plump ripe pumpkins
...smiling in patches
......fall laughs last
.

one day at a time
...life streaks through us
......leaving nothing behind
.

single leaf floating
......downstream on water
............on the way home.

Driving in the Driving Rain
By Don Iannone

Driving in the driving rain.
Traffic clogged like a drain pipe
filled with crap--
the sort you wish would get out of the way
and let things flow.
Herky jerky drivers--
slowing down and speeding up,
remind me of hungry sandpipers
chasing tiny crabs at the water's edge.
In the car next to me,
a rotund young woman paints her face.
I can't shake the image of a moon-faced clown,
as I watch the woman circle her lips
several times with her bright red lipstick.
The skies clear,
but my mind remains cloudy.
A thick fog sets in,
and I lose sight of where I am going.
Desperate for a cheerful note to end on,
I think of the big woman painting her face, and I smile
thinking she must buy make-up by the gallon.

More Magic with a Paintbrush

Life Is Simple When You Are
By Don Iannone

Before the snow falls,
I shall walk barefoot
upon Nature's pastel carpet
of fresh fallen autumn leaves.
Just the right place will appear
for me to park my tired bones
and soak in fall's magic,
which hugs me as tenderly
as only a grandmother can do.
And before the sun sets--
just beyond the faded old barn,
I will allow myself to smile
in warm admiration for life
and its good to the last drop flavor.
And once the sun sets
and the moon rises full,
I can say with great satisfaction--
that I have truly lived.

Fall Magic
By Don Iannone

The glorious turning fall leaves
torture my sensibilities
with candy-sweet pleasure.
They leave me gasping,
like a diver submerged too long,
beholding the magical coral reef below.
They rip my heart out,
which goes chasing after whispering butterflies,
whose wings brush away lingering clouds.
And I thought early spring wildflowers
were hard to say goodbye to.

Captivating Fall Beauty

Thunder Bay
By Don Iannone

North of Superior--
a quixotic place called Thunder Bay,
where Native spirits roam restless
throughout the night, that lasts longer
than the longest day.
Deep still water,
without bottom, goes untouched
like fresh wild berries spoiled
by the early snow,
drifting away like mysteries exposed
to the piercing white light
of early afternoon sun
on waveless gray-blue water.
The truth appears,
like wind on water,
then dives deep inside me.
Forever I am changed.

Thunder Bay, Ontario
Late September

Full Plate
By Don Iannone

At times,
blessings seem to come
too many at a time.
More than we can really handle.
We wonder why--
as though there is some mystery
to how our life comes to be.
Every intention we put foward
eventually manifests.
Not always exactly as the picture
initially projected by our soul,
but sure enough,
the intention comes into being.
Be careful what you wish for,
the genie may fill your plate.

Red Covered Bridge

(Near Kokomo, Indiana)

Allegheny National Forest

(Near Warren, PA)

Smoke from a Nonexistent Fire
By Don Iannone

If you've ever watched something live,
you've also watched it die.
But not in the sense that living and dying exist
as independent phenomena separated by anything real.
There is no separate reality underlying anything.
It is all part of one.
You and I are but fictitious actors
on a make believe stage,
performing before an imagined audience.
That's all.
But if this is true,
what does this leave us?
We are left with our own impermanence--
our illusively fugitive state of being.
We live by believing
that our minds can know their own reality.
But what are these notions?
All are but consciousness
rising and falling in response to itself,
like smoke from a nonexistent fire.
And this poem--
has it not reached its end?
Yet your mind wanders on,
seeking more than is really here.
Rest in your unknowing, and there
find peace in your emptiness.

With Gentle Strokes She Paints
By Don Iannone

Fall hints
of her coming,
touching the leaves
with gentle strokes of color,
not unlike the painter
who starts out shy,
not knowing exactly where
her heart will carry the brush.
The masterpiece is complete, only when
her heart is full from giving.

Morning Glory
By Don Iannone

Looking east,
seeing
a glowing tangerine sun
rise through
thick late September clouds,
and finally
allowing
its fire to fade
and marble yellow and gold
throughout the perfectly still lingering clouds.

Doesn't This Make You Believe in Magic?

A Tribute to Anonymous Dharma
By Don Iannone

You think
you'd like to know
yourself

and the world
falling
in and out
of synch

with your concept
of who you think
you are.

