Hail Flora, Queen of Spring

"Ask of Her, the mighty Mother.
Her reply puts this other
Question: What is Spring?-
Growth in every thing -

Flesh and fleece, fur and feather,
Grass and green world all together,
Star-eyed strawberry breasted
Throstle above Her nested

Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin
Forms and warms the life within,
And bird and blossom swell
In sod or sheath or shell."
-  Gerard Manly Hopkins, The May Magnificant, 1888 

"The festival of Floralia began around the year 258 BCE. Pagan Romans celebrated for six days, from April 27th to May 3rd, honouring their Goddess of Spring and of Flowers, Flora. Flora, known as Chloris to the Greeks, was a beautiful and serene Goddess, the Queen of Spring. She was married to Zephyrus, the west wind, and her temple is in Aventine.  Floralia was a time a great merriment and rejoicing in ancient Rome. During the festival, Romans would cast off their habitual white robes for more colourful garments, especially green ones. They would also deck themselves and everything around them in flowers then engage in all sorts of activities. There would be feasting, singing, dancing, and gaming. Offerings of milk and honey were made to the goddess Flora. Goats and hares meant to symbolize fertility were let loose in gardens and fields as protectors in Flora's honour. Singing filled the air and dancers stomped the ground to awaken nature and bring it back to life.  Ancient roman prostitutes in particular enjoyed this festival as they considered Flora their patron goddess. So Floralia was especially important to them. They participated in many events, from performing naked in the theatre to gladiatorial feats.  With the occupation of Rome in many countries of the western world at the time, especially in Britain and continental Europe, the festival of Floralia spread, with each country adding its own special touches to the festivities. And finally, Floralia became May Day. Many countries choose a May Queen to preside over the day's activities and children dance around the Maypole. Some collect flowers on May Eve for the next day and some couples even make love in their garden to ensure fertility. One belief that has been passed on is that one should wash one's face with the dew from May Day morn to obtain lasting beauty."
-  Linda Cassleman, Floralia  

The Month of May: Quotes, Saying, Poetry, Lore

"The force of Spring -
mysterious,
fecund, 
powerful beyond measure."
-  Michael Garofalo, Cuttings

Taijiquan Sword: Yang Style 32 Sword Form

 

32 Sword Form, Simplified, Yang Style, Taijiquan Jian.

A hypertext notebook by Michael P. Garofalo. 

This popular webpage includes a comprehensive bibliography, scores of links to webpages; an extensive listing of the names and name variations for each movement in English, Chinese, French, German, and Spanish; a detailed analysis of each posture and movement sequence with explanations and numbered illustrations and detailed instructions; selected quotations; comments on 20 Taijiquan sword techniques; a comprehensive media bibliography; a chart of performance times; recommendations for starting to learn this form at home one your own with instructional DVDs, books and practice methods; and, a comparison of the 32 and 55 sword forms in the Yang style. 

This is the standard, simplified, orthodox, 1957, 32 Taiji Sword Form, in the Yang Style of T'ai Chi Ch'uan. 

32 Sword Form Pamphlet by Geoffrey Hugh Miller.  Adapted from information and graphics found on the 32 Sword Form webpage by Michael P. Garofalo.  22 pages, 9/7/2015, PDF Format.  Excellent job by Mr. Miller.  This is a handy practice tool.  

A Fork in the Crypto Road by Mike Garofalo

 

A Fork in the Crypto Road

By Michael Peter Garofalo

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.

It is said that
Big Foot roams the nearby lush Hoh woods
seeking a lean Sasquatch Lady with big boobs.
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?

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 Café
Nobody was fazed;
figuring,
just Hollywoody Cos-Play.

 

Open Mic Poetry Reading in Vancouver WA

 

An Open Mic Poetry Reading was held from 3-5 pm at the downtown central library of the Fort Vancouver Regional Library System. We met in the spacious and attractive Columbia Room in the library.

Around 25 people attended this poetry reading. Library staff welcomed the attendees and briefly covered the ground rules for appropriate readings in a public libary setting. Refreshments were provided.

The current poet-laureate for Clark County, Susan Dingle, shared some of her poems from her Master’s Thesis. She gave the name of each person before they read their poems. I did not remember the names of so many readers.

Three people shared haiku or short poems. Most read longer poems from their cell phones. One man had memorized his poem, and beautifully acted it out for us. Women and men shared their compositions.

This was the first time I had ever read one of my poems to an audience. But, I did not mention this to the audience. I was calm and confident. I read my poem titled: A Fork in the Crypto Road.

