Memories of Pacific Coast Places
West Coast Snapshots & Snippets
Delightful Coastal Spur Roads

The lingcod fed
    around the breakwater rocks,
Avoiding our hooks
    in the seaweed's tangled locks.
Crab cages, oyster boxes, coiled nets,
    floats, ropes, boats, rods and reels,
    stinking bait, gaiters, beer;
    fishermen's tools on the docks,
    damp and ready to work a lot.
Fishermen at the pier, baiting their hooks,
      waiting, waiting, baiting,
      staring at the sea swells, waiting.
Lots of fishing but no catching,
So the old diner's dinner menu
    was very fetching.

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.

Willapa Bay WA

Westport WA

Four Days in Grayland

A Fork in the Crypto Road

We stopped for coffee in Forks WA one day
on the way to Crescent Lake’s forest shade.
The barista smiled, polite, earned a tip.
We sipped and talked about Rips in Time,
splittings, divergences, separations between
Crypto-beings versus real creatures
    we can find.

Cryptozoology, not bitcom crypto schemes,
    but
plenty of amazing pseudo-science scuttlebutt.
Yes, Cryptids living by the Quillayute River
or by its incoming Bogachiel
    or Sol Duc streams.
Or, four Chupacabras living in La Push.
Or, Big Foot and Little Foot
      crossing Hwy 101 at dusk.

Forks pretends to host Vampires,
teenage blood suckers on the night prowl,
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.

Many beings eat, fight and kill to survive,
wily, tricky, stealthy, with a hunter’s pride.
The Horned God has history on his side.
Hunger keeps us all on the Edge,
ready to amorally pounce from a hedge
and slaughter or harvest creatures just ahead.
We are all Vampires
rising from the dead. Its said,
Living and dying scenes
are sometimes seen in vivid Red.

Books and movies started it all,
now all Fork’s stores sell
    Vampire and Werewolf dolls.
Motel rooms are decorated
    in Twilight themes.
Crypto-Reality, fantasies, fictions,
    magical scenes.
Drawing thousands of titillated tourists here.
Happy Forkers counting more dollars there.

Its said that
Big Foot roams the nearby lush Hoh woods
seeking a lean Sasquatch Lady with Big Boots.
She temporarily hides her alluring charms
    from clumsy Big Foot’s fingers and arms,
Carrying a Sasquatch-Yeti baby in her arms.

Why do we often picture and portray
Big Foot as a lonely male, a hairy ugly guy,
a grumpy solitary fellow,
without a female, family, friend,
or clan at his side.
Maybe, I surmise,
Big Foot is a Quinault ShapeShifter,
like his Forks Hoh brethren,
and not a Cryptid in disguise.

And, then we have Paul Bunyan,
    The Logger Man,
a Machine of a Man, with Babe, his Blue Ox,
dragging logs from the land; plundering
forests till their gone, then moving on.
Nowadays, from Quinault firs
to Humboldt coastal mountain pines,
diesel logging trucks packed full are the rule.
There's a huge statue of Paul the Lumberjack
his axe and Babe, in Requa-Klamath CA,
at the Trees of Mystery,
along Highway 101 to this very day.

One dreary winter day,
I spotted Big Foot drinking coffee
with Paul Bunyan and Vampire Vlad
in a cozy Tillamook Starbucks Cafe.
Nobody was fazed;
figuring,
just Hollywoody Cos-Play

Forks WA

Big Foot

Cryptozoology

Olympic National Park WA

Hip Woke West

Most of the Dharma Bums at Big Sur are gone,
    th ere were a few clever word-smiths
    of drunken sad hip rambling songs.
"All life is suffering!" so some Zen men say;
But I'm an Epicurean anyway:
Find ways to suffer less
    and enjoy more Today.
Esalen hot tubs and Philosopher's seminars
    at the edge of the sea,
     and the smell of cannabis in the breeze.
In a San Diego hillside temple
     Paramahansa Yogananda
     preached for one's Realized being,
Bowing in Child's Pose and Clearly Seeing.

