California Gull,
a perky white-chested little beggar,
came closer—
I tossed him my last chunk of bread.
  I got up, and walked up the shore.
    Chewing dried Cali Valley apricots
      while dancing through
      the roaring San Clemente surf.

In a Watery Grave

Dams and reservoirs inland strong,
Along river valleys green and long,
Kilowatt power and water for crops,
Rivers winding to the sea and stopped:
San Gabriel, Santa Clarita, Sacramento,
Trinity, Klamath, Rogue, Columbia, Elwa,
and behind the Skokomish River Dam
Lake Cushman in a canyon crammed.

The St. Francis Dam collapse in 1928,
completely flooded the Santa Clarita Valley
with a 15 foot crushing wall of water,
turning citrus groves into toothpicks,
flowing fast to its dirty end in Ventura's waves,
after leaving over 500 dead in its destructive way.

I have seen the Big River Floods
on the Trinity and Klamath Rivers
with raging spring streams over 25 feet higher,
gouging out the earth, uprooting trees,
destroying riverbank buildings and homes,
Raging fast until absorbed by the Vast Sea.

Earthquakes suddenly jolt, smash, and roll,
birthed in the offshore depths so low;
Pushed Up by the Pacific Plate grinding slow,
Into the San Andres Fault
or Cascadia Earthquake Zone;
    Triggering
LA slides a little into the sea
Ranier's eruption and lahar landslides,
Fires and destruction in shaking SanFran.
Tsunamis flying fast to crush cities
    on vulnerable shores,
that would easily erase thousands of homes,
and kill tens of thousands of terrified souls.

Finally, the Pacific, sinking 3,000 ships,
in over 300 years,
from Lincoln City to Juan de Fuca;
ending the lives of so many,
screaming and crying in fear,
as their ships sank in the furious foam.
When the Valencia and Clallam ships,
in 1906, struck rocks, sunk down,
and over 220 souls quickly drowned;
leaving so many cold dead bodies
of children, women, and men
floating aimlessly around.

Santa Rosa's gardens at
Luther Burbank's home;
Thanks to his diligence,
I eat Santa Rosa plums.
All McDonald's on 101
serve Russet Burbank
potato hash browns
to anyone.

Ukiah's vineyards ripe.
Bottles of wine for sale.
Charming B&BS to rent.
Hot Spring mud bathing.
Daytime love making.
Petalauma's Cali Cool.
Tourists everywhere,
Wine on 101—Fun.

Vallejo and San Rafael
Docks on San Pablo Bay;
Longshoremen working.
Eric Hoffer's life's way.
Ships from so faraway.
Loading night & day.

Flocks of birds fill the Spring sky,
    and that some salmon are not
    running up the John's River
    is a tricky fisherman's little lie.
Dip netting for crabs from the Westport pier,
    the harbor waters were strangely clear.
More fir tree trunks were piled
    around the Aberdeen mills,
    cut daily from the distant lush Willapa Hills.
The Grayland cranberry bogs are fruitless now,
    but my Ocean Spray juice cup
    carries their essence anyhow.

The sand dunes near Cape Kiwanda,
    Florence or Pismo
    still creep up and down with the wind;
    ORVing on them seems to me a venial sin.
Not far from the Oso Flaco Dunes
    we once ate oak grilled fillet mignon
    at the charming Far Western Tavern
    in Orcutt's Santa Maria Valley Town—
    —Buon appetito! —Cali Cuisine!—
At Florence, near the
    Great Seaside Sand Dunes of Oregon,
    we once ate dungeness crab cakes,
    oyster's Madrid, lime pepper prawns,
    and drank lots of Tillamook beer—
    talking until the western sun disappeared.
—Buon appetito! —Northwest Coast Cuisine!—
At a stylish Silicon Cal-Mex Cafe in old San Jose,
     eating delicious crab enchiladas
     and soft warm flan con café—
     wind blowing off the Bay all day.
—Buena Comida! —Cal-Mex Cocina Costera!—
The Sand Spit at Ocean Park WA,
    stretches for 25 miles;
    and trucks drive on the sand,
    up and down it every day.
    Day camping on the wide beaches:
    beach combing, fishing, clam digging,

splashing in the shallow surf,
listening to You Can Do Magic by America, or
    listening to Miles Davis Kind of Blue;    
    slowly sipping black Columbian coffee,
    spiked iced Chai tea or rum Mojitos.
—Buenos Dragos! —Northwest Brews!—

—West Coast Seaside Sand Dunes—
—all moving in the night—
—sand in my shoes—
—sand in my salami sandwich—

Hecate Head tide pools unfolding slowly:
    limpets, mussels, chitons, anemones,
     urchins, even crabs revealed,
      a seductive scene that's Holy.

The mammoth Winter surf
    at the Mavericks near Monterey
        or at Shore Acres near Coos Bay,
            both will scare the shit out of anyone
                in their crushing crashing way.
Malibu beach surfers wait for the best right swell,
    then launch for a long ride feeling so damn well.
The steep Wedge wave off Newport's Jetty
has smashed a few noses into the sand,
and broken a few bodies into cripples, how sad.
But body surfer's and boogie boarders
flock to these warm South facing beaches,
Again and Again.
Generations after Generations,
of hardy SoCal surfers, both women and men.
I once body-surfed till tired and cold,
    and ended it at age 55;
    I could not take the cold,
    and I was just too damn old.

L.A. is sandwiched between
    the Palos Verdes cliffs and Mt. Baldy's stones,
    for 48 years it was my home.
On Ventura Highway,
    in the chaparral zone,
    not near the haunted Hotel California,
    just one Eagle flies alone.
My mom loved Carpenteria,
    and she held our hands tight,
    as we all walked together,
    in the starry 1950 campground night.
San Onofre's concrete beehive nuclear dome
    is locked tight,
    a memento to ideas not yet right.
The Baja beach lands are baked bone hard dry,
    from the endless summer sun on high.

Navy destroyers in the San Diego docks
    are loading tonight,
    sailor's readying for a fight.
The Capistrano swallows return, again and again,
    as sure as the sun creates seasons
    for women and men.
The tourists at the two Newports,
    one in Oregon and one in LA,
    watch the slow yachts moving about.
Seattle's high-tech millions
    make Puget Sound home,
    settled uneasy at the base
    of Ranier's snowy dome.

