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

Haiku, Short Poems, Photos, Quatrains
Graphics, Docu-Poems, Concrete Poems

By Michael P. Garofalo

     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

Southwestern Coastal Washington

Four Days at Grayland Beach

pumps watering
red cranberry fields—
wind turbines
often spinning

  birds gather on the mud—
low tide
at noon

broken razor clam shells
scattered around—
   drunken men laughing

Memories of Pacific Coast Places
Travels on US Highway 101 & 1
West Coast Snapshots & Snippets
             {Docu-Poem}

By Michael P. Garofalo

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

At low tide the muddy Willapa Bay,
    scary like quicksand, keeps me away.

Razor clams sucked food
    from the foaming sand,
    for ten million years
    following an identical plan.
A pelican rested on a Westport dock post,
    looking for a feathered lover,
    or a run of the eulachon smelt
    that he liked the most.

Lots of fishing but no catching,
So the old diner's dinner menu
    was very fetching.
The high tide left a flotsam line,
And I walked along and picked up
    a lovely agate find.
The crowds are all gone in winter,
    and the incoming driftwood piles up
    and splinters.

Tsunamis ready to unroll from the offshore
Cascadia Earthquake Zone,
that indeed could erase hundreds of homes.


Summer kites in Lincoln City,
    crowds galore,
    sunburnt children playing at the shore.
The lingcod fed
    around the breakwater rocks,
Avoiding our hooks
    in the seaweed's tangled locks.
Fishermen at the pier, baiting their hooks,
      waiting, waiting, baiting,
      staring at the sea swells, waiting.

Windsurfer's and kiteboarder's
    slide along Flores Lake by the sea,
Twisting and spinning in the high wind,
    fearless, daring, splashing, keen;
Then eating cranberry taffy
    from a Bandon candy counter.


Most of the Dharma Bums at Big Sur are gone,
    there 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 solemly raises
    the Host of the Son.
The surf fisherman released
    the fat pregnant surf perch,
    a considerate donation
    to The Fertility Church.


The Beatnicks in Venice still laugh and listen,
    mixed with Yuppies, Hippies, Tourists,
    Millenials, 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 2,000 years their Ancestors stayed
  in cedar planked houses warm and dry.
They fished and gathered and stayed alive,
  Carved cedar canoes,
  stiched 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 2022 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 lillies,
    the Redwoods stopped—
      Why? Why Not?

Coos Bay darkened in the fierce wind and rain;
    while the Indian Casino was bright and gay,
    slot machines running night and day.
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 Bay, was wasting away
    in the plywood papermills' 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 Humbolt 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.




Malibu beach surfers wait for the best right swell,
    then launch for a long ride feeling so damn well.
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.


Vandenberg's Space Force Base,
Shooting sattelites 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
  are hard to be undone.
Hollywood's known
    all around the world,
    for creating great films
    remembered by millions.
Frisco's Bay Area
Legends of science and fame,
    Double down the decades,
    Despite Earthquakes and Flames.
Intellectruals in Tacoma correspond
    with intellectuals at Berkeley, OSU,
    Stanford, UW, UO, USC, UCLA;
    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 by our 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 on nearby turf.
[I looked at more pictures of the Pacific,
    my inner feelings
    plotted against external criteria,
    trying to be specific.]
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.



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
brown potatoes fried.

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;
Longshormen 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.
[My thinking is bumpy, episodic,
Full of flashbacks, stumbling;
To and fro, back and forth,
Singing and Songing,
Here-ing and There-ing.]
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 filet mingnon
    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:
    beachcombing, 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 unflooding slowly:
    limpets, mussels, chitons, anemones,
     urchins, even crabs revealed—
      a seductive scene that's Holy.
[The tides and long swells are the epic poem,
    the seashore waves are the rhymes,
    images, and metaphors chosen.]
The mammoth Winter surf
    at the Mavericks at Monterey
    or at Shore Acres near Coos Bay,
    both will scare the shit out of anyone
    in their crushing crashing way.
The steep Wedge wave off Newport's Jetty
has smashed a few noses into the sand;
but bodysurfer's and boogie boarders
flock to these warm South facing beaches,
Again and Again.
Generations after Generations,
of hardy SoCal seashore women and men.
I once body-surfed till tired and cold,
    and ended it at age 50,
    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 beachlands 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 north one south,
    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.