Many poems were of a confessional nature about the poet’s addictions, mental illness, losses, sadness, Striking images and metaphors were prevalent. Most were free verse compositions. A couple of poems were accounts of travel experiences and thoughts

I enjoyed myself. I sat next to a young college student, Kameron, a history major at WSU Vancouver, and we chatted a good deal. Her father had just retired and moved to Kalama WA for fishing. Her poem was about her dad.

I met Jacob Seltzer, a Master Level haiku and tanka poet. I also met my new online Zoom poetry teacher, Christopher Luna. I spoke briefly with Sarah Hooker, a Haiku poet.

At the Edges of the West
Highway 101 and 1

25 Steps and Beyond: The Collected Works
By Mike Garofalo

Low Tide at Heceta

Low Tide at Heceta

By Mike Garofalo

At the Edges of the West
Highway 101 and 1
Northwest Pacific Coast

Four Days in Grayland

25 Steps and Beyond: Collected Works

Hecate in Mythology

Best Tidepools in Oregon

Heceta Head Lighthouse

Photos from the Internet and Facebook:

           

Seashore Life of the Northern Pacific Coast: An Illustrated Guide to Northern California, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.  By Eugene N. Kozloff.  University of Washington, 1983, 378 pages.  A technical scientific presentation.

The New Beachcomber's Guide to the Pacific Northwest.  By J. Duane Sept. Harbor Publishing, 2019, 416 pages.

Seashore of the Pacific Northwest.  By Ian Sheldon.  Lone Pine, 1998, 192 pages.

The Sound of the Sea: Seashells and the Fate of the Oceans.  By Cynthia Barnett.  W.W. Norton, 2021, 432 pages.

                    

• Acorn and Gooseneck Barnacles
• Limpets
• California Mussels
• Hermit Crabs
• Chitons
• Sea Stars (more commonly known as Starfish)
• Sea Cucumbers
• Anemones
• Sea Slugs
• Turban Snails
• Purple Sea Urchins
• Various Fish Species
• Purple Shore Crabs
• Kelp and Sea Palms

       

Beltane Celebrations

Beltane, May Day, Easter Celebrations

Neo-Pagans, Druids, Wiccans

Spirituality and Gardening

"Many Wiccans and Pagans celebrate Beltane.  It is one of eight solar Sabbats.  This holiday incorporates traditions from the Gaelic Bealtaine, such as the bonfire, but it bears more relation to the Germanic May Day festival, both in its significance (focusing on fertility) and its rituals (such as May pole dancing).  Some traditions celebrate this holiday on May 1 or May day, whiles others begin their celebration the eve before or April 30th. Beltane has long been celebrated with feasts and rituals. The name means fire of Bel; Belinos being one name for the Sun God, whose coronation feast we now celebrate. As summer begins, weather becomes warmer, and the plant world blossoms, an exuberant mood prevails. In old Celtic traditions it was a time of unabashed sexuality and promiscuity where marriages of a year and a day could be undertaken but it is rarely observed in that manner in modern times. In the old Celtic times, young people would spend the entire night in the woods "A-Maying," and then dance around the phallic Maypole the next morning. Older married couples were allowed to remove their wedding rings (and the restrictions they imply) for this one night. May morning is a magickal time for wild water (dew, flowing streams, and springs) which is collected and used to bathe in for beauty, or to drink for health."
-  Beltane by Herne 

The Green Man in our Sacred Circle Garden

Give Up Learning

The Fireplace Records, Chapter 11

The student asked, "How can I best pursue the Buddhist Way?"

The Master said, "Don't give up learning."  

The student said, "But don't all the masters in the sets of Chan koan collections tells us not to think, not to read, not to have intellectual or literary quibbles, to let go of body and mind, to free yourself from the tainted worship of scriptures, to stop reasoning using only dualistic logical viewpoints, to introspect and intuit, to give up the pursuit of knowledge and scholarship, to stop judging between right and wrong, to focus on emptiness?"

The Master said, "It is true that for the illiterate person listening and seeing are more fundamental in their lives than other learning methods.  Cutting Nansen's cat in half, hitting a student hard with a cane, or yelling at someone are dramatic teaching encounters. However, I only know now how that person thought or acted or chose not to think or felt by reading what some scholar historian wrote down about them.  In some ways, "The Buddha" is just a bunch of footnotes on awakened and compassionate living."

The Master continued, "Increasing your learning is like adding gathered firewood to cut up and dry for later use.  Then, when you need wood for cooking or heating you will have some resources at hand.  To learn more by studying scriptures or introspecting koans is like adding a new log to a new fire in the Fireplace of Your Spirit.  I still believe that guided book learning is very beneficial when pursuing the Buddhist Way.  Indeed, other methods for "learning" are possible, but book learning appeals strongly to some people and is an effective method for helping them become more like the Buddha."