Salinas Valley on the El Camino Real

In the early days, El Camino Real, circa 1760,
The Royal Road,
a long twisting 600 mile dirt road between
San Diego and Sonoma.
The King's Road to 21 Missions,
pueblos, farms, ranches, presidios.
The first version of US 101,
via the Southern Seaside Route
in the California Sun,
crossing by clear rivers that still all year run.

Rolling on 101, through the Salinas Valley,
in 2001, eucalyptus trees still lined the roadway.
By the Fields of Heaven in the
Spring Sun, sweating;
green lettuce gleaming,
Rows of carts with boxed carrots, flowers,
    tomatoes, celery, greens;
Lines of field hands hard at work
picking rose red radishes
    and peppers so sweet,
stopping on schedules to drink,
and chat, and rest, and eat.

Steinbeck's homelands,
the Pastures of Heaven,
scattered around with dusty farm towns:
Atascadero, Paso Robles, Nacimento,
San Lucas, Greenfield, Salinas,
Gilroy, Soledad, Gonzales;
home of strawberries, tomatoes, flowers,
celery, spinach, lettuce and garlic.
The Salad Bowl of the Nation,
East of Eden,
Home of the hardworking forgiven sons.

Valle de Salinas:
Hispanic Haven, Tortilla Flats,
children soccering in the fields,
or reading in the local schools,
everyone ready for rodeos and fun festivals,
food, dancing, laughter, romances, tequila, beer.
Hungover workers picking
celantro, flores, lechuga, tomate,
ajo, alcachofa, uvas ...
while walking above other irrigated rows,
while children play at recess,
while women cook fine meals.

Rio de Salinas:
marsh lands, hidden streams, shallow sloughs;
riverside parks for picnics, soccer, baseball,
boats flowing slowly into Monterey Bay,
sitting in the eucalyptus tree's shade.;
Both Mice and Men grasping for straws,
swallowed by the Upside-Down River's Laws.

The wines of Paso Robles,
tangled my tongue.
Big Bold Reds,
Cabernet Sauvignon:
Unspoken tastes, bottles of dreams,
glasses of memories, gulps of reality.
Green vineyards, as far as I can see.

The Bottom Line

"Caress the detail, the divine detail."
    - Vladimir Nabokov
“We think in generalities, but we live in details.”
    - W. H. Auden
"The idea of one overbearing truth is exhausted."
    - Thomas Mann
“A profound attention to the details of this world.”
    - George Levine
“Cherish the minutes heureuses.”
    - Charles Baudelaire
“The vast and unsuspected reality of small things
    - Robert Nozick
“We are better satisfied in particulars.”
    - Wallace Stevens
"God is in the details." - Mies Van Der Rohe

“Details are all there are.” - Maezumi Roshi
“Focus on small worlds of order.” - Paul Valery
“No ideas but in things." - William Carlos Williams
   "To study the self is to forget the self.
   To forget the self is to be enlightened
      By the ten thousand things."
- Zen Master Dogen

Flowers in the Sky

Drifting snowflakes covered me,
to show us how January Reigns
by frozen filigree or chilly rain
falling on Mt. Olympus by the sea.

Retreating to my cold canvas hut,
resigned to read and sip tea;
covered up in dry warm wool,
thick blanket over my knees.

Opened up a classic Soto Zen
tome to read: Master Dogen's
"Treasury of the True Dharma Eye"
"Moon in a Dewdrop: Shobogenzo."
"Flowers in Space: Kuge."

Phenomena actualized,
Everywhere, All the Time.
On the ground, in the sky,
in my Eyes, in my Mind;.
Noumena left unspecified.

My False Eyes saw, creatively,
mirrored back and forth by me,
distorted by my Inner Visions,
seeing metaphors strive
to find meaning in Dogen's
Echizen Temple rooted Zen mind.
I wrote:

In a flaming burst,
they kiss the earth,
shout to the sky:
"White! Pink! Yellow!"
Orchards of plums and peaches,  
Acres of mustard-greens.
The Flowers of Time!

From the Ten Directions:
Spring brings on flowers,
Flowers bring on Spring.
Coming, here, gone:
Flowers in the Sky.

In the blink of one false eye,
In the blink of One True Eye,
Flowers in the empty sky;
Shimmering, scented ... gone,
Gone, gone, gone far beyond
Their seeds of arising.
But, staying, Here-Now,
A Great Marvel of Manifestation.
Bodhisattva's - for the Bees.

Soil, sea, sun, rain, sky ...
Eight Elements embracing,
Intertwined in mind.
Unfathomable Matrix;
Scaffolds on scaffolds
Grounded in Otherness.
Below seeds, flowers, leaves,
stems, roots ...
Below wet cells embraced,
Below atoms dancing on Energy...
Deeper and deeper below into
What?  A Plenitude, a sacredness.
Emptiness in full bloom.

Above seeds, flowers, leaves,
stems, roots, fruits
Above water, soil, roots, branches,
Above the steams, lakes, and Sea,
Above sensing, feeling, working,
thinking ...
Higher and higher out towards
What?  
"Vast emptiness, nothing holy."        
Flowers in the sky.

Leaping from the Ledge of Infinite Regress,
The Unmoved Mover fell into Formlessness:
Pure silence echoed between the galaxies,
Eons of eons vanished in a second,
Withered trees bloomed in fires,
The Oceans covered all the Land,
Polar mountains melted, rivers went dry,
Thusness scattered in sixty directions,
Space became Time, time became things.

Black Holes filled with Nirvana,
A billion samadhi mirrors shattered,
Galaxies snuggled within a single skull,
Many became One, One only, only One.

Then,
the Divine Illuminatrix in All Beings
Opened Her clouded Eye, to see:
Flowers in the Sky.

He sat for weeks under the Bodhi Tree
Before the morning sun Opened his Eyes;
Lotus blossoms fell from the sky.
She walked through the Gateless Gate,
Upright, staff in hand;
Rhododendrons flowered by the Sea,
Plum blossoms opened across the land.