U.S.Highway 101, El Camino Real,
    from border to border,
    carrying trade and traveler's
    under a funded Federal order.
Built in 1926,
    from San Diego to Tumwater,
    a Memorable Roadway
    for those lucky souls
    with free time, a vehicle, and dollars.
Three impressive Pacific States in a row,
    where I've lived for 76 years or so,
    and watched them unceasingly grow.

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. Restaurantrs 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 filty. 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. Bicyclicists 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.

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.

Kalamath River rafters approach the sea;
    seals on the sand—they bark then flee.
The Birds at Bodega Bay are peaceful,
    not attacking;
    roosting in fragrant Eucaluptus 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.

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

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 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.]

The Context of Minds Working:
Oceanographers, Biologists, Geologists,
Meterologists, Geographers, Historians ...
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 Big Sea overlap in me.
Without these useful Maps,
the Territory is obscure, limited,
immediate, personal, idiosyncratic.]


Crab cages, oyster boxes, coiled nets, floats,
    fishermen's tools on the docks,
    damp and ready to work a lot.

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 away faraway,
    somewhere on the lonely south shore
    of foggy Tillamook Bay.

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

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.

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;
museusms, concert halls, arenas, 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 pride shows.
Kobe Bryant's helicopter lost its way
    into a Calabasas hillside and Smashed!
    A million died from COVID in the USA!

The endless High Steep Cliffs all along the Sea—
     striking, dramatic, and dangerous to me.
Haystack Rock, Morro Rock, Three Arch Rocks;
Islands, Sea-Stacks and Big Rocks Alone;
Neahkahnie Mountain, 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.
Cruising on 1, along the steep cliffs
near Bixby Bridge - Iconic Cali at the Edge.
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.
Salmon still run up the Umpqua River route,
    charging by Reedsport on the way
    to spawn and die in days.

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.

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 Spook whispered to me
    in these hallowed grounds:

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

 -  Michael P. Garofalo, Memories of Pacific Coast Places, 8/23/2022

Southwestern Coastal Washington

Four Days at Grayland Beach

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

Concrete Poetry

Uncommom Considerations

Short Poems by Mike Garofalo

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.

     graveyard gate
   closed—
dense fog

Slices of Time

The Arrows of Time
    never rest,
moving forward unrelenting
    irreversible
from hot towards cold
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 homebrew 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.

The Moments of Time
    are a matrix of memories,
colored by fondness,
vaguer and vaguer by the day,
fading, cropped, mixed,
deleted, falling away.

The Times of Your Life
    from birth to death,
    can't be denied.
How did you live?
Where, when, why?
What did it mean?
Was a little a lie?

    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

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.

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

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

    Wet pine logs—
      campfire smoke
      in our eyes

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

Crackling campfire
pops and sparks—
    keeping ghosts away

    Campfire embers,
    fading reds—
    time for bed.

Brief Biography of Michael P. Garofalo

Poetry by Michael P. Garofalo

Uncle Mike's Cellphone Poetry Series

Cuttings: Haiku and Short Poems

Pulling Onions: Over 1,000 One-Liners

Green Way Research Subject Index

Cloud Hands Blog

Facebook

Four Days in Grayland

How to Live a Good Life

The Spirit of Gardening

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

Updated: August 23, 2022

© Green Way Research
    All Rights Reserved

Michael Peter Garofalo (1946-) grew up in East Los Angeles, was educated in Catholic Schools, graduated (B.A., M.S.) from local universities, married Karen, 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. 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 School District (Technolgy and Media Services Manager); and as a yoga, taijiquan, and fitness club instructor until 2016. Travelled extensively in Northern California, Oregon, and Washington. We both retired, and we moved to Vancouver, WA, in 2017. Currently in 2022: reading, traveling  in the Northwest, playing Tai Chi Chuan, walking, writing, web publishing, gardening, family events, TV, poetry research, sports events, and photography.

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