In McKinleyville,
Playing under the gray clouds from the sea,
    Grandmaster Yang Jwing Ming
    enjoys teaching Tai Chi.
The high Santa Barbara Mission walls
    gleam white in the sun,
    and the old Bishop solemnly raises
    the Host of the Son.

The surf fisherman at Pismo Beach released
    the fat pregnant surf perch,
    a considerate donation
    to The Fertility Church.

California Culture

Stepping Over Epiphanies

Affecting all the molecules in me
the pull of the moon and sea
feeling the call to walk the shore
Smiled, opened the door

Tides and time sent signals to me
to step nimbly over epiphanies
seen flipped over in the turning sands
Surprised, opened my hands

Waiting for nobody but me
a fleck of cold fire
flung out on this fleck of space
Sang out, loved this place


Shore pines paint a background scene
short stubby crooked trees
swaying gently in the salty breeze
Unruffled, I found tranquility

Stunned by the crisp clean colors
savoring the scents of the sea
enchanted by the incessant singing surf
Awakened, a mystical reverie

Pointing to the ineffable realization of
insights known to me alone
erupted up from our sensory realities
Profound, not foreknown

Such awakenings come and go
sometimes fast or sometimes slow
unpredictable visions playing peekaboo
Pausing, not thinking too


Slogging up and down the dunes
breathing hard on Que
one step up, a half-step back
Stopping, quite a view

A romantic couple passes me
by on the thin path through sea grass;
we nod, mumble "hello", step aside
Thinking, will love last

What I see is painted by me
created for free in a brain for me
sucked from the breasts of reality
Pondering, real or illusory

I practiced outside today
the Practice of the Outside Way
I figured a few things out
Understanding, what Place's say

Tip toeing over bull kelp strands
stepping on broken shells
avoiding the driftwood piles ever moving
Listening, a virtual foghorn knells

A friendly dog off-leash comes to me
seeking a gentle pat and pet
desiring a kind human face to see
Laughing, she was wet

My grand daughter and I once walked
beside an Oregon dune
not very long ago it seemed to us
Remembing, gone too soon

Nature Mysticism

Spirituality

Winter at the Shore

The King Tides in winter are born of slanted/aligned sun and moon and cold bulging windswept seas. The clouds and winds and sea currents from the Artic Regions flow south and east against the coastal mountain ranges so low. Snow can fall at Ruby Beach WA, but not a San Juan Capistrano CA. I shivered in 20 degree weather at Shore Acres State Park, near Coos Bay, Oregon, one February day. Could not get my fingers to warm up, despite wearing fleece gloves all day; and, if fingers fail the soul flails. The campground was deserted, to cold for play. Even the sun had abandoned me, hidden in black-grey clouds framing the heavenly array.

Spectacular scenes of huge winter waves crashing into rocks, cars, and buildings are TV news highlights many days. Big surf and high tides in the Winter attract the Storm Watchers—Rainjacket Rats. King Tides draw huge crowds to wtach the splashing dramatic displays. Where do they all come from, even on winter weekdays; thrill seekers ready fo King Neptune's powers to rage.

Fewer fishermen stand on the piers, docks, or the breakwater jetty rocks. A few see migrating whales from vantage points high above the sea, and stop and stare with binoculars fixed on the fantastic creatures flowing by so free. At a warm seaside cafe, halfway between here and there, in Fort Bragg CA, I ate toast and eggs, and read "Waves and Beaches" by Dr. McCoy this day.

Sandy beaches are mostly deserted. Some stores and cafes are closed more often, or entirely during the Off Season losses. People hunker down, sip more apricot brandy, and laugh and tell stories a little bit randy. Highway 101 is hazardous driving through gray fogs, growing into deep whiteout fogs from side to side, forcing me to stop on the skinny road side.

The shrubs and trees, those without any leaves, look a bit down, worn, tired, and torn; all the branches and trunks, a bit brown, subdued, sticks in morning fog.