The Student's Considerations

Logic requires both true and false. 
Seek the true, valid, accurate, sensible, reasonable, practical,
   most probable, beautiful, fair, and useful.
Face the false and deal with it. Know what is false. 
There are limits to reasoning and limits to introspection. 
Figure it out in terms of your life choices today. 
Stupidity and ignorance won't necessarily lighten
   your worries or troubles. 
Learning takes a lifetime of effort.
There are a number of ways to learn.
Book learning, scholarship, spiritual literature,
   writing, reading, research, comparisons, and
   intellectual endeavors are good ways to learn
   for some people on a spiritual quest.  

    

Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu

Chapter 20

"Give up learning, and put an end to your troubles.
Is there a difference between yes and no?
Is there a difference between good and evil?
Must I fear what others fear? What nonsense!
Other people are contented, enjoying the sacrificial feast of the ox.
In spring some go to the park, and climb the terrace,
But I alone am drifting, not knowing where I am.
Like a newborn babe before it learns to smile,
I am alone, without a place to go.
Others have more than they need, but I alone have nothing.
I am a fool. Oh, yes! I am confused.
Others are clear and bright,
But I alone am dim and weak.
Others are sharp and clever,
But I alone am dull and stupid.
Oh, I drift like the waves of the sea,
Without direction, like the restless wind.
Everyone else is busy,
But I alone am aimless and depressed.
I am different.
I am nourished by the great mother."
-  Translated by Gia-fu Feng and Jane English, 1989, Chapter 20  

"Get rid of "learning" and there will be no anxiety.
How much difference is there between "yes" and "no"?
How far removed from each other are "good" and "evil"?
Yet what the people are in awe of cannot be disregarded.
I am scattered, never having been in a comfortable center.
All the people enjoy themselves, as if they are at the festival of the great sacrifice,
Or climbing the Spring Platform.
I alone remain, not yet having shown myself.
Like an infant who has not yet laughed.
Weary, like one despairing of no home to return to.
All the people enjoy extra
While I have left everything behind.
I am ignorant of the minds of others.
So dull!
While average people are clear and bright, I alone am obscure.
Average people know everything.
To me alone all seems covered.
So flat!
Like the ocean.
Blowing around!
It seems there is no place to rest.
Everybody has a goal in mind.
I alone am as ignorant as a bumpkin.
I alone differ from people.
I enjoy being nourished by the mother."
-  Translated by Charles Muller, 1891, Chapter 20  

"Cease learning, no more worries
Respectful response and scornful response
How much is the difference?
Goodness and evil
How much do they differ?
What the people fear, I cannot be unafraid

So desolate! How limitless it is!
The people are excited
As if enjoying a great feast
As if climbing up to the terrace in spring
I alone am quiet and uninvolved
Like an infant not yet smiling
So weary, like having no place to return
The people all have surplus
While I alone seem lacking
I have the heart of a fool indeed so ignorant!
Ordinary people are bright
I alone am muddled
Ordinary people are scrutinizing
I alone am obtuse
Such tranquility, like the ocean
Such high wind, as if without limits

The people all have goals
And I alone am stubborn and lowly
I alone am different from them
And value the nourishing mother"
-  Translated by Derek Linn, 2006, Chapter 20 

唯之與阿, 相去幾何.
善之與惡, 相去若何.
人之所畏, 不可不畏.
荒兮其未央哉.
衆人熙熙.
如享太牢.
如春登臺.
我獨怕兮其未兆, 如嬰兒之未孩.
儽儽兮若無所歸.
衆人皆有餘, 而我獨若遺.
我愚人之心也哉, 沌沌兮.
俗人昭昭.
我獨昏.
昏俗人察察.
我獨悶悶.
澹兮其若海.
飂兮若無止.
衆人皆有以.
而我獨頑似鄙.
我獨異於人,而貴食母.
-  Chinese characters, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 20

wei chih yü a, hsiang ch'ü chi ho.
 shan chih yü wu, hsiang ch'ü jo ho.
 jên chih so wei, pu k'o pu wei.
 huang hsi ch'i wei yang tsai.
 chung jên hsi hsi.
 ju hsiang ta lao.
 ju ch'un têng t'ai.
 wo tu p'o hsi ch'i wei chao, ju ying erh chih wei hai.
 lei lei hsi jo wu so kuei.
 chung jên chieh yu yü, erh wo tu jo yi.
 wo yü jên chih hsin yeh tsai, t'un t'un hsi.
 su jên chao chao.
 wo tu hun.
 hun su jên ch'a ch'a.
 wo tu mên mên.
 tan hsi ch'i jo hai.
 liu hsi jo wu chih.
 chung jên chieh yu yi.
 erh wo tu wan ssu pi.
 wo tu yi yü jên, erh kuei shih mu.
 -  Wade-Giles Romanization, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 20  