Would you like
to get beyond
the concepts

and fall
into synch
with that
which lies beyond?

That's your true nature
and that's who you really are.

Allow yourself to be that.

Go: Dan Shimp's Anonymous Dharma

Poetic Glimpses
By Don Iannone

1
silver moon rides high
crossing crystalline September sky
hearts fill with glee

2
glittering stardust
nighttime extravaganza
all eyes turn upward

3
poetry
courageous words
words that en-courage

4
happiness
like smoke
eludes our chase

Growing Old on the Way To Dying
By Don Iannone

I watch her--
sitting quietly in her front porch swing.
Her breathing is labored,
and her hands tremble,
as they hold onto what life remains.
By my account,
the old woman is pushing ninety.
She looks remarkably peaceful.
Her thinning hair, snowy white,
blows in the breeze.
The old woman savors each moment--
as though each may be her last.
I think...she is living in the moment.
Makes me wonder...am I?

On the way to dying,
we grow old,
and we give back large parts of ourselves
to the well from whence we came.
It's the same well for all of us--
that we come from and return to.
Getting old isn't easy,
especially as our bodies slow
and our minds forget
at times where they are.
Then again, where can our minds be
but right here in the now?
On the way to dying,
we grow old,
and then,
we grow young all over again.

Cleveland's Emerald Necklace
By Don Iannone

Emerald necklace--
green chain of forest being,
draped like Christmas garland
around Cleveland's shoulders.
Rich, deep, magical,
yet at times captivatingly introspective,
like a dark green Freudian slip,
worn loose and hanging below
the city's gray and blue silk dress.
As fall approaches,
and the air chills,
the jeweled necklace transforms
from just emeralds
to rubies, garnets, and golden sapphires.
And in winter,
the forest is aglow in diamonds,
sparkling bright as stars
on a clear winter night.
Every city has its gems--
Cleveland has its priceless emerald necklace.

Turning Leaves Messaging Change
By Don Iannone

The leaves know their days are numbered,
as the sun visits them less often
and the stars play tic-tac-toe
much longer into the night.
All those earlier painting lessons pay off,
as the leaves meticulously bodypaint themselves
in rich hues of yellow, orange, red, and rust.
One last hug,
and the leaves let go,
as the autumn breeze lifts their spirits
and gently brings them to rest on the ground,
where they form a plush rainbow carpet.
The glorious fallen leaves,
like the sparkling snowflakes that follow them,
are God's messengers that change is our essence.

Old Dreams Like Rainbows Fade Away
By Don Iannone

Old dreams fade
in and out of focus
like vaporous rainbows
arching their backs in the sky.
My dreams of being anything
more than I truly am
are not far behind the rainbows,
losing themselves forever
in clear blue expectationless sky.

When Catalina Eyes Touch You
By Don Iannone

Soulful arisings overflow within me,
while standing before the sage-brown Catalina Mountains,
that stare back with soft reassuring eyes.
These eyes say "you are a part of it all,
celebrate this union, and
welcome the sudden transforming beauty
drifting through this very moment."
To call all this magical
seems to rob Tucson of its real feel--
so quiet, deep, beckoning,
and warm as the early morning sun,
giving the desert its rich colors and sharp shadows.
How can you deny who you really are
when something so powerful touches you?

Pure Magic

Up
By Don Iannone

Up...a direction
pointing to the sky,
where the sun, moon, and stars live as one.
Up...some place above
wherever you are in life,
including some place you've never been
but have always wanted to go.
Up...a feeling you have
when the power of the universe
fills you beyond all comprehension.
Up...the only place you can go
when you hit bottom,
and think there is nowhere else to go.
Up...an illusion creating expectations
separating you from being one with the moment.
Up...another very small word
that means nothing but everything.
Up...the opposite of the end of a poem,
but certainly the way
you want people to feel
after reading it.

It
By Don Iannone

So much can be packed
into such very small words
that seem to mean nothing
but end up meaning everything.
Like the word “it” that points
to something different
every time you use the word.
One time “it’ is the sunset
that just disappeared beyond the horizon.
Another time “it” is the work project
that is about to give you can ulcer.
Yet in another instance,
“it” points to that unidentified feeling
welling up inside you,
stopping you dead in your tracks.
One thing “it” is not is me referring to me
or you referring to yourself.
The only time an “it” can exist
is when you as the subject point to something
other than yourself as an object.
Got “it’?