Wintertime Haiku, Tercets, Quintains, and Short Poems by Mike Garofalo

January Winter: Quotations Anthology

Alphabetical Index of Titles

A Secrets of the Night
Diasppearing 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 drary 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.

Funky Artists Enclaves

At a funky artists colony on Whidbey's Island,
   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 coffeehouse,
    or in tiny writer's cottages
       in Fortuna or Aberdeen,
    or in painters and poets homes in
       Waldport's quiet scene.
    or in a bookstore in the Astoria
       or Santa Barbara downtowns,
    or at cozy art shops
       near the Port Townsend docks...

   Where artists and other 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!

San Fran & LA Lives

The Beatniks 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 Jeffers lamented
    the presence of mankind
    and more.

How to Live a Good Life

Virtue Ethics

River People North

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 Queets 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.

Columbia River WA & OR

Queets River WA

Makah Peoples WA

Cape Flattery WA

Raven Broke Open the Magical Clam

Native American Culture and Stories

Chinook People

Timber Empire

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 270 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.

Meetings with Master Chang San-Feng

Legends about Master Chang San-Feng

Taoism

Redwood Forest CA

Quinault People in Taholah Village

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.]

Quinault Native People|

Aberdeen WA

Native American Literature

Taholah Village WA

Ocean Shores WA

Coos Bay South to Point Reyes

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.

The high tide left a flotsam line,
And I walked along and picked up
    a lovely agate find.
Windsurfer's and kite boarder's are seen
    sliding along Flores Lake by the sea,
Twisting and spinning in tailwinds fast,
    fearless, daring, splashing, acrobats;
Then eating creamy cranberry taffy more
    at a comfy Bandon Beach candy store.

Summer kites in Lincoln City,
    crowds galore,
    sunburnt children playing at the shore.
The crowds are all gone in winter,
    and the incoming driftwood piles up
    and splinters.

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.

Coos Bay is the Giant, the biggest
    around. A Hub, a Center, with
    plenty of traffic to go around.

Tiny Port Orford, not a stop light
    in town. Myrtlewood shop, old
    docks, just ragged poor frowns.

Bookings, four stop lights, then
your out of the busy downtown. All
    cafes closed since the COVID
        pandemic melt down.
Fast-food joints abound!

The Samuel Boardman Scenic Corridor,
from Brookings to Gold Beach,
wonders upon wonders, steep
cliffs and vast panoramas to the Sea:

Morning...
Arch Rocks,
Spruce trees on the top—
    I sit dazed...
Amazed!

Quiet Crescent City, a humble seaside place,
    with the nearby Pelican Bay Prison
    locking up
    the worst of the human race.

Klamath River rafters approach the sea;
    seals on the sand—they bark then flee.
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 mill's 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 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.

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.

West Coast Ideologies

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, Trumpers, 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 News Blues.

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—

Beachcombing and Tidepooling

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

Surfing Way

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 was just too damn old.

Down South

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.

The Bolsa Chica tin-can Beach
    years ago was cleaned,
    but the smell of oil
    like with the Santa Barb ara oil rig ring,
    can still stink up the scene.
The Huntington long pier
    and many others,
We re 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.

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.

Salinas Valley Farms
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.

Alphabetical Index of Titles

Places and Times Intertwined
The Clock Ticks Within the Mind

The hills around Port Orford glowed green in Spring Time. Tututni speakers native to this land fished the sea as we do these days. Tseriadum Beach agate hunters spy the sand carefully, hoping to find today a jem of a rock, shined by the sand, washed by the waves, beauty in their hand. On Humbug Mountain cliff side trails young hikers challenge themselves. My memories of experiences at this seaside place are mixed, fixed, and jumbled with port docks, Sea Crest motel rooms, sexy dates, Coast Guard museums, quiet restaurants, cranberry plots, the Cape Blanco lighthouse, and myrtlewood shops.

The details are many, expanding, evolving, being born in Time. The details of places become rooted in my mind's times. Time becomes Things, Things become Time. Memories give meaning to spaces, places give meaning to remembered times.

