The Sunday Start By: Jim Gandolf

☀️ The Sunday Start ☀️

       Poem

       Jim Gandolf 

       ©️11162025

The calendar decrees, with quiet grace,

That Sunday claims the precedent place.

Not just a pause, a closing curtain call,

But the fresh foundation, the start of it all.

The world still sleeps, the horns are yet to blare,

A silver hush hangs in the morning air.

A sacred quiet, time to slow the pace,

The first day granted for the soul's embrace.

Why wait until the rush has taken hold?

Why save the peace until the tale is told?

Let calm preside upon the brand-new page,

To set the tone and wisdom for the age.

We build a bulwark of serenity now,

A gentle spirit, furrowed on the brow,

To gather strength, to let the mind unbend,

Before the six-day journey must extend.

Then comes the call, the sharp, insistent chime,

Of Monday's promise, Monday's steep climb.

The brief reprieve is happily resigned,

The week is waiting, tasks are close behind.

So thank the Sunday, golden, soft, and deep,

The peaceful vigil that we vow to keep.

The start that rests, the calm that clears the way,

Before we rise and meet the working day.

Jim Gandolf

A Grateful Heart on Veterans Day By:Jim Gandolf

A Grateful Heart on Veterans Day 

Poem

USA

By:Jim Gandolf

©️11112025

The eleventh day of the eleventh month returns,

A time to pause, a time where deep gratitude burns.

It isn't just a date upon the page,

But hallowed ground upon the world's great stage.

I think of those I hold so very dear,

Who faced the duty, conquering all fear;

My own beloved kin, my trusted friends,

Whose service story never truly ends.

From distant lands beneath a foreign sun,

To quiet posts when the day's work is done,

They stood for freedoms that we freely keep,

While others watch and while the weary sleep.

I see the discipline, the steadfast grace,

The willingness to stand within the breach and face

Whatever came—the challenge, pain, or strife,

To guard the precious, fragile gift of life.

The uniforms they wore, now folded neat,

Hold memories of marching, dust, and heat.

But more than fabric, they hold lessons learned:

Of honor given, and of respect well earned.

So today, I look at each of you and smile,

Knowing the cost of every hard-won mile.

Your sacrifice is felt in all we do,

In every joy and peace that sees us through.

This Veterans Day, the flag flies high and true, United States of America.

A simple, yet profound, "Thank You" for all you do, and have done.

Jim Gandolf 

Note:

For my Grandfather’s, Father, Uncles, Sisters, Brothers, and friends of my family & your family.

For the unknown soldiers that have kept us free. 



The Echo of the Years By: Jim Gandolf

The Echo of the Years

Poem 

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️11092025

The breath is drawn, the first faint cry is heard,

A fragile vessel in a boundless sea,

And life begins, with every spoken word,

And every choice that sets the spirit free.

The deeds are sown, like seeds in fertile ground,

A tapestry of moments, fine and coarse,

In every silence, every joyous sound,

A river finding its eternal course.

The Forge and the Shadow

He builds his towers, stone by stubborn stone,

He battles shadows only he can see,

He loves with strength, and he can stand alone,

Or falter where true courage ought to be.

The promises he kept, the vows he broke,

The kindness lent without a thought of gain,

The heavy burden that he bravely took,

The solace offered in another's pain.

The River Flows to Sea

No moment vanishes, no act is lost,

Though time may blur the edges of the day;

The gain that came at what unmeasured cost,

The path not taken that still lights the way.

For in the quiet chambers of the soul,

Where final reckoning must finally meet,

These actions rise to make the spirit whole,

Or leave the memory incomplete.

Eternity's Archive

The flesh may fade, the earthly name grow dim,

The works of hand return to dust and air,

But what he was, held in the cosmic hymn,

Remains a constant presence, deep and rare.

For what a man does in his fleeting time,

The character he forged, the love he gave,

Ascends beyond the measure and the clime,

And echoes on beyond the final wave.

Jim Gandolf 

Note: In Milwaukee, Wisconsin; I was sitting on a park bench in the year of 2004, while my young son was playing at a park along the Lake Michigan shoreline. A older man sat down next to me on the bench, and we had a  conversation (Most people that know me, also know I talk to everyone. Some people call it the gift gabbing or, I call it, I love conversation).This man name was Frank, and he said something to me that was so profound, “What a man does in his lifetime, stays with him for eternity!” I wrote a poem on that phrase. 



The Unyielding Climb By Jim Gandolf

The Unyielding Climb 

Poem 

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️11082025

From the moment the first breath was drawn, a shadow fell,

The whispers started, tales they loved to tell.

Your rising tide they could not understand,

They watched your striving with a jealous hand.

For every success, a sidelong glance they threw,

Wishing the sunlight would not shine on you.

Small Victories, Hard-Won Ground

The road ahead is paved with stones you've turned,

Each tiny stride a lesson fiercely learned.

You stumbled hard, you felt the bitter sting,

A skirmish lost, the weary bells would ring.

You counted losses, nursed the aching soul,

And thought perhaps you'd never reach the goal.

But in that dust, beneath the weight of doubt,

A stubborn ember would not be put out

   The battle lost is not the final score,

  The war is waged until you close the door.

The Breath of Persistence

They wait to see you fall, to watch you yield,

To claim the barren, unproductive field.

