My Everything By:Jim Gandolf

To My Everything on Her 47th

Poem

By Jim Gandolf 

©️12312025

From the very first moment our paths ever crossed,

I knew in an instant, my heart had been lost.

It wasn't a flicker, or a slow-burning spark,

But a light that immediately conquered the dark.

For forty-seven years, the world’s grown more bright,

But it’s the time that we’ve shared that feels perfectly right.

You are "extremely everything"—my partner and friend,

A beautiful story I hope never ends.

You carry a grace that the years only gold,

A spirit more vibrant as chapters unfold.

In every reflection, in all that you do,

I’m still the same person just falling for you.

So here’s to the laughter, the life, and the soul,

The half of my heart that has made me feel whole.

Happy Birthday, my love, may your day be as true,

As the lifelong devotion I’ve found within you. 

Jim Gandolf ©️2025

The Garden of my mind is quite By Jim Gandolf

The Garden of my mind is quiet Poem By: Jim Gandolf©️12292025

The garden of my mind is quiet now,

The thorns that scraped are finally cleared away.

I’ve smoothed the worry from my weary brow,

And let the bitter ghosts go on their way.

Forgiveness isn't always a soft hand,

Or pulling someone back into the light.

Sometimes it’s drawing lines upon the sand,

And walking toward a peace that’s out of sight.

I’ve loosed the heavy knot that tied us fast,

I wish you well, beneath a different sky.

But letting go of shadows from the past

Does not require a second, long goodbye.

The door is locked, the key is in the sea,

I hold no malice, yet I choose the wall.

To love myself means staying wild and free,

With silence as the greatest gift of all.Jim Gandolf 
Note

Why This Perspective Matters

This approach to forgiveness is often called setting a boundary as a sanctuary. It acknowledges two important truths:

 * Release: You stop carrying the weight of the anger so it no longer burns you.

 * Protection: You recognize that while you can let go of the grudge, you aren't required to offer access to your life to someone who isn't safe for your peace of mind.

I Remember By;Jim Gandolf

I Remember 

Poem 

By:Jim Gandolf 

©️12222025

The weight of what they did is not a ghost,

A trick of light, or something you misread.

Don’t let the world play kind and hollow host,

By smoothing over words they shouldn't have said.

It wasn't chance, a stumble, or a slip,

No fog of mind or accidental blow.

They held the map, the rudder, and the ship;

They saw the jagged rocks that lay below.

They weighed the cost, the silence, and the sting,

They measured out the bruise you’d have to bear.

They knew the jagged edge of every thing,

And in that knowledge, left the poison there.

So hold the truth—it isn't yours to hide,

Or wash away in waves of soft regret.

To "take it personally" is to side

With what is real, and hasn't faded yet.

Jim Gandolf

Mr. October’s Nod By: Jim Gandolf

⚾️ Mr. October’s Nod ⚾️

      July 31, 1980

      Poem

      By: Jim Gandolf 

      ©️12072025

The green of Milwaukee County Stadium stretched wide,

A sea of blue and gold on every side.

My father, Brewers blue, sat near, resigned,

To watch his child root for the Pinstriped kind.

In enemy land, with passion I was fraught,

For Number 44, the star the Yankees brought.

He stood beside the cage, his warm-up slow,

While Brewers faithful let their rude words flow.

They yelled, they taunted, trying hard to sting,

The man of thunder, waiting for his swing.

My Yankee heart beat hard against the din,

I had to speak, to let my hero win.

I rose above the seats, my small voice clear,

Ignoring every hostile, mocking sneer.

“Don’t worry, Reggie! Smack a home run true,

And shut these fools right up!” I shouted, new

To courage found beneath the ballpark light,

A single champion challenging the night.

He heard the plea; he turned his famous face,

A nod, a helmet tilted into place.

“Okay,” his silence promised, deep and sure,

Then strode to meet the test he must endure.

The pitcher threw, the lumber met the ball,

A towering drive that answered every call.

It soared, it sailed, past fences, high and far,

A sudden silence under the evening star.

The crowd went quiet, swallowed by the sound

Of Yankee victory on hostile ground.

The winning run was scored; the game was won—

A legend’s promise kept for everyone,

But most of all, for me, who dared to speak,

And felt the power of the mighty streak.

A perfect moment, sealed in eighty’s haze,

The day that Reggie earned his fan’s loud praise.

Jim Gandolf 

Note: I was living in Port Washington, Wisconsin at the time. My Dad ended up with box seats two rows up right where the New York Yankees were bat practicing before the walk up to bat. My Dad hated the Yankees, but knew I was a major fan of Reggie Jackson #44 and this was a major gift to me from my Dad. I never forgot the look Reggie gave me before he hit a home run.  Priceless. I wrote this poem in High School at Port High. 