When were we there? What did we do? Why did we come? Where was where? Zoom in on the answers considered, zoom out for a raggedy bigger View. Hurry, don't rise, time is fleeting from where you sit, slipping away from an idea's view, but blossoming like orange Rhododendrons set against the Fir borders of the sky.

The Dosewallips 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 State 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..

Raven Broke Open
the Magical Clam

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.

Then They Came, and Everything Changed.
The English speaking people came to Reign.

Raven and Clam Myth

Northwest Native People Stories

Down for the Count

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.

Alphabetical Index of Titles

Big Sur

The Henry Miller Library tucked inside
a dark grove of quiet redwood trees
for sober devotees of intense wild sexuality
who stop and see his old books, cool art,
listen to symphonies, sip black coffee, and
ponder Tropic of Cancer analogies, and
Imagine California oranges colored
fancifully by Hieronymus Bosch.

Big Sur Village, between tiny Lucia homes
and bustling Carmel fairy tale shops
and busy tourist filled restaurants with
fans hoping to catch Clint Eastwood
playing subtle piano in a local bar.

The traffic on Hwy 1 comes and goes,
relentless, despite the twisting cliffs,
scary steep drops to the rocky
sun spattered rushing sea below.

Robinson Jeffers would have hated
the Big Sur popularity. Snubbed his
finicky hermit's nose at Mr. Hearst's
San Simeon Castle high on eucalyptus hills,
and despised the tourists from anywhere.

Decades ago, I tent camped at Morro Bay,
San Simeon, Pfeiffer Julia Burns, Pfeiffer
Big Sur, and Andrew Molera State Parks.
Beautiful, crowded in dry season; cold
and wet and, except for big RVs,
deserted in Winter's Dark.

Hiked the trails, watched the Hawks,
listened to grunting seals
lounging on the sand, carefully
stood at the Edge of the Land.

Low rolling green hills, topped with grass,
from Morro Bay to Ragged Point.
Twisting road, steep cliffs, empty when
Hwy 1 is closed after
big cascading cliff landslides.

Mesmerizing vistas of Vastness
from a road high above the shore
fouled by the incessant traffic's roar,
sadly, not as appealing anymore.

Don't want to start a curmudgeon's rant
but the Golden Gate's hinges are rusted,
tourists have twisted the Gate askance,
(the Perishing Republic don't Shine)
too many tourists have come to the Dance.

Skinny Jeffers was wise, even back then,
to sequester at Tor House and Hawk Tower,
with Una in their bed by his side, and
philosophize environmental inhumanism,
and walk the woods at Carmel by the Sea,
and splash in the Tide Pools at Point Lobos,
and ponder on the harsh cruel
    Beauty of Nature
        till He died.

Ride On, Roan Stallion, Ride!
So Long, Big Sur, Adios-Goodbye!

Night Camp at Pistol River

One month in April, three hikers walked the the Oregon Coast Trail from Brookings to Port Orford. One late afternoon, near where the Pistol River flows into the sea, above the day's high tide mark on the shore, they came upon huge piles of driftwood rammed into the low dunes and rocks by a fierce King Tides Roar. Like ancient travellers and current tourists galore, they used the driftwood to make a hut, call it a 'fort', to shelter them from the wind blowing sand into the dunes and keep the drizzle from their night room.

Driftwood crafted forts
hold tarps on woody bones;
blowing sand from the north
rattled these hikers home.

Temporary for the night,
they huddled very low;
snug inside, zipped tight
three sleeping bags in a row.

They started a campfire
to cheer their spirits;
but the wind grew higher
and rain snuffed out the fire.

They were tired from hiking
on soft shifting sands;
yet exhilarated man to man,
a Hiker's High to their liking.

Frank played Bach on his harmonica,
Paul quoted a Gary Snyder poem,
Bob sang a Joan Baez ballad;
all talked about sand castle homes.

The rain trickled down
by drips and drops all night;
tarp dancing to windy sounds
the Pacific surf roared its might.