 

"Leave off fine learning! End the nuisance
Of saying yes to this and perhaps to that,
Distinctions with how little difference!
Categorical this, categorical that,
What slightest use are they!
If one man leads, another must follow,
How silly that is and how false!
Yet conventional men lead an easy life
With all their days feast days,
A constant spring visit to the Tall Tower,
While I am a simpleton, a do-nothing,
Not big enough yet to raise a hand,
Not grown enough to smile,
A homeless, worthless waif.
Men of the world have a surplus of goods,
While I am left out, owning nothing.
What a booby I must be
Not to know my way round,
What a fool!
The average man is so crisp and so confident
That I ought to be miserable
Going on and on like the sea,
Drifting nowhere.
All these people are making their mark in the world,
While I, pig-headed, awkward,
Different from the rest,
Am only a glorious infant still nursing at the breast."
-  Translated by Witter Bynner, 1944, Chapter 20 


"Renounce knowledge and your problems will end.
What is the difference between yes and no?
What is the difference between good and evil?
Must you fear what others fear?
Nonsense, look how far you have missed the mark!

Other people are joyous,
as though they were at a spring festival.
I alone am unconcerned and expressionless,
like an infant before it has learned to smile.

Other people have more than they need;
I alone seem to possess nothing.
I am lost and drift about with no place to go.
I am like a fool, my mind is in chaos.

Ordinary people are bright;
I alone am dark.
Ordinary people are clever;
I alone am dull.
Ordinary people seem discriminating;
I alone am muddled and confused.
I drift on the waves on the ocean,
blown at the mercy of the wind.
Other people have their goals,
I alone am dull and uncouth.

I am different from ordinary people.
I nurse from the Great Mother's breasts."
-  Translated by John H. McDonald, 1996, Chapter 20 



"Suprime el adoctrinamiento y no habrá preocupaciones.
¿Qué diferencia hay entre el sí y el no?
¿Qué diferencia hay entre el bien y el mal?
¡El dicho “lo que otros evitan, yo también deberé evitar”
cuán falso y superficial es!
No es posible abarcar todo el saber.
Todo el mundo se distrae y disfruta,
como cuando se presencia un gran sacrificio,
o como cuando se sube a los jardines de una torre en primavera.
Sólo yo doy cabida a la duda,
no copiando lo que otros hacen,
como un recién nacido que aún no sabe sonreír.
Como quien no sabe a dónde dirigirse,
como quien no tiene hogar.
Todo el mundo vive en la abundancia,
sólo yo parezco desprovisto.
Consideran mi mente como la de un loco
por sentir umbrías confusiones y críticas.
Todo el mundo brilla porque solo las luces buscan,
sólo yo me atrevo a transitar por las tinieblas.
Todo el mundo se conforma con su felicidad,
sólo yo me adentro en mi depresión.
Soy como quien deriva en alta mar,
voy contra la corriente sin un rumbo predestinado.
Todo el mundo es puesto en algún uso;
sólo yo soy un ermitaño intratable y aburrido.
Sólo yo soy diferente a todos los demás
porque aprecio a la Madre Naturaleza que me nutre."
-  Translation from Wikisource, 2013, Capitulo 20  


"Give up learning, and you will be free from all your worries.
What is the difference between yes and no about which the rhetoricians have so much to say?
What is the difference between good and evil on which the critics never agree?
These are futilities that prevent the mind from being free.
Now freedom of mind is necessary to enter into relation with the Principle.
Without doubt, among the things which common people fear, there are things that should be feared; but not as they do, with a mind so troubled that they lose their mental equilibrium.
Neither should one permit oneself to lose equilibrium through pleasure, as happens to those who have a good meal or view the surrounding countryside in spring from the top of a tower with the accompaniment of wine, etc.).
I, the Sage, seem to be colourless and undefined; neutral as a new-born child that has not yet experienced any emotion; without design or aim.
The common people abound in varied knowledge, but I am poor having rid myself of all uselessness and seem ignorant, so much have I purified myself.
They seem full of light, I seem dull.
They seek and scrutinize, I remain concentrated in myself.
Indeterminate, like the immensity of the oceans, I float without stopping.
They are full of talent, whereas I seem limited and uncultured.
I differ thus from the common people, because I venerate and imitate the universal nourishing mother, the Principle."
-  Translated by Derek Bryce, 1999, Chapter 20 