Grains of Sand in Your Life
By Don Iannone

How far you’ve come in your life.
Bet you’d never have guessed
the amazing things you’d do,
given where you came from
and how you started out.
It seemed like so many things
were working against you,
when you struggled with your first grade reading,
and when you finished next to last
in fifth grade basketball try-outs.
Remember when you were six,
and how you cried that hot summer night
because you were too frightened
to sleep out in the back yard?
Now just look at you,
and the amazing person you’ve become.
Like the irritating grain of sand in the oyster’s shell
that helps give rise to a beautiful pearl,
your struggles make you who you are.
Give thanks for the grains of sand in your life
and the growth they spark.

"People only see what they are prepared to see."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Quick Glances Through the Darkness
By Don Iannone

1
Amidst your sadness, trust
that hope floats down
the wide and winding river of tears
flowing through your soul.

2
Silence creeps
through your being,
like a dejected snake,
filled with submission,
unable to escape
the darkness of its own shadow.

3
We sat in silence,
our hearts separated
by an uncrossable ocean of hurt,
deepening with the passing
of each fathomless moment.

4
Straight-jacketed hopes,
constrained by harsh illusion,
fade faster than shadows
in the late afternoon winter sun.

5
Empty words hold nothing,
and nothing comes close to words,
in our feeble attempt to describe
our inner god of self-understanding.

You Are Appreciated

Work has been very demanding,
and I find myself barely able
to feed the poetic stream,
but I do because I know I must.

I am truly sorry for not being
able to engage all of you as fully
as I have in the past.

Please know that I appreciate
you stopping by, reading my poetry
and leaving your beautiful thoughts behind.

Eventually, more time will appear.

My blessings to all of you,

Don

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
Crisp autumn leaves
cool morning breeze
seasons change and so do we.

2
Refreshing desert oasis
rejuvenation at hand
give your journey a rest.

3
Nuggets of truth
tumbling in the stream of life
gold washes up on life's shore.

4
Falling leaves
life turns
a new season overtakes you.

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
Location,
more than place
right mindset at the right time.

2
Like a mirror
art reflects
what lives inside us.

3
Navigate
around your pride
your truth lies deeper.

4
Death
cuts through life
the sharpest razor's edge.

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
Browning leaves
crisp morning air
book your seat for winter.

2
Twilight
light to dark
many shades of gray in life.

3
Far off
inside you
truth is nested.

4
Very early morning
no birds
only silence sings.

"If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else."

--Marvin Gaye

Who Am I?
By Don Iannone

If you ask the right life question,
the right answer will come.
If you attend to this answer,
the right doors in life will swing wide open.
If you walk through these doors in trust,
your life path will take positive new directions.
If you head your life in these positive directions,
your soul will find its rightful place in the sun.
With the illuminating light of the sun showing you the way,
your deepest doubts and fears will melt away.
As you stand with arms outstretched facing the sun,
the gates of reality will open, inviting you in.
With gladness and thanksgiving, accept this invitation,
peace and love will fill every last drop of your being.
All this begins with the right question.

To fully understand this poem, please
click on this link and visit the Headfooters
Art Gallery website.

Headfooters
By Don Iannone

Perfectly imperfect circles,
with gangly arms and legs,
reaching out for love.
Simple ungraceful lines,
each living in a separate world,
on the same page of life.
Freshly poured pallets of color,
spilling over their boundaries,
not unlike the passion and fear
hiding inside all of us.
Obsessive, intricate etchings,
intent upon filling the blind inner emptiness,
suspended somewhere between the heart and mind.
Distorted images of childish joys,
submerged in deep pools of self-abuse and anguish.
Sunny faces hanging
with crooked smiles from dimly-lit buildings.
Puzzling gray paint smears,
hiding the endless inner labyrinths
the artist walks daily in search of sanity.
One-dimensional wild beasts, engorged phalluses, and
simple chairs made from broken branches.
Headfooters, outsider art, raw vision,
all glimpses of reality from imprisoned minds,
all jarring reminders of the fine lines in life for all of us.