She sat and sat,
Till yea was nay, and nay was yea;
While roses bloomed on day by day.
Gnawing on his koan bone,
Suddenly, the taste of insight;
Amid seagrasses on the dunes,
Blue flowers amidst the grave sites.

Illusions, delusions, foolishness:
Those flowers falling from the sky.
Only our Mind's Eyes
Wishing for otherwise;
As always, embracing fertile lies.
Surfing daydreams of the past,
Spinning fictions over facts;
Myth making, playful, eager to act,
Seeing what we want to see,
Seeking, yea saying, seeding,
giving it a try.
Having faith in Flowers in the Sky.

These yellow poppies reveal time,
These sweet razor clams taste time,
These brown seeds generate time.
The seashells speak of past time.
These gray leafless trees show time.
The Earth is Time; the Sky is Time. 
And the five fingers of one black hand hold time,
And the blinking of two blue eyes cry time.
The dirty garden hoe and hoses water time,
The fishing line drops to the bottom of time,
And greasy tractor gears work time.

The snows on Mt. Ranier glacier time,
Moving Reedsport sand dunes cover time,
Cold ocean waves at Oceanside cut time,
Hood Canal ravens break open time,
The onion seedlings in Salinas sweeten time,
The roaring Feather River rapids erode time;
Ventura flower fields color time.

Remembering is time, forgetting is time.
Black lines of scripture tell times,
Great and small doubts reveal time,
Hungry ghosts and naked demons are time,
Newborn Gods were conceived in time.
Death is time, and conception is time.

Vulgar time, broken time,
Our time, space-time, in time,
The Right time, before time, Sublime time,
Standard time, beyond time, past time.
DreamTime of a still body-mind is time.

Time and Time again,
Explaining All and not
explaining any-thing.
From Being-Lost, with no abode,
selfless, bone dry;
Comes the time-Now
for the enlightened cry:
"Flowers in the Sky!"

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.

The Spiderwebs of Time
    are legion
multitudes of nows and thens;
Uncountable heres and theres
    unhitched
from any eternal present
everywhere.

To Dance at the Still Point
Of the Time beyond time,
Beyond pasts, within futures,
this Moment
Now and forever, beyond
ordinary minds.

Imagine what the Will can Do,
Cannot do, will not do.
Imagine more.
Please,
remove the offered flowers
from the great stone Buddha's hands,
before he's blown up at Bamiyan;
and the dust and stones flying high,
Hide the flowers in the sky.

The Buddha raised one flower
Sharing a silent sign;
Maha-Kasyapa smiled,
Keeping an open mind.
Truly eye to eye, free and kind,
Outside any scriptures, beyond any lies;
Fresh flowers in a sunny sky.
Flower petals in the sky.
We stroll in rose gardens, and Love.
   Precious flowers in the sky.

Speechless, Master Dogen stared,
   Shivering in a turning white world
Raising cold dawn moons.
Bright white millions on millions
Of drifting flowery flakes
   Fell fast from the Echizen sky.

Ice pure, elemental, quintessential
Wet, imperfect, flowing time
Packed by the hour, deeper,
Deeper down to Winter's core.

The Temple of Eternal Peace creaked,
Snowflakes gathered on Dogen's robe,
One icy crystal streaked the True Eye
Glimpsing into Itself;
Another transmission:
Lovely flowers in the Sky.

The Salmon Are Back

From north to south, and south to north,
Up and down, all year round,
    moving around
    to and from
    for food, for mates, for warmth and sun:
the swallows at Capistrano,
the butterflies at Monterey,
the geese from Canada,
the whales from Vancouver Island,
the salmon from the North seas.
Traveler's all
    on the West Coast
    flyways and seaways;
    like clockwork on calendars,
    predictable, expected
        treasured—

Slouching Towards Incoherence

Incoherent poems of word salads
mis-mashed shoes and beets mixed
with an obscure metaphorical dressing of
vinegar and bile, croutons of confusion,
tomatoes of nonsense thrown out;
I can’t figure Robert Creely out.

Brief excursions on bouncing backroads of wordy mud
puddles of randomness

closed the brittle door on hinges of sounds

read out, read out louder,
rant, whisper, shout out,
the spoken word; ritual tails
wagging like memories lost

flocks of vocabulary typhoons
smashing, howling, broken cocoons
bursting butterflies of spinning sounds

Read out, read out louder
in a dank smoky coffee house
Beat Hip precursor of Hippie clouds

          Jumping off the ground-
     falling up Meanings
Falling down in Frisco town

     Coits Tower still screws the sky
Gregory Corso freed St. Michael from Alcatraz
Moscone and Milk: justice unfairly denied
Alan Watt’s old houseboat drowned
LSD glasses clearly unclear besmirched
     Allen Ginsberg’s Berkeley Sunflowers smiled
Creely had a brief, succinct, convoluted scowl
Ferlinghetti went lingcod fishing in The Bay
Zen Master Suzuki taught them when Not to Think
UCB students sat-in & shouted out
     Hitchhiking poets cried like clowns
Only Gary Snyder heard a Real Trickster Coyote Howl

          Eyes of my Ears - Mystified

Beatnik poets died.
City Lights sighed.

     Beffuddled by
a poet's words—
     repeating rereads
Increased the Blur...
     No Pearl in the oyster!

Now, in 2024, we call them U.S. Highway 101,
and U.S. Highway 1, the Bir Sur run,
and U.S. Interstate 5 from Olympia north,
and many other beautiful coastal spurs;
    101 from border to border,
    carrying trade and traveler's
    under a funded Federal order.
101, built from 1926-1935,
    from San Diego to Olympia,
    a Memorable Roadway,
    for those lucky souls
    with some cash, a car, and free time to play.
Three impressive Pacific States in a row,
    where I've lived for 79 years or so,
    and watched them unceasingly grow.