A typical webpage created by Mike Garofalo for each one of the 81 Chapters (Verses, Sections) of the Tao Te Ching (Daodejing) by Lao Tzu (Laozi) includes 25 different English language translations or interpolations for that Chapter, 5 Spanish language translations for that Chapter, the Chinese characters for that Chapter, the Wade-Giles and Hanyu Pinyin transliterations (Romanization) of the Mandarin Chinese words for that Chapter, and 2 German and 1 French translation of that Chapter.  Each webpage for each one of the 81 Chapters of the Tao Te Ching includes extensive indexing by key words, phrases, and terms for that Chapter in English, Spanish, and the Wade-Giles Romanization.  Each webpage on a Chapter of the Daodejing includes recommended reading in books and websites, a detailed bibliography, some commentary, research leads, translation sources, a Google Translate drop down menu, and other resources for that Chapter.   

Chapter 20, Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu

Chapter and Thematic Index (Concordance) to the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu

English Language Daodejing Translators' Source Index

Spanish Language Daodejing Translators' Source Index

Ripening Peaches: Taoist Studies and Practices

Taoism: A Selected Reading List

One Old Daoist Druid's Final Journey  

Related Links, Resources, References

Refer to my Cloud Hands Blog Posts on the topic of Koans/Dialogues.

The Daodejing by Laozi    Best? 

Pulling Onions  Over 1,043 One-line Sayings by Mike Garofalo

Chinese Chan Buddhist and Taoist Stories and Koans

Taoism

Buddhism

Fireplaces, Stoves, Campfires, Kitchens, Pots, Firewood

Chinese Art

Tai Chi Chuan and Qigong

Meditation Methods

Zen Koan Books I Use

Song Dynasty, China, 960-1279  

Subject Index to the Cases of the Gateless Gate Koan Collection

Brief Spiritual Stories, Dialogues, and Encounters
Zen Buddhist Koan Collections
Bibliography, Quotations, Notes, Resources
Research by Michael P. Garofalo

The Fireplace Records By Michael P. Garofalo

Bound Angle Pose

Baddha Konasana
Bound Angle Pose

Description in Yoga Journal  

Benefits of Bound Angle Pose

I teach two versions of the seated version the Bound Angle Pose:   

1.  Sit up straight.  Keep your heels and the soles of your feet together.  Chin slightly tucked and the crown of the head lifted, ears over shoulders.  Keep the abdominals tucked.  Allow the knees to gradually lower down to the floor.  Relax, Release and stretch!  This is a gentle static isometric stretch of the adductor muscles (inner thighs) in the groin area and a hip opener.  Inhale and exhale gently as you hold the posture for 1 to 3 minutes.  Try not to force the knees down to the floor.  Relax and release! Let gravity do the work of lowering the knees towards the floor.  Hands are placed on the floor at the sides of the hips, or behind the back as shown above. 

Some folks also lean forward while keeping the back straight, or round the back as they lean forward and draw the head towards the floor while keeping the knees drawn down to the extent that they can do so.  They try to bring the head in front of the knees. 


2.  Sit up straight.  I don't recommend leaning to far forward in this version.  Keep your heels and the soles of your feet together.  Chin slightly tucked and the crown of the head lifted, ears over shoulders  Keep the abdominals tucked.  Place your hands on the inside of your knees and press down at the same time as you tense and draw the knees upward.  The muscular lifting effort of the upper legs resists the force downward on the legs with the arms.  This is called oppositional or resistance stretching.  Press down on the legs and lift the legs up simultaneously as you slowly exhale, then relax, release the downward pressure on the legs, and slowly inhale.  Some folks prefer a two breath cycle of simultaneously pressing the legs down and pushing/lifting the legs up.  Do this for 5 to 8 repetitions.

Yoga: Research, notes, lists, bibliography, links.  By Mike Garofalo.

Qigong (Chi Kung), Chinese Health Exercises.

There is also a supine (lying on back) version of this pose, relaxing and releasing (1), including using props under the torso while lying on your back.  

The first version (1) of the Bound Angle Pose is suitable for people with osteoarthritis, as shown below in the instructional video.

Help with Arthritis: Tai Chi, Chi Kung, Yoga, Walking, and Diet   Bibliography, links, resources, recommended books, information, quotations, tips, and research.  By Michael P. Garofalo.