Things We Depend Upon
By Don Iannone

Were it not
for morning poetry,
I may not see the magic
in my life.
Were it not
for the music in my soul,
I might lose
my poetic verse.
Were it not
for love,
I would surely
lose truly who I am.

Signs of Fall
By Don Iannone

Today a rust-colored leaf fell quite helplessly
from the large maple tree in the front yard.
There was no wind.
It was just its time to let go.
I listened as a stateman-like bluejay squawked nonstop,
forewarning us of swirling red-tail hawks,
who eyed the plump young morning doves, sitting in pairs
in the red cherry trees in the back woods.
The bluejay's shriek poked the air,
like sharp needles chisling colorful upper arm tattoos.
We found two writhing baby garter snakes
in the garage earlier in the week.
Both wore bright yellow necklaces--
the sort a mother gives her daughters
to wear at their debutante ball.
The flowers are enroute to seeds,
and their nectar runs sweet,
enticing full-bloom monarch butterflies
to cling much longer to their sticky honey.
Another Labor Day has passed,
and the kids stand in bunches along the road,
awaiting the golden rod-colored school buses
that carry them off to noisy classrooms,
filled with rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed youngsters,
who swap larger than life stories
about the summer that is gone,
like their innocence, once the teaching begins.
I long for a closer look at the fallen leaf,
but settle instead to let go of it,
along with my clinging to long sun-filled days.
My winter spirit is early this year, and my soul
is already warming itself by the blazing fireplace.

The Crickets' Autumn Song
By Don Iannone

Solitary crickets drone on
through the night's deepest hours
about fall's impending ascent.
They tell poignant epic-level stories,
which they will never quite finish,
leaving last lines for the winter sun
to write on fresh-fallen snow.
The crickets hypnotic chirping drowns out
the 12:07 am train, passing unnoticed,
except by the squealing rails, stretching
from one end of the night to the other.
Summer died suddenly, but gloriously,
like the fuzzy green caterpillar, who morphed
in one afternoon into a graceful butterfly.
The crickets just do what they do,
without being asked, or being rewarded.
For they sing in a voice heard by the turning leaves,
the fading grass, and swelling pumpkins,
who otherwise might miss their time.
When I was young, I was too busy
to hear the crickets sing.
But now autumn rises up in me,
and I ready for the winter sun
to once again write last lines
in the fresh-fallen snow.

I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

Not Until
By Don Iannone

Not until I knew myself,
I stumbled headfirst through life,
believing my fall from grace was an omen
that I was free at last.
Not until I knew you,
I fell prey to my own lies and self-deception,
wishing you wouldn't rob me
of my last filthy remains.
Not until my ego died,
I thought having was living,
and you were mine--
all because I wanted to possess you.
Not until I hit the wall,
I thought I could fly forever,
and never pay the price
for following my foolish dreams.
Not until I saw the universe
with clear blue eyes,
I thought my world was it,
and nothing was beyond me.
Not until you doused the raging fire
that caused me to self-combust,
I thought the fire was my light,
and I was only alive when I was on fire.
Not until I discovered life was a full length mirror,
reflecting everything we are,
I thought I could close one eye
and only see what I wanted to see.
Not until the sun came up,
washing away the darkness in my life,
did I see none of it is mine,
and that life is truly a gift.

When A Dark Night of the Soul Befalls Us
By Don Iannone

Some nights,
the forgotten cemeteries we live near
come back to life,
filling us with ghostly tombstones
floating on thick dark clouds.
Not every night they come,
but certainly on long dark nights, following days
when the world seems more dead than alive.
Morning can't come quickly enough on those nights
when the cries of those in-between
haunt the bottomless valleys we live in.
And when the cries subside,
the stone silence echoes deep
inside the empty cavern filling us.
Until it's finally over,
there is no hope that it will ever end.
And once it has ended,
we can only wait again
for the grass to turn black with night,
and for the air to chill suddenly cold as ice.
It is only then we come to know
the true meaning of light.

In the Heart of the Night
By Don Iannone

There is a heart
that beats in the night.
It carries us into our dreams,
where our heart opens us
to the world of all possibilities.
There is a heart
that beats in the night
connecting us
to the boundaryless universe we call home,
but only know in our hearts.
There is a heart
that beats in the night
awakening our soul,
which exists in both repeated
and unrepeated vastness.
Listen closely to your heart beat at night.
It dreams of new possibilities you will become.