Highway 101 and Highway 1
Meet at the Golden Gate Bridge

North of the Golden Gate, the two roads split at Mill Valley below Mt. Tamalpais. Hwy 1 goes north along the coast through Bolinas, Inverness, Bodega Bay, Gualala, Mendocino, and Ft. Bragg to the forests at Leggett. Hwy 101 goes north inland through the world famous Winelands of Santa Rosa, Sonoma, Cloverdale, Petaluma, Ukiah, and up to the logging and the marihuana growing hinterlands of Mendicino County near Leggett.

South of the Golden Gate, the two roads split in San Francisco. Hwy 1 goes south along the coast through Half Moon Bay, Santa Cruz, Monterey, Big Sur, San Simeon, Morrow Bay, and ends in San Luis Obispo. Hwy 101 goes south inland through the Silicon Valley, San Jose, the Great Salinas Agri-Valley, and ends at the Obispo Mission in Obispo town.

The seashores are crowded all Summer. The cooler coast charms thousands. The summer sun attracts millions to this 1,403 mile long sandy playland. The 101 road traffic is heavy. A Fun Zone for a few of the 57,000,000 people on the West Coast. Families play in the sand. Motels are often FULL nightly. Wetsuits and swim suits dry quickly. The air is dry; no rain. People frolic in the hard charging waves. Campfires dot the grey sand dunes. Fishermen seek surf perch. Observations are seldom neutral. Restaurants are crowded. Clam chowder and salt-water taffy at every stop. Seashell shops are crowded all day. Boogie boards and surfboards in stuffed SUVs. Dogs running fast in the shallow wet sand. Kites colliding and fall to the land. Lovers cuddling on damp blankets. Beer and pop cans clutter around full trash cans. Seaside showers are filthy. Old men sleeping under canvas umbrellas. Children killing sand crabs. Buckets of sand piled high; a sand castle in the bright sky. The bars are busy till past the midnight hours in the port. Beach Boys singing California Girls on the radio. The shallow sloughs stink today. Bicyclists plodding slowly along in bike lanes. Motorcyclist's racing, cutting in and out, roaring and speeding about. Lost weekends in the salty surf. Many have died in the raging surf and undertow flow. Beachcombers walk and walk, then stop to touch a long strand of slick seaweed. Digging holes in the dirty damp sand. Fat men and women showing too much flesh. Tickling, laughing, wrestling, game playing on the shore. Vacation days full of fun! People on the Run. Surf's Up!!

Summertime Haiku, Tercets, Short Poems by Mike Garofalo.

The Cape Meares' Lighthouse on the high cliff
    near the Netart's Bay Octpus Tree is history.
Two Lighthouses at Cape Disappointment
    are still Working,
    warning sailors of the Columbia Bars'
    treacherous death traps lurking.

Klamath River rafters approach the sea;
    seals on the sand—they bark then flee.
The sea gull birds at Bodega Bay are peaceful,
    not attacking;
    roosting in fragrant Eucalyptus groves,
    not part of Hitchcock's film fantasies.
Drake's Bay at Pt. Reyes,
    cold and windy this winter day;
Charming hillside trails muddy and slick,
    my walking cane prevents a slip.

Beauty and Bounty: The Hood Canal

From Quilcene to the Skokomish River,
For 50 miles, US 101 winds back and forth,
north to south, curve after curve,
along the western edge of the Hood Fjord.
A Fjord filled also by Rivers
from the Eastern Olympic Mountains:
Quilcene, Dosewallips, Duckabush, Lilliwaup,
Hamma Hamma, Potlach, Skokomish.

Hamma Hamma Commercial Oyster Farm,
Tidelands and River, Hood Canal,
Highway 101, near Hoodsport, WA

Oysters and clams in the rocky tidelands.
Shrimp and salmon in the long Hood Fjord Canal.
Forests and shrubs on every steep slope.
Long a home to the Twana People
    rowing their hand-carved cedar canoes.
Nowadays,
Nuclear Submarines sleep
     in their Bangor Naval Base home.
Small cute cottages are perched
    along the Hood Canal's shore.
Even Bill Gates retreats there,
to kayak, walk, think, and read even more.
Serious pollution problems in the Fjord anymore.
Indian casinos and resorts, tiny towns,
    all along the Canal's west side down.
Logging managed and controlled all around
    in the Olympic National Forest grounds.

The river moaned a melancholy way all day,
dragging big logs from the canyons above,
and fertile sand to fill the Fjord's
waiting feminine embrace, in Love.

One Spring evening, I ate
    at the Halfway House Cafe,
Halfway between Here and There,
In the center of 'downtown' Brinnon, WA;
Savoring Hamma Hamma oysters
    in panko batter fried,
with fried shrimp, and scallops, and cod,
     and cole slaw and beer on the side.
A delicious Captain's Plate costing $35.

Later, day-dreaming by the
    Dosewallips River Park yurt fireplace;
Listening to the handicapped kids
    in the campground cheer.
Till the cold rain put out my campfire there.

Littleneck, horse, butter, cockle,
   manila and bentnose clams,
   Blue-Black Mussles, crabs,
   Geoducks deep down,
   and delicious Olympia-Pacific Oysters abound.
Many folks in their rubber boots stand
and dig and dig in the rocky sand;
Gathering shellfish from the Fjord lands.

At Potlach, near Hoodsport,
Mother Nature holds a Giveaway Feast,
Sharing, generous, extravagant to excess,
Far too generous for us greedy beasts.
Her endless Giving until
   there is nearly nothing left to eat.

Following 101 along the Hood Canal Fjord
To the Squaxin Seven Inlets
of the Southern Salish Seas
Around Shelton, Kamilche, Steh-Klas, and
The State Capitol of Washington, Olympia.
At Olympia, US 101 joins US Interstate 5,
or its variant, U.S. 99's wandering line;
near the splashing Tumwater Falls,
of Olympia Brewery fame,
and follows the coast north
along the Puget Sound
through Olympia, Tacoma, Seattle, Everett,
Bellingham by the Puget sea,
and up to Vancouver, B.C..

qwaxwqx ?astaw s?axu tas?
asutelciba cicaxw tebixw

The Raven Broke Open The Magical Clam
An Amazing New World then Began

In the Time Before Everything Changed
the Transformers and Changers
lived in the Ocean's Womb
before the Waters receded.
Then They Came, and Everything Changed.