The Green God Fell to His Knees

"There lies within
A hidden glen
An altar made of stone.
Creeping vine
And moss entwine
To hide this ancient throne.
Tangled thorn
Grows thick to scorn
Those who seek to enter.
For though they strive
No man alive
Shall ever reach its center.
Known as Pan,
To some Green Man,
This glen is his sacred place.
He dons his hood
Of wildwood
To hide his leafy face.
The roving clans
That raped the lands,
Cut down his beloved trees.
And so, alas
As time did pass
The Green God fell to his knees. ..."
- Kristina Peters Moone, The Green Man


"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks."
-   Dylan Thomas, The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower

The Green Man

Lore, Legends, Tales, Celebrations, Springtime Symbols, Folk Stories and Plays
From the hypertext research notebooks of Mike Garofalo

This cabbage, these carrots, these potatoes,
these onions ... will soon become me.
Such a tasty fact!
- Mike Garofalo, Cuttings

Portrait of the Emperor Rudolph II as Autumn.By Arcimboldo, 1591, Held at the Museo Civico, Brescia. 

Slouching Towards Incoherence

 

Slouching Towards Incoherence

By Mike Garofalo

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

          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 denied
LSD glasses clearly unclear
Hitchhiking poets crying like clowns

      Eyes of my Ears – Mystified

Beat poets died.   City Lights cried.

Befuddled by
a poet's words—
     repeating rereads
increased the blur.
     No pearl in the oyster.

Message from the Vessel in a Dream: A Review

Message from the Vessel in a Dream. By Christopher Luna. First Flowstone Press Edition, 2018, 130 pages. Printed Matter Vancouver VSCL.

Amazon Review by Mike Garofalo:

This is a fine collection of poems authored by Christopher Luna. His poems are mostly in free verse, hip, Beat style, and contemporary. His justified anger about contemporary injustices and oppression are told in his verses. Mr. Luna’s command of creative Beat Style poetic techniques is impressive. He uses prose narratives, quotations, asides, conversational block poems, italic formatted comments on poets and poetry, references to books and articles, abstract and philosophical ruminations at times, and he provides fresh insights. Most of his carefully crafted poems fit on one page. He is frank and open about sexuality, friendships, drugs, parties, contemporary issues, and alternative lifestyles. His sophisticated bluntness and direct manner are invigorating. His poems are mostly about people, not places or nature. I found his Collage Poems technique (Fecund Labyrinth, pp.61-111) very interesting; and his interest in the Investigative Poetry techniques from Ed Sanders to be stimulating.

I find his poetic messages robust, earthy, life loving, and free, for example: “when awake/ each moment/ is a glorious/ potentially transformative/ high energy, construct/that opens slowly, deliberately/ like the lotus petals/ of a woman’s vulva/ as we stand in awe/ scribbling furiously/ hoping to get it all down/ needing to get it right, dammit.” p.37

I have also purchased two of his edited anthologies: Ghost Town Poetry, Open Mic: Volumes 2 and 3; reviewed elsewhere. Also, Good Reads!

I prefer his other good collage art works rather than the astronaut one used on the cover of this engaging book. But, never judge a book by its cover.

The book provides a detailed autobiography and information about other "Rebel Angel" post-modern poets who have influenced him: Allen Ginsberg, Niki Giovanni, Amiri Baraka, Anne Waldman, Ed Sanders, and Diane di Prima." Mr. Luna is an active leader of poetry Open Mic sessions, a literary coach, an editor, a collage artist, film critic, researcher, jazz musician, and social activist in the City of Vancouver, Washington State. He is an “Outsider,” with an MFA from the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics from Naropa University in 1999. He was the Poet Laureate in Vancouver from 2013-2017.

A book deep enough for rereading!

Ghost Town Poetry: Cover to Cover Books, 2004-2010: An Anthology of Poems from the Ghost Town Open Mic Series. Edited by Christopher J. Juna and Toni Partington. 2011, 134 pages. VSCL.

Ghost Town Poetry: Volume Two, 2004-2014. Edited by Christopher Luna and Toni Partington. Cover to Cover Books, Printed Matter Vancouver, WA, 2014, 98 pages. FVRL.

Ghost Town Poetry Open Mic: Volume Three, 2004-2024. Edited by Christopher Luna, Toni Lumbrazo Luna, and Morgan Paige. Printed Matter, Vancouver WA, 2024. 149 pages. Purchased at Birdhouse Books in Vancouver, WA. VSCL. Western WashinVSCL.

Amazon Review by Mike Garofalo:

I was first made aware of this interesting collection when I read a copy of the book borrowed from the Fort Vancouver Regional Library. I found the books artwork, the good poems, and the collage by Christopher Luna to be appealing.

The introduction by Mr. Luna was highly informative and would be useful for anyone trying to establish a local Open Mic poetry reading series in a community. Clark County has over a half million residents, so the nearby fan base of poetry lovers is considerable in the Vancouver, Washington State area where I live. Many interesting people shared their experience, reflections, and poetic compositions.

The poems are challenging, contemporary, hip, inclusive, liberal, woke, and lively. Hearing them read by the authors to the Vancouver Open Mic crowd must have been delightful and thought-provoking.

