A Closing Concert on Early Beginnings
By Don Iannone

I am close to having my childhood back
as a long lost part of my life.
There is some pain, but there is for all of us,
in remembering the early hurt parts of ourselves,
which we desperately need
to become all that we are--yes,
to become all that we are.
The early Martins Ferry years came back--
rather unexpectedly, like a full moon
quietly emerging through thick night clouds.
There were re-ignited friendships--
with Dan, Mike and Richard--
boys I knew and still love from Martins Ferry.
Like your first love,
your earliest years are infinitely poetic,
and therefore it's no surprise
there are so many poems
about childhood discoveries, passion, and
living like there is no tomorrow.
There have been magical journeys back
to the native land, where
those who loved most the child I am,
lie in rest, and await the time
when spirits hug again in sweet embrace.
It's not about going back really, rather
it's about drawing into your heart
those early parts of you, helping
you complete your circle of life, and
start over again at a new beginning.

Gathering Fresh New Possibilities by the River
By Don Iannone









It's been a long time
since I played by the river--
along the Mighty Ohio,
where I last knew myself
as a eager young boy.
Such unstoppable power
in the river, and in being young, and
in playing things real.

By the river, we played,
for hours on end.
Fishing, skipping flat rocks,
and dreaming--yes dreaming
of times not yet come, when
we'd be out of here,
and somewhere else
other than here.

Why is it so hard now to just play, and
dream of times not yet come?
Why is there so much pain
in gathering up fresh new possibilities
that carry you, like the river
to another place you've not been?
Today, let me be that boy,
dreaming unstoppable dreams by the river.

Sundays Long Ago
By Don Iannone

Growing up,
Sunday was clearly a day of rest,
when work was completely set aside,
and the spirit was given primacy.
The day started
with Sunday morning church services
and Sunday school.
Our main meal of the day
was in the early afternoon,
leaving room for a leisurely afternoon,
and then Sunday night church services--
at tops a one-hour event,
when the heart was invited to speak
and explore more personally
its relationship to the Holy.
Social gatherings often followed
Sunday night church services,
allowing those sharing worship
to join hands in friendship.
All this was a long time ago--
lost in the shuffle from childhood
to young adulthood.
Spirit joined our family,
both nuclear and extended.
Not always did I agree
with our Bible-thumping minister;
let alone how Mom and Dad chose
to adapt and apply these teachings
to the conduct of the household.
Too strict, I thought,
as a young hellion,
sowing my seeds in long-gone Martins Ferry.
Looking back,
there was more good than bad
to the rhythm and portent
of Sundays in my younger years.
I'm surprised to hear myself say this, but
there comes a time in your life
when equanimity truimphs over differences,
large and small,
that cause civil war within us.
And so,
looking back,
I smile upon the Sundays in my early life,
and give thanks for their rich blessings,
lingering on inside me even now.

The Aetnaville Limestone Cave
By Don Iannone

For some reason today,
I remembered the old limestone cave
we used to explore,
as growing young boys in Martins Ferry.
The cave, located in Aetnaville,
just south of Martins Ferry,
was very much a hidden mystery,
known only to the true initiates
of the sacred geometry of Eastern Ohio,
or those taking the time to trapse
the area's ancient woodland landscape in detail.
While a long time ago in years,
the Aetnaville cave and our adventures
are never more than a thought away
at given moment.
Give them a thought, and there they are,
and there you are.
Sensing the cave could swallow us up
in any loose-footed moment,
even as boys we took precautions
to ensure we could safely exit
what we had in the first place entered.
Wet and cold,
the cave was not conducive to candles,
or the homemade kerosene torches
we used for light in other caves.
We were entirely dependent upon
our trusty ever-ready battery flashlights
to light our cautious footsteps
into the earth's deep limestone belly.
To ensure we found our way out,
we tied together four balls of sturdy string,
each the length of a football field.
Twelve hundred feet into the earth was deep
for three eleven year-old boys,
who lived about the same distance
from the Elm School,
where they spent days
from early September to early June.
To this day, I vividly recall
the damp sweet smell
of the Aetnaville limestone cave.
And to this day,
I equate the twelve hundred feet
into the foreboding cave,
as roughly the same distance
I must travel inward
to reach the cave of my heart.
Isn't it funny how
all inward journeys feel the same?