The Raven Broke Open the Magical Clam
An amazing New World then Began.
Both inside and outside the Magical Clam
Coming Forth, Coming From, Coming, coming ...

Then they Came, and Everything Changed.
People and new plants were created.
New mosses, mushrooms, camas bulbs,
    and huckleberries appeared.
New cedars, spruces, firs,
    and salal berries appeared.
The San Juan Islands, Hood Fjord,
    Salish Seas and King Salmon appeared.
Enemies, diseases, and famine appeared.

People learned from the
Transformers/Changers/Teachers:
Raven, Coyote, Honne, Xwane, Turtle,
    Bear and Thunderbird.
How to become Human Beings
    in a dangerous World.
How to become heartless at times.
How to gather, hunt, and fish for food.
What to Believe and Do
    in order for their tribe to survive.
How to deal with surprise.

All kinds of beings emerged-created.
People lived, worked, Spoke and mated.

Coyote howled and cheered!
Thunderbird ordered the rain and thunder.
Shape-Shifters played and plundered.
Xwane saved two girls from blunders.
Honne stopped a flood.


The Magical Clam: A Singularity Opening,
Beginnings Beyond the Understanding
Of Ordinary Times and Minds.

From Something New Came Something New.

The Raven cawed, gurred, mmmured, croaked
then hid in trees away from folks.

The vast canvas of the sea, open wide before me,
  to the West, North and South, to the limits of my seeing—
    a starting point for my Saying....
Walking away from the sandy shore,
    legs wet in the salty surf,
    the blue Immensity before me
    quickly transforms me,
    rejuvenates me,
    reveals to me the Powers of the Sea.
A big Zuma Beach wave knocks me
    hard to my knees,
    reminding me of the dangers of the sea;
Soaking me cold from head to toe,
    sucking bubbling foam up my nose.
    Struggling to stand, another wave
    crushes me down again.
Awe, fear, danger, pain:
One path to strange epiphanies.

Falling for Autumn's Charms

In September, schools reopened, families home,
still summer dry, hot, sweltering, breezy
winds from the desert blow
Santa Ana Winds over the San Gabriel's
Desert Plateau Winds through
the Columbia Gorge ...

All the leaves were yellow, and the sky was dark;
I stopped into a bookstore, on a browsing lark;
I'd be warm and safe in Astoria WA;
West Coast dreaming on such an autumn day.

Autumn Season Haiku, Tercets, Short Poems by Mike Garofalo.

The Hills on fire... FIRE!!

Black skies filled with Wildfire smoke
From a Racing Tsunami of Fire and ash;
Putrid Smog, Killer Smoke- Choke!

Firetrucks loaded and ready to go
fire fighters getting some hard-earned cash,
Black skies filled with Wildfire smoke.

Flaming chaparral and trees all aglow
houses burned to cinders in a flash;
Putrid Smog, Killer Smoke- Choke!

Just cut the trees down, heave-ho.
Can’t rake up the ground, FEMA funds slashed.
Black skies filled with Wildfire smoke.

People, pets, and animals all died below
the roaring scorching blaze so fast;
Putrid Smog, Killer Smoke- Choke!

Fires in the hills and mountains we know
are the West Coast’s nemesis at last:
Black skies filled with Wildfire smoke
Putrid Smog, Killer Smoke- Choke!

Pacific Palisades CA burned in 2025.
California burned in 2008.
Tillamook OR burned in 1933.
Astoria OR burned in 1922.
San Francisco CA burned in 1906.
Yacolt Fire WA burned in 1902.
Seattle burned in 1889.

Eye to Eye Memories

Raccoon in a tree:
me looking at him
him looking at me

Deer at a corner:
me looking at her
her looking at me

Two eyes looked at two eyes—
Four eyes make memories
for a curious raccoon and me
or a white-tailed doe and me.

Animals in the forests, swamps, clearings
at Cape Disappointment, in January—
Memories of Seeing:
others as they seem to be,
Beachcombers searching carefully
focused clearly and true
Looking around by my shoes
right before my very eyes
A happy dog runs to my side
seeing is believing some believe
Many clouds and wind, rain will come
"I saw it" is a claim to truth
A Seaview Cafe sign says "closed"
seeing gives birth to memories
A stray cat begs for food from me
memories give context to what I see
The Big Picture is my Biggest Scheme
    the gestalt I see
    sets the stage background for me
I invent what is seen
Did I imagine or did I see?
He testified "I saw..."

What I saw is a memory
a seagull searched the sand
Remember, two eyes is all you need
the new glasses improved my memory
I forget most of It—
sleep caused me not to see
Not talking increased what I saw
watching someone talking
children yelled, we looked
I remembered, I forgot
memories weaken, pictures fade—

I remembered to look, fortunately
    Seeing the 101 North sign
    my memories aligned geographically
Been here before, remembered a store
Looked at a map an hour before.
Saw a deer in a grass clearing, browsing
Did I see a deer, noun, a memory
unaltered by stroke or dementia disease;
Without memories and words it is
    just a meaningless blur to see—

The Raccoon and I met on North Jetty Road,
he between two spruce trees on a branch,
and I, sitting in the shade, entranced;
For our quick and passing Glance,
    assessing dangers with four eyes—

Reading opens up my open eyes
memorizing a poem brings it to life
naming what you see builds memories
watching someone talking
Seeing and Looking and Saying What—

Did I really see that or just imagined it all?
For the reader, writer, speaker, audience;
Who makes the call?
Real or imagined, fiction or fact—

Dali's drooping melted clock
Pollack's abstract overdubbed sprays
Van Gogh's perfect stacks of hay
Memories hanging paintings in my mind

That Racoon's mask and eyes
    are still looking back in my head.
    The Raccoon was real,
    Not so sure that I
        was very real
        in my head
        anyway.

[Is that Real or real? God or god?
Mind or mind?
A painting or a photograph?

2+2=4: Now and Forever More

A lady was studying her Bible
in a Cayucos cafe one foggy day.
We somehow struck up a conversation,
and she tried to show me The Way.
She believed every Bible Word she read,
and she said,
"If the Bible said, 2+2=5;
I would believe that until I die."