Although I have lived in Vancouver since 2017, I have never attended an Open Mic session and have not yet met Mr. Luna. I intend to attend my first Open Mic session in Vancouver in April of 2025.

This anthology was edited by Christopher Luna and Toni Partington in 2014.

After reading this book, I purchased “message from the vessel in a dream” authored by Mr. Luna. A very worthwhile purchase for me; reviewed elsewhere. Also, at the local Birdhouse Books bookstore, I purchased a new copy of “Ghost Town Poetry Open Mic: Volume Three, 2004-2024, edited by Chris Luna, Toni Lumbrazo Luna, and Morgan Paige, $20.00.

At 98 pages, this is the smallest chapbook of the three Open Mic anthologies. A very good bargain for a paperback on Amazon.

The Man Who Planted Trees

 

The Man Who Planted Trees. By Jean Giono. Illustrated by Michael McCurdy. Chelsea Green, 2007, 72 pages. 

From a Facebook Post on March 18, 2025. One reviewer suggested that this is an artificially AI generated post to sell the book. You be the judge:

I found "The Man Who Planted Trees" three days after the diagnosis. Terminal, they said. Six months, maybe less. I hurled books across my hospital room, cursing the universe for its cruelty, until a thin volume slipped from the pile, landing open-faced on the sterile floor. A nurse picked it up, glanced at the first page, and against protocol, left it on my bedside table instead of reshelving it.

"You might need this one," she whispered.

She was right. But not for the reasons either of us could have imagined.

Let me tell you about resurrection.

Not the biblical kind—though what Jean Giono created in his slender 4,000-word masterpiece borders on the miraculous—but the kind that begins with dirt under fingernails and an obstinate refusal to accept desolation as the final word.

Most readers encounter "The Man Who Planted Trees" as ecological parable or gentle inspiration. They admire its message of environmental stewardship, nod appreciatively at its humanistic optimism, perhaps feel momentarily better about our species' potential. Then they return it to the shelf and continue their lives fundamentally unchanged.

I couldn't return it to the shelf. Because Elzéard Bouffier wouldn't let me go.

The story's premise is deceptively simple: In 1913, a young hiker traverses the barren, wind-scoured highlands of Provence, a landscape so bleak it drives inhabitants to madness or exodus. There he encounters a silent shepherd methodically planting oak trees—one hundred perfect acorns daily, year after year, asking nothing in return. The narrator returns after both world wars to discover this solitary man's quiet, relentless labor has miraculously transformed thousands of acres of wasteland into a vibrant, water-rich forest ecosystem where communities once again thrive.

A simple summary that betrays nothing of the story's devastating power.

I began reading in that antiseptic hospital room, my body already betraying me at thirty-six, the scan results still burning in my mind. By page three, something shifted. Giono's sparse prose—devoid of sentimentality yet pulsing with life—bypassed my intellectual defenses and struck directly at something primal within me.

His description of that initial landscape—"everything was barren and colorless, a desert without even the drama of traditional deserts"—mirrored my interior state with such precision that I gasped audibly. The nurse looked up, concerned, but I waved her away, already descending deeper into Giono's world.

When the narrator first meets Bouffier, the shepherd is described with haunting simplicity: "His beard was black, and his shoulders slightly hunched, but his figure was tall and straight, more suggestive of an athlete than an old man." Something in this portrait of contained power, of vitality harnessed for purpose rather than display, seized me. I read the entire story without moving, the hospital machinery beeping in counterpoint to my racing heart.

That night, I dreamed of acorns—hundreds of them, cool and smooth in my palms.

What makes "The Man Who Planted Trees" truly dangerous isn't its ecological message but its fundamental challenge to our understanding of time, purpose, and what constitutes a meaningful life.

Bouffier plants trees he will never sit beneath. He creates forests without recognition or reward. He persists through two world wars, through personal tragedy, through complete societal collapse and reconstruction, doing exactly one thing: planting perfectly selected seeds in precisely the right places, then letting nature and time do what they will.

This radical patience—this refusal of instant gratification, external validation, or even measurable short-term progress—represents a direct assault on everything our culture holds sacred. Bouffier's calm, methodical labor exposes the poverty of our addictions to immediacy, recognition, and tangible results.

And yet, the miracle happens. The wasteland transforms. Life returns. Not through dramatic intervention or technological salvation, but through one man's stubborn, daily choice to believe in a future he personally will barely glimpse.

By day three in the hospital, something unprecedented occurred. I found myself examining my own wasteland with different eyes. What if my diagnosis wasn't an ending but a clarification? What if the time I had—whether six months or six years—could be measured not in duration but in seeds planted?