Hoping Uncle Paul will Stop By On Christmas Eve
By Don Iannone

When I was a young boy,
our dear Uncle Paul would sometimes stop
at our house on Christmas Eve
after the candlelight service at the old Methodist Church.
We never knew for sure if or when he’d stop, but
it was a joyous time when he did.
For some unknown reason,
he’d always drive past our house and toot his horn,
whether he stopped or continued on home.
I guess that was just his way of announcing his presence,
and perhaps a way for our family to ready for his arrival.
Not only did we relish his presence, and
the adoring interest he showed us as kids, but
his visit was the perfect excuse to stay up much later
than we normally were allowed, and
eat an additional fist full of Mom’s special iced cookies.
Uncle Paul was our eccentric uncle,
which many families seem to have.
Who knows...maybe that’s even my role in the family today.
Every family should indeed have an eccentric uncle, or aunt,
who gives you permission to do what is uniquely you,
and nobody else in life.
As I think back,
there was a certain Santa-like quality about Uncle Paul—
one hard to put your finger on,
but you sensed an innate magic about him.
Maybe it was how his bright blue eyes even twinkled—
just like Jolly Saint Nick, when he laughed.
No, Uncle Paul wasn’t a street smart merchant marine,
or even a burly lumberjack,
who fell tall trees in the wilderness.
Instead, he sold women’s shoes at the popular Baker’s Shoe store
in downtown Wheeling, and he owned a remote Christmas tree farm,
where he often fiddled away his Sunday afternoons.
He told the funniest stories about women, and
how they’d try to convince him
that their shoe size was much smaller than
what his measurement showed.
As Uncle Paul used to say “the customer is always right,
even if they’re wrong.”
As I sit here watching the snow lightly fall upon
the trees and the mountainside here in Stowe,
I celebrate my Uncle Paul and his unpredictable,
but always wonderful visits on Christmas Eve.
For some reason,
I miss him on this particular Christmas Eve.

Sealing the Deal with a Kiss
By Don Iannone

Last night in my dreams,
I walked with a lovely young woman at my side
to Elm School...the grade school I attended
as a young boy in far-off Martins Ferry.
I was who I am today,
and she was a young alluring woman,
walking with me through my dream.

Given the choice,
I'm not sure I would have picked her
to co-star in my dream, but
there she was...
fetched up and sent my way
from my inner depths.
Given the choice,
I don't believe I would have
even drawn up this particular dream...
but there it was...
and there I was...
walking in the direction of a childhood dream
on the school yard of my old grade school.

It was bright daylight...
a sunny day, but
inside I knew it was really almost 2 AM...
much later than it seemed.
The young woman was familiar to me,
but I didn't really know her,
but I wanted her, and she wanted me.

She said she wanted to work for me...
like a student intern works for a professor.
Her studies were demanding,
but she was willing to work for me part-time...
up to twenty hours a week.
I think she knew she couldn't have me fulltime.

I asked her how much she needed to make.
She quickly replied two times $2.50 an hour.
I remember thinking that two times $2.50
was an odd way to say $5.00 an hour,
but I was overwhelmed by my fascination
with the young woman and the opportunity.
I felt the need to add it all up,
as though the math made any difference.
I did the math in my head...
concluding that employing her for a year
amounted to a mere $10,250.
This sounded like a very good deal to me...
a relatively small price to pay.

I offered her the job,
and she accepted without reservation.
We smiled at each other,
forcing our eyes to meet
with nothing in between.
Suddenly, I wanted to kiss her.
My heart beat quickened
as I entertained the thought.
I knew this was what she wanted as well.
Our faces drew near and our lips met.
It was a short and sweet embrace,
but her taste lingered.
Inside I knew we had a deal,
and it had been sealed with a kiss.

Awaking suddenly,
I was left to wonder...
about the deal I had just made.
I also realized that five bucks an hour
for twenty hours a week for a year
was actually only $4,800.
Something deep inside tells me
this lovely young woman,
so eager to work for me,
might be my own feminine energy
wanting to join in the business of my life.