I smiled; hid my contempt.
Then paid my cafe bill, and
counted out a four dollar tip.
Headed out to the very long
Cayucous Pier to fish.
A fine cool fisherman's day ...
Luckily, I caught four fish

With some guarded doubts and disbelief,
I don't believe in all that I or others think;
Fictions and fantasies for fun are fine,
But I prefer a factual ordinary useful mind.

Notes and Reminders

[The Context of Minds Working:
Oceanographers, Biologists, Geologists,
Cartographers, Meteorologists, Geographers,
Historians, Scientists, Researchers ...
All lurking in the depths of my old mind:
infuse my senses, color my seeing,
focus my experiences, mediate my speaking,
dictate my awareness of beings and me.
My paltry experiences of the "sea"
and the shared Real Big Sea overlap in me.
Without these useful Maps,
the Territory is obscure, limited,
immediate, personal, idiosyncratic.]

[My thinking is bumpy, episodic,
Full of flashbacks, stumbling;
To and fro, back and forth,
Singing and Songing,
Here-ing and There-ing.]

[I looked at more pictures of the Pacific,
my inner feelings
plotted against external criteria,
trying to be specific.]

[My inward-outward awareness
Fulfilling body-mind in time,
Know's the Oceans' Beauty
By being Present at the Sublime.]

[I can't write rhymes many times.
A proper metered pace is often not mine.
Where are the obscure, subtle, profound, clever lines?
No mystery, magic, marvels; just a literal mind.
Nevertheless, I keep on trying every time.
But if I doubt, and stop, what's then left behind?]

[It's good to have a Philosopher's Spirits;
To Think, Decide, and Do on Reason's merits.]

[I ask questions to focus my mind
On ordinary concerns of an ordinary kind;
I get answers sometimes that unsettle me,
But they're often probably, maybe, unlikely.]

The Bolsa Chica tin-can Beach
    years ago was cleaned,
    but the smell of oil
    like with the Santa Barbara oil rig ring,
    can still stink up the scene.
The Huntington long pier
    and many others,
Were swept asunder,
    yet rebuilt again and again,
    despite the costly numbers.
Our sunburnt hands from Laguna Beach
    once stung and blistered,
    decades later melanoma skin cancer
    took her sister.
The glass beach at Fort Bragg glistens at dusk,
    the remnants of a trash dump,
    just broken colored husks.
The Café by the Edge of the Sea
    is hidden faraway,
    somewhere among the north hillside shops,
    of foggy Netarts Bay.

Fields of Cream

The dairy farms of Skagit Valley, Tomales Bay,
Ferndale, or the famous Tillamook Oregon fields

are lush green from the rain, frost and dew,
where milk cows by the thousands feed and chew,
then creameries transform raw milk into
cheeses, ice creams, butter, cream.
So tasty, quite healthy, so clean!
Butter on a warm bagel,
coffee topped with cream,
waking up, so serene a scene

The Olympic Curve on 101

The oil tankers from Alaska dock
At the Anacordes Oil Refineries
    in shallow Padilla Bay;
And, yet, the oysters are still delicious
    in shallow Samish Bay.
Orcas rise up and down, in and out,
    off Whidbey Island's shores;
    hunting, hungry, in packs,
    eager for delicious gore.
Near the Hoh Rain Forest,
    at Forks, US 101 hooks to the East,
    following The Straight of Juan De Fuca,
         (100 miles long, 25 miles wide,
         300-600 feet deep, Blue-Green within)
To the purple lavender fields of Sequim.
All year, the WA Ferry from
    Port Angeles to Victoria B.C.,
    crosses Juan's Big Straight,
    smoothly, swiftly, safely.

The Wreck Ahead Comes Into View

What you see might never be,
Changed for the better by factories.
What you hear might bring you fear,
Of nuclear power plants coming here.

San Onofre, Humboldt Bay, Chehalis all Closed,
Nuclear waste locked in hot concrete commodes.
Diablo Canyon headed for the same fate,
San Luis Obispo, Avila, spared somewhat late.

We can't deny Fukushima's tsunami demise,
Our West Coast shares that Ring of Fire Alive.
We shudder and shake in earthquakes strong.
Yes, it can suddenly become horribly wrong.

Where will the tens of millions go?
When Florida's Turkey Point melts down
during a horrendous hurricane blow.

Trash bags and an old couch tossed quick
along a 101 roadside poppy covered ditch.

Tourists screw up what’s little left, for fun,
leaving papers and cans, then they run.

Do we need to ship more TVs from Japan,
oil from America, or toys from Hunan?

Abandoned appliances, collapsed old abodes,
and bags of garbage lay along this old 101 road.

Each year, more animals living in the sea
are disappearing, becoming extinct, sadly.

Ignoring State rules, limits, permits
some steal from Nature without remiss.

Pee and shit sewage slips down into the river
filling the bay with another killer.

Do we need more shoes from China,
cars from Japan, underwear from Vietnam?

With Dr. StrangeHate in command,
mutually assured destruction right at hand.

Oil spills scum the oceanside scene
many fish and birds dead, it’s obscene.

Chernobl and Fukashima destroyed
themselves and many cities for centuries.

Plastic bottle islands float on the sea
more garbage floats along for free.

Salmon over fished, abalone nearly gone,
otters and whales hunted for far too long.

Chemicals spills kill the shellfish beds,
poison people, leave much life dead.

The Three Mile Island melt-down
at Disaster's Edge for 60 miles around.

Coal kept us warm in winter storms
Leaving acid rain as our polluted norm.

Googleplexes think with AI. But
without more immense power, they will die.

I shuffled out a Voyager Tarot spread, it said:
Time-Space, Negativity, Disappointment,
Setback, Death.

The bees and birds disapper each day
as insecticides and diseases strip them away.

Overpopulated cities gobble up all
electricity, food, water, and land for malls.

The Deep Water Horizon was blown away
spewing oil and gas for 87 days.

Droughts deplete the damned reservoir,
drinking water is rationed more.

Do we need more cocaine from Columbia
meth from Mexico, or guns from America?

Forests were cut and not replanted
ruining watersheds, tree-huggers ranted.