But look within, where fire still resides,

Where quiet, iron-willed resolve abides.

Each rising sun presents the chance anew,

To mend the broken, see the vision through.

The critics fade when action takes the lead,

You plant the future with the present seed.

So stand up tall, though weary from the fray,

Though setbacks steal the comfort of the day.

For as long as life still pulses in your chest,

Your truest, grandest purpose stands the test.

Keep moving forward, don't accept defeat,

The taste of triumph will be truly sweet.

Jim Gandolf

Seven at the Speedway ‘72 By: Jim Gandolf

Seven at the Speedway, '72

Poem

11052025

The sun hung warm, a perfect summer haze,

Above the track in those bright, long-gone days.

I stood at seven, small beside my kin,

The roar of '72 was pouring in.

The Grandstands rose, a concrete, patient tide,

Behind the pits where all the magic hide.

My brother, two years older, stood my guard,

While Dad went down to Gasoline Alley, hard

At work, with owners, drivers, in the fray,

Handling the business that would make the day.

We were alone, a temporary break,

With all the sights a young heart could take.

The Practice sessions buzzed with heavy sound,

The different shapes of metal all around.

In screaming reds and blues and golds they flew,

A spectrum bright, exciting, fresh, and new.

We had our feast, no worry in the air,

Just easy trust and helpful folks everywhere.

But what I loved, that voice that filled the space,

The Announcer's call, setting the pace!

Each shift of gear, each slowing for the turn,

Each vital lap the drivers had to learn.

His words cut through the engine's mighty drone,

A narrative just for us, and us alone.

Then came the sight, a sight so strange and grand,

Hotdog wrappers dancing on the sand!

A silver army, whisked by sudden breeze,

They tumbled 'round the asphalt, quite at ease.

We watched them drift, a funny, fleeting show,

A little chaos where the great cars go.

That scent of fuel, the heat upon my skin,

The thrilling sense of where my Dad had been.

That day remains, cemented, clear, and true,

An unforgettable practice day view in 1972!

Jim Gandolf

1969 at the Brickyard Gate Poem By Jim Gandolf

“Indianapolis Motor Speedway Museum in 1969 as a four-year-old boy. I was known as Jimmy Gandolf, some people in the family called me “Jamie” LOL 

I wrote this a long time ago in Port Washington  Wisconsin in 1982 in a notebook that I had kept  today I trademarked it.” A  note on this poem. 

——————————————————

1969 at the Brickyard Gate

Poem 

By Jim Gandolf 

©️11032025

The summer sun, a 1969 gold,

Shone bright above the tales about to unfold.

A small hand gripped, beneath a grown-up's might,

We stood beside the road in morning light.

Not yet the roar, the track's vast, churning sound,

But 16th Street was consecrated ground.

And there it stood, near Crawfordsville Road's wide sweep,

A place where history's great secrets sleep.

The Museum's Door

The IMS Museum, a temple grand and tall,

We stepped inside, escaping summer's thrall.

My world, so new, where every sight was vast,

Held moments from the speedway's glorious past.

The air was cool, a hush before the storm,

My four-year-old attention kept me warm.

And then I saw them, lined up, row on row,

The chariots of speed from long ago.

The Silver Legends

Race cars gleaming, polished, sharp, and lean,

The mightiest machines I'd ever seen.

Their bodies curved, a metal, silver grace,

Each one had known that legendary pace.

I gazed upon the ghosts of triumph past,

The 500 winners, built to hold and last.

The Borg-Warner trophy, shining bright,

Reflected wonder in a child's wide sight.

The tiny fins, the engines big and deep,

While grown-ups spoke of records they would keep,

I simply stared, too young for lore or name,

Just captivated by the racing flame.

A Fascination Born

That day, the wonder took a solid hold,

A story in my young heart to be told.

The Greatest Spectacle, though seen from far,

Was captured in the form of a metal star.

A quiet magic on that sunlit day,

Where racing legends seemed to come and play.

My heart was stolen in 1969

Jim Gandolf

The Ledger of the Moment By: Jim Gandolf

The Ledger of the Moment 

Poem 

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️11032025

I stand upon the edge of now, a point unseen,

Where past and future meet, a razor-thin demesne.

A scale suspended in the void, no anchor, no known base,

This balance of all time, held only in this space.

The left pan holds the Echoes:

The empires dust, the lover's sigh,

The countless ages flashing by.

A weight of what has been and gone,

From first faint light to setting sun.

It groans beneath the pressure vast,

Of every moment that has passed.

The right pan waits for what is Coming:

The unspent breath, the yet-to-be,

The seed that struggles to be free.

The unknown futures, bright or dim,

A calculation on a whim.

It shivers with the potential deep,

Of promises the ages keep.

And I, the fulcrum, feel the sway,

As yesterdays give way to day.

No one perceives this subtle lean,

The constant shift, the in-between.

They measure seconds, swift and small,

But miss the tipping point of all.

They see the hands upon the clock,

But not the granite where I rock.

Is one grain heavier, or light?

Does memory outweigh the sight

Of what the morrow has in store?

The answer stays behind the door.

I hold the tension, taut and true,

The imbalance only known to few.

For in this perfect, fragile poise,

Lies all of history's faint noise,

And all the silence yet to rise.

Jim Gandolf