I began making calls. Family members I'd avoided for decades. Former colleagues I'd betrayed climbing corporate ladders. My estranged son, now eighteen, who'd stopped taking my calls five years earlier.

Many rejected my overtures. Some responded with suspicious caution. A few engaged more openly. I didn't explain the diagnosis—this wasn't about extracting forgiveness or pity. It was about planting whatever seeds I could in the time remaining.

I started volunteering at a youth center near my apartment, teaching chess to kids with life circumstances far more challenging than my privileged trajectory. I allocated my savings to establish a small foundation focused on reforesting a degraded watershed in my grandfather's rural hometown.

The doctors were baffled by my sudden shift from rage to focused engagement. My oncologist suggested the medication might be affecting my cognition. I smiled and told her I'd simply found a better way to measure what remained of my life.

One acorn at a time.

The true power of Giono's story isn't its gentle hopefulness but its ruthless rejection of excuses. Bouffier begins his work as an old man, already sixty-five when the narrator first meets him. He has suffered devastating personal loss. The landscape itself actively resists regeneration. The broader society remains oblivious to his efforts for decades.

None of this matters to him. None of it interrupts the steady rhythm of his planting.

When I returned to the hospital for treatment six weeks after that first reading, I brought my own dog-eared copy of the book. As chemicals designed to kill rapidly dividing cells dripped into my veins, I read aloud to two other patients receiving treatment. One wept silently by the end. The other asked to borrow it when I finished.

We formed an unlikely book group in that chemo ward—discussing Bouffier's methods, his solitude, his monastic patience. The oncology nurses began calling us "the forest people," not understanding our private reference but sensing the strange energy our discussions generated amid the clinical despair.

Seven months later—already longer than my initial prognosis—a second scan showed something unexpected. Not remission, not yet, but a significant slowing of the disease's progression. My oncologist called it "unusual but not unprecedented." I had a different explanation.

I'd begun to dream regularly of Bouffier—not as Giono described him but as a presence beside me, teaching me to distinguish promising acorns from those that would never germinate. In these dreams, we worked together in comfortable silence, filling pockets with seeds, walking barren ridgelines, kneeling in dust and stone.

During my waking hours, I continued my own planting—reconciliations where possible, new connections where not, small contributions to strangers' lives, seeds of possibility in whatever soil would receive them.

Inexplicably, improbably, I was still alive.

What "The Man Who Planted Trees" offers isn't gentle inspiration but a radical alternative to despair. Giono doesn't just tell a pretty story about environmentalism—he demonstrates that meaning exists precisely in the face of apparent futility, that purpose transcends outcome, that transformative power often lies in the humblest, most repetitive actions.

The story's most devastating passage describes Bouffier's work during World War I: "The war of 1914 had taken away all his sons, all three of them... He resumed his planting." This breathtaking understatement contains volumes—both the immensity of Bouffier's personal tragedy and the immensity of his refusal to surrender to it.

Three years after my diagnosis, against all medical predictions, I remain. The disease and I have reached a standoff of sorts—it advances more slowly than expected; I live more fully than I ever did in health. I've since learned that Giono wrote this story for an American magazine that requested "the most extraordinary character I've encountered." He invented Bouffier entirely, later explaining: "My goal was to make trees likeable, or more specifically, to make planting trees likeable."

But here's what Giono himself may not have fully understood: he didn't create a character; he created a template for living meaningfully in the face of apparent hopelessness. He didn't make trees likeable; he made perseverance without guarantee of personal reward not just likeable but essential.

Last week, I visited the youth center where I still teach chess. One of my first students—now heading to college on scholarship—asked why I never seem afraid despite my illness. I showed him my worn copy of Giono's book.

"The man in this story," I explained, "plants trees knowing three things for certain: many will fail to grow, he won't live to see most that do succeed, and he has no guarantee the world won't destroy his work through war or greed or simple indifference."

"Then why bother?" the young man asked.

"Because the planting itself matters," I said. "Because transformation always begins in apparent futility. Because life, ultimately, is measured not in what we harvest but in what we plant."

I don't know if he understood. But later that day, I saw him reading the book in a corner, his expression intense with discovery.

Another acorn planted.

If you value comfort over transformation, avoid "The Man Who Planted Trees." This isn't inspirational literature; it's a literary detonation device disguised as a simple tale. Once you truly absorb Bouffier's example, you lose all excuses for inaction. You forfeit the luxury of despair. You find yourself, against all reason, planting seeds in whatever barren landscape you've been given—with no guarantee except that the planting itself may be the most profound expression of being fully alive.

And somewhere in your dreams, a forest is already rising.

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