Coal BURNing Machines Make MegaWattsGrand
and strip mines Swallow Up more farming land.

Another oil spill on the West Coast,
decimating sel kelp forest hosts.

Second week of a very hot night sky;
worse news, the fresh water well is dry.

Our garbage dumps multiply, rise higher,
fouling the earth for decades in mire.

Jet fumes flood the sky with grime
car exhaust fumes smog cut short our time.

Warming oceans, rising seas, spell our doom;
The Third Extinction over everyone looms.

I’d done my share to seal our Earth's sad fate
embarrassed, I changed
to tree hugging, ZPG, Tai Chi, driving less,
turning lights out, and gardening from age 28.

Nevertheless, my descendants in 2195, if any,
will blame my generation justifiably for
our greed, carelessness, over consumption,
our coal, oil, and plastic addictions,
our unwillingness to change our habits,
our hunger for novelty and bourgeois things,
our give a damn avarice and pride.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

The Longest Bridge in America?
Chaussee du lac Pontchartrain, 23 miles, no doubt.

The longest bridge in Washington/Oregon:
    Astoria-Megler 101 over the Columbia:
    4 miles long, built in 1963,
    A bit windy, wet, and dreary,
    A Driving Lane at the Edge of the Sea.

The Golden Gate Bridge , Rustoleum Red,
rumbling in the moonlight, end to end,
the flow of cars and trucks never ends.
An American engineering icon it’s said.
Millions come on the 101 big bridge and go,
radio on, tapping their fingers and toes.

The curved Coronado Bridge
crawls over San Diego Bay;
the busy downtown cityscape
clear in the warm winter air,
lots of Navy ships docked there.

The beautiful bridges on the Oregon coast,
Over the Yaquina, Alsea, Siuslaw, Umpqua,
Coquille, and the Big one over Coos Bay,
all designed by Conde B. McCullough:
Art-Deco, Art-Moderne, Tudor, Roman,
Arches upon Arches, lasting beauty,
built from 1919 to 1935,
still working these 2024 days.
Bridges like jeweled clasps along a
matched 101 long string of beautiful
coastline forest-sea pearls.

The floating bridge over the Hood Fjord,
or from Seattle to Bellevue, both sunk.
The Tacoma Narrows bridge collapsed.
All rebuilt. We don’t give up.

Off bridges and high buildings everywhere,
Suicide jumpers stand and stare.
Making a final decision to go nowhere.
Never again - they don’t care.
They’ve had enough - they don’t care.
They jump, fly down, smash, and die.
Loved ones find out and cry.
Life goes on and on, few care,
Memories fade and die.

Most of the ferries before bridges are long gone;
Except between cities in the Puget Sound.
Give it time, then it’s gone, a sad song.
Give it time, the new emerges, we ride on.

Tankers unload oil
    at Long Beach Harbor near LA.
Refineries in Wilmington
    keep LA cars fueled all day.
The Big Petro Plants at Benecia,
    keep the tractors in Davis fueled.
Whether in Oakland or Tacoma, ports so busy,
    docks unloading, 24 hour bustling cities.
Oil, dams, computers, seaports,
    agriculture, and aircraft
    Powered our West Coast schemes.

East Los Angeles Revisited

I grew up in East Los Angeles,
in Bandini, in the early City of Commerce days.
Highway 101, AKA Interstate 5,
was five blocks from the small house
my dad built when he was 35.
I walked or drove over 101/5 thousands of times,
the Atlantic Boulevard way,
growing up in the Bandini Barrio
there from the 1946 to 1965 days.
With mixed emotions and memories:
of Washington Blvd wharehouses and factories,
of Whittier Blvd markets and stores,
of Atlantic Blvd down to the Long Beach shore,
of the smells of the Farmer John cattle stockyards,
of nearby train yards unclanking hookups so tight,
of the roaring 101/5 freeway rumbling fast
    all day and night.
The "Santa Ana Freeway"
    into Orange County fields,
retracing the old El Camino Real route,
by Disneyland's attractions galore,
inland, till Laguna Beach's
    artsy shops and rocky tidepools shore.
These cities upon cities,
non-stop LA metro sprawl,
with 101/5 through it all.

Mr. Hearst ate trout on the patio,
    on a clear autumn day,
    at his Castle at San Simeon CA;
Where his friends would party later that day.
Youth partied at Newport on Spring Break,
Enjoying happy-go-lucky drunken dates.
Arts, music, dance, theater, sports, films,
schools, colleges, universities, hospitals,
libraries, stadiums, museums, concert halls,
arenas, parks, arboretums, aquariums ...
The West Coast has it all!

West Coast Sports Teams
    entertain us all year;
       with Championships A'Plenty,
       from pee wee leagues to the Pros;
    Our West Coast Hood pride shows.
Kobe Bryant's helicopter lost its way
    into a Calabasas hillside and Smashed!
    A million died from COVID in the USA!

In the Shadows of Mountains

The endless High Steep Cliffs all along the Sea—
     striking, dramatic, and thrilling to me.
Haystack Rock, Morro Rock, Three Arch Rocks;
Islands, Sea-Stacks and Big Rocks Alone;
Neahkahnie Mountain, a basalt dome,
Throne of the Great Spirit, God's Home.
On Cone Mountain, the Los Vigilantes Oscuros,
    hide in the twisted trees;
    wanting to see but not to be seen.
Mary's Peak, Tcha Timanwings,
Kalapuya People's Place of Spiritual Beings.
By the Big Sur Cliffs, crossing Bixby Bridge,
Iconic Cali at the Edge, a Holy Rocky Ridge.
Mt. Ranier, Tacoma, Mother of Waters,
    a glacier topped stratavolcano,
    spewing lava for a million years;
Tacoma:
    Even Before the Trees Came,
    Home to Thunderbirds.
    Home before HumanKinds.

We watched the whales
    from that Port Orford cliffside café,
    while eating oatmeal and berries
    at the start of
Our 45th Wedding Anniversary Day.

Myrtlewood and Shells Alive

At home,
    I listen to the sounds of the surf
    from the sea shell over my ear,
    the sea so far away,
    yet sounds so near.
My memories of the ocean will hang on,
    long after my few big footprints
    on the wet sandy trails are gone.
The smells of myrtlewood
    from the foggy seaside canyons
        Still linger,
    as I twist their dried leaves
        In my warm fingers.