Somewhere hidden on the shore
their makeshift hut just sits,
waits for the moon to go on shift,
holding fast with driftwood sticks.

their tired eyes
closed—
     memories slowed
     dreams flowed
          time dozed

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

Autumn Season in the Garden

Fire! Fire!
The Hills Are On 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 WA 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,
    and one nice keeper.

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
Asides and Reflections

[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.)

Fields of Cream

The dairy farms of Marsshall, Lochmead,
    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

"We're not making up for the mistakes
of the past, we are the past."
- John Ashbery, From Where Shall I Wander

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.

Bridges Over Rivers

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

The longest bridge on the West Coast
    in Washington/Oregon:
    From Astoria to Megler
    on 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 the 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.

Industries Booming

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 (1946-1966),
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.

Fun Times Ahead

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!

California Culture

Sports in California

History of California

Writers from California

In the Shadows of Mountains

The endless High Steep Coastal Cliffs
all along the marching 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.

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.

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

Sitting by the Still Bay

The Fireplace Records Koan Collection

Fireplaces, Hearths, and Campfires

Fire and Light

Haiku by the Seasons

Highway 101 and 1: Docu-Poem
By Mike Garofalo

Alphabetical Index of Titles

Beachcombing and Tidepooling

Big Sur

Bottom Line

Bridges Over Rivers

East Los Angeles Revisited

El Camino Real

Campfires Smoking

Clear Cut

Cliffside at Bandon Beach

The Clock Ticks Within the Mind

Concrete/Shape Poetry

Coos Bay South to Point Reyes

Disappearing Darkness

Down for the Count

Down South

Embodied Time

The Eucalyptus Trees at Tomales Bay

Eye to Eye Memories

Fields of Cream

Fire! Fire!

Flowers in the Sky

A Fork in the Crypto Road

Funky Artist's Enclaves

Fun Times Ahead

Grayland Beach Guides

Gushen Grove Sonnets

Haiku and Senryu

Highway 101: At the Golden Gate

Hip Woke West

Hood Canal: Beauty and Bounty

In a Watery Grave

In the Shadows of Mountains

Industries Booming

Cliffside at Bandon Beach

Lighthouses On the Cliffs

Meeting at the Golden Gate

Myrtlewood and Shells Alive

Night Camp at Pistol River

Notes and Reminders

The Olympic Curve on 101

Petaluma Cool

Places and Times Intertwined

Quatrains Bundled Up

Raven Broke Open the Magical Clam

Reminder from the Other World

River People North

The Rotting Redwood Tree

Salinas Valley Farms

The Salmon are Back

SanFran and L.A. Lives

Sciences Strong

The Scissors of My Decisions

Secrets of Night

Shallow Willapa Bay at Low Tide

Sitting by the Still Bay

Skeletons in Love

Slouching Into Incoherence

Snapshots from the Shore

Stepping Over Epiphanies

Summer in the Sun

Surfing Way

Timber Empire

25 Steps and Beyond

2+2 = 4: Now and Forever More

West Coast Ideologies

Winter at the Shore

The Wreck Ahead Comes Into View

Michael Peter Garofalo (1946-) grew up in East Los Angeles, was educated in Catholic Schools, raised by June and Big Mike, 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 1999. Worked part-time for the Corning elementary School District (Technology and Media Services Manager); and as a 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 2025: reading, writing, gardening, harmonica playing, home chores, yurt camping, exercise, zoom classes, traveling in the Northwest, walking, web publishing, family events, poetry research and writing, photography, Northwest research, Nature mysticism, sports events, and other activities.

25 Steps and Beyond: The Collected Works

Karen and Mike Garofalo, 2003
Somewhere on the NorCal Coast

All text, photographs, and art
by Mike Garofalo.

All rights reserved.

This webpage work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Created by Michael P. Garofalo, Green Way Research,
Valley Spirit Center, Gushen Grove Notebooks,
Vancouver, Washington © 2010-2021 CCA 4.0

Alphabetical Index of Titles

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This document was last edited, revised,
reformatted, added to, relinked,
changed, improved, or modified
by Michael Peter Garofalo
on October 31, 2025.