Jim Gandolf

The Stowaway at Turn Four By: Jim Gandolf

Opening Day in May

The Stowaway at Turn Four

 (1977 Edition)

Poem

By:Jim Gandolf

©️12062025

The year was nineteen-seventy-seven, I was barely twelve years old,

With a pocket full of nothing and a story to be told.

My mother held the steering wheel, her knuckles white and tight,

Of a heavy Ford Gran Torino in the fading dark of night.

She didn’t have the money for the tickets at the gate,

But she knew her boys loved racing, and she wouldn't make us wait.

So she popped the heavy trunk lid, and she told us, "Climb inside,"

Me and my older brother, for a dark and bumpy ride.

We curled around the spare tire, amid the jack and steel,

Listening to the gravel crunch beneath the grinding wheel.

The suspension groaned and rattled as she raced to claim a space,

A smuggler’s run to glory, just to get us near the race.

The darkness smelled of rubber and the exhaust from pipes below,

We bounced across the infield dirt, jostled to and fro.

Then—the glorious click of the latch! The lid rose to the sky,

Five-thirty in the morning, with the sun just barely high.

We tumbled out near Turn Four, amidst the dew and chill,

The massive track was silent, the asphalt grey and still.

No engines would be firing until the clock struck eleven,

But sitting there on the damp grass, I felt close enough to Heaven.

We spread an old wool blanket out to claim our patch of ground,

With a box of Long’s warm donuts that my mother somehow found.

The smell of yeast and sugar glaze mixed with the morning air,

And quietly, upon that quilt, I bowed my head in prayer.

I prayed to see the legends, the heroes of the day,

I prayed the Lord would clear the view and sweep the crowds away.

And as the clock struck eleven, the air began to churn,

The answer to my prayer came screaming through the turn.

I saw the flash of Coyote Red—A.J. Foyt flew by!

The "Gilmore" on his sidepod barely caught my widening eye.

He was chasing down a fourth ring, a king upon his throne,

With a Turbo-Foyt V8 engine in a rhythm all its own.

Then came the rumble of a change, a history in the make,

I saw Janet Guthrie pass, with everything at stake.

The first woman on the tarmac, with a courage distinct and clear,

Silencing the doubters with the shifting of a gear.

I watched Tom Sneva rocketing, a blur of blue and white,

Chasing two-hundred miles an hour with mesmerizing might.

The "CAM 2" Motor Oil machine, pushing past the limit,

My twelve-year-old heart stopped beating for a solitary minute.

The Lord gave me that vision, crisp as crystal glass,

Every rivet, every sponsor, on the cars that ripped the grass.

The ride home was a nightmare, brake lights in a line,

Bumper to bumper traffic, stalling out the time.

But slumped in the Gran Torino’s seat—no longer in the trunk—

I was drunk on speed and gasoline, and a memory fully sunk.

A poor boy with a donut, and a mother’s desperate drive,

The day I saw the legends race, and felt truly alive.

Jim Gandolf 

I will never forget that day in May 1977.

1978: A Spectacle in Box Seats By: Jim Gandolf

1978: A Spectacle in Box Seats

My First Indy 500 

Poem

By: Jim Gandolf

©️12012025

I was thirteen, with fire on my skin,

The sunburn stung before the cars could begin.

From the day before, my shoulders were raw,

But the pain faded out in the presence of awe.

Jim Gandolf was there, in a box at the line,

For the very first time, seeing greatness align.

A shadow hung over the Speedway that year,

With Tony passed on, and a palpable fear.

The USAC officials, the best of the best,

Had perished in April, laid tragic to rest.

Confusion would reign in the tower that day,

With rookie officials controlling the fray.

But then came the voice, cutting through the despair,

A widow stood tall in the humid spring air.

Mary Fendrich Hulman, with words distinct,

Made history there before anyone blinked.

With a lady in the field, the command had to change,

A wonderful phrase, sounding new, but not strange:

"Lady and Gentlemen, start your engines!" she cried,

And the thunder awoke, swelling deep inside.

The balloons drifted up in a speckled array,

A vision of color against the chaotic gray.

My eyes went wide as the green flag flew,

The speed was a shock, something violent and new.

The pit stops were magic, a dance and a shout,

Fuel hoses engaged, and the tires swapped out.

But chaos ensued with the flags and the calls,

The ghost of the plane crash haunted the halls.

Mistakes from the tower, confusion and heat,

While Bignotti’s team refused to accept their defeat.

The controversy swirled, but the driving was pure,

A test of the spirit that few could endure.

Jim Hall had the car, and Al Unser the hands,

Driving hard through the noise of the grandstands.

He took the checkered flag, victorious and fast,

A survivor of a race that was unsurpassed.

The crowd began leaving, a massive sea,

Shoulder-to-shoulder, pushing against me.

My blisters were screaming, the sunburn returned,

But my heart was ignited, a passion that burned.

Through the pain and the errors, the noise and the fray,

Jim Gandolf