A Reminder from the Other World

Yes, I've heard the Memaloose Ghosts
    in the Sitka swamps all talking,
and I've also left quickly in fear fast walking.
I've dreamt of skulls and skeletons,
graveyards of broken canoes,
Islands of the Dead,
   creepy Clatsop Chinook stories in my head.

In the Nehalem rain,
    with a deep dark dripping forest all around,
A Memaloose Ghost whispered to me
    in these hallowed grounds:

"The tide comes in, the tide goes out;
that's essential, Yes,
to What It's All About.
Your tide flows out, old man;
So it's now best to smile and shout, Yes,
and stroll bravely out."

"Saghili pee keekwillie chuck;
elip lekleh yes ahha,
Iktah Mitlite Konaway
Wake Sia Kopa.
Mika chuck chako
pee klatawa, oleman;
Alta elip klose ahha
tenas hehe pee hyas wawa
pee klata kopa lapea
skookum tum tum
klaghanie ahha."

- Words of the Memaloose Ghost in Her Chinook Jargon; translated above.

mike garofalo 2015

[I've come to the end of my Docu-Poem's home.
What follows are haiku, text art, photos, links,
and miscellaneious poems set around the Sea
at the Edge of the Pacific Northwest.]

     sitting by the bay
          drizzling
          dark day

    grains of sand
on Grayland's strand—
    needles on pines

the smell of
salt water:
    chilly morning
    damp pier
       cold ears
       stiff fingers
           sticky bait
           wait, wait, wait

Night and Day—
the Surf Swallowed
  All in its Way

the sea
smashed on the shore—
drifting thoughts

     cells in my hand
  moving the sand—
raindrops washing the sea

blooms of Spring
flanked by evergreens—
   sunshine on stones

rocks of the jetty
slick and cold—
black rockfish
gather below

  birds gather on the mud—
low tide
at noon

broken razor clam shells
scattered around—
   drunken men laughing

moonrise—
the dark night of a soul
       lifts

walking over
fallen leaves—
    a moonlit path

dawn—
   every leaf drips
   backlit by fog

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.

wild animals are wily—
   staying alive
   rules our lives

      dry sand
      wet sand—
low tide at noon

Foggy all morning—
a raven breakfasts
      on red roadkill

Gleaming gas pumps
In the fluorescent night,
Slaves of the Almighty Dollar,
Pouring hot octanes
Into the bellies of Chevies.

Ding! Ding! Gallons go down.
Wallets open and fold.
Acid fogs melt steel belted moons.

Headlights come and go, flashing
By the drying Lakes of Petro.

A Dead End ahead, everywhere,
For us, for OPEC, for Fords.

jet lights high in the sky—
the moon over
      black soft surf

somehow, someway
everyone
gets eaten up someday

Cut fir logs
stacked two stories high—
    screeching mill saws....

Stoned silly
on strong sativa—
  Doors of Deceptions

Buzzards circling
higher and higher—
     bright sky.

 driftwood floats by
    at high tide—
boats hide

Salmon drying
in the smoker—
caviar on a cracker.

Swordfish
sizzles on the grill—
she cuts a lemon.

      oyster shooters
      tingle my tongue—
cannabis buzzes her brain

     bakini clad women
     walk on by—
men's eyes follow

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

our lips smack
     separating
our fantasies

secent of her flowers
     woozy
kissing her knee

ruckus on
damp sheets all askew—
     panting face to face

trembling together
     we explode!!
groaning ....

Floating upstream past Time
      Ticking counter clockwise,
    Repeating carnal fantasies—
  Rumbling surf got louder,
I fell asleep.

Skeletons in Love

Live long enough,
and the losses pile up,
Till you're tossed away
like an old cracked cup,
All stained and worm,
dulled by time,
Useless, leaking,
not worth a dime.
Then, you die, sometime.

Egoless, your flesh falls away,
You, a skeleton becomes;
Lost in Nirvana,
lights out,
all done.

Nine months later
to your utter surprise,
you awaken in bed,
Changed, very much alive.
Not as Kafka's
Ungeheueres Ungeziefer,
or as Casper the Ghost
all covered in fur;
Not as a Memaloose on the Run,
but as a horny Stud Skeleton.

Then, the Skeleton Woman
drinks your dry tears,
Drums your still heart,
and sings away fears,
Slips under the quilts
and gives Love a Whirl;
Spinning, twirling,
your reborn as a Girl.

Forget yourself,
crack the cup on the floor,
Speak in a new voice,
the past is no more.

    running out of time
for catching up
    with the future
now

        my mind grinds
        my times
into memories

To dance at the still point
Of the Time beyond time,
Beyond pasts, within futures,
this Moment
Now and forever, beyond minds.

shore pines
swirling in the breeze—
   a stunt-kiter smiles

     graveyard gate
   closed—
dense fog

Days, Months, Seasons;
Solid, Liquid, Gas:
Woman, Child, Man;
Air, Earth, Water;
Heaven, Human, Earth—
   Threesomes of Reasons
   for the comings and goings
   and stayings of Things—
   Signs of a Mystical "Three".

Campfires Smoking

I sit by my simple yurt by the sea,
and light a campfire at dawn,
against the cold,
and just be.

Sitka Spruce Forest
all around—
smoking campfire
on cold wet ground.

Splitting dry kindling,
  damp December day—
        wind chimes tinkling.

Do the pines daydream?
  feeding logs
  into the campfire flames.

    Wet pine logs—
      campfire smoke
      in our eyes

Gathered around
the campfire's light—
very chilly night.

dilly-dallying—
pocking
the fire

Crackling campfire
pops and sparks—
    keeping ghosts away

    Campfire embers,
    fading reds—
    time for bed.

      Pouring water
      on the campfire—
                 Smoke

_________________________________

At the Edges of the West
Memories of Pacific Coast Places
US Highway 101 & 1
Docu-Poem by Michael P. Garofalo
Vancouver, Washington
Version 3, November 2024