Reflections on a Snowy December Morning
By Don Iannone

On this gray sky December morning,
tears filling my sleepy eyes,
I long to sled ride with old friends
from my childhood Martins Ferry.
So long I have been gone from my home--
Martins Ferry, and the center within me
that will always be home, no matter where I am.
So long I wanted to forget about the struggles there--
in Martins Ferry...to grow up, feel loved, and just be...somebody,
and really anybody other than who I was .
So long I wanted to forget the me that was born
in that dirty factory town along the Mighty Ohio.
Now...watching lazy snowflakes drift slowly to the ground--
each a child playing happily, without ambition, or
any care stunting their joy,
a certain sadness rises and falls inside me,
knowing I have forsaken myself--
and the most important gift ever given me in life.
Why does it take so long, or at least it seems,
for us to wake up and realize we were born, literally,
with everything we would ever need in life?
Why can't we just let go--
enjoying the ride down the hill
with our friends from Martins Ferry?

The Christmas Tree
Outside Our Front Window
By Don Iannone
















Growing up in Martins Ferry in the 1950s,
there was a magical Christmas tree
just outside our front window.
Adorned with fresh driven snow,
and every bit as lovely as the tree
gracing our living room,
with its bright ornaments,
shiny lights, and sparkling tinsel.
The beautiful evergreen in the front yard,
seemed to reach forever upward,
bending whenever necessary,
but always springing back.
During the day,
the sunlight made its ice crystals glitter,
like the stars that shone so brightly
above it in the dark winter night sky.
The birds knew of the tree's specialness,
as they flocked to its branches,
like bees to honey.
I loved the mighty evergreen
for its fortitude in withstanding
the winter's brutal assaults,
and I loved its vibrancy--always green,
and always willing to give of itself
to all needing food and a place to rest.
Were it not for this wonderful tree,
I might know nothing
of the true meaning of Christmas.

1960
By Don Iannone

Do you remember 1960 like I do?
I was nine and thought the world began and ended
in my tiny Ohio hometown Martins Ferry,
where my life was about baseball,
hiking in the woods, playing sun up to sun down,
and dreaming about forever happy days.
All real men held manufacturing jobs.
The under-rated Pittsburgh Pirates won the World Series
over the New York Yankees in dramatic style.
JFK was elected President over Tricky Dick Nixon.
U.S. pilot Gary Powers was shot down
and captured by the Russians
for spying on the Soviet Union.
The tumultuous Belgian Congo won independence
after intense conflict and great suffering.
Civil rights kicked into high gear
in Greensboro, North Carolina,
where a small group of Black students
staged a sit-in at a local diner,
watched by the country on black and white TV.
The song of the year was Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini,
performed by the inimitable Brian Hyland.
The first "teflon" non-sticking cookware
went on sale at Macy's in New York City,
and drop dead handsome actor Clark Gable dies.
All the while, the late great poet Robert Frost
sat amongst students at Williams College,
reading last lines of poems before passing on.
And I had not the slightest idea
that I would be who I am,
doing what I do,
where I am today.
That was 1960,
and this is forty-six amazing years later.

Chemistry of Ferry in the Fifties
By Don Iannone

Hardworking sons and daughters of immigrant warriors.
Brave souls,
accustomed to long days and even longer nights.
Folks who sleep with their windows open during the summertime,
and pray for a breeze--
even the slightest,
to dry the sweat trickling down the middle of their aching backs.
Silently worrying in their dark bedrooms,
about money, family, and health,
and hoping there really is a God,
who can provide a miracle ending their pain.
Even in all this suffering,
there is a deeper chemistry that makes up these people--
their hopes, dreams and struggles.
Men who cash their paychecks on Friday evenings
at the local A&P grocery store, and
who always forget something on their wives’ shopping lists.
Men with steel-hard hands with sandpaper rough calluses
from turning wrenches,
picking coal,
and pounding smoothness into bowed steel sheets.
Men who awkwardly hug their children,
hoping the chemistry helps them find their way in life,
without too much pain and sorrow.
Like their parents and grandparents,
the people of Martins Ferry restlessly search for the dream.
You know...the American Dream.
Like the thick lazy streams of smoke
drifting from the chimneys atop their houses,
their dreams form heavy 1950s clouds,
keeping them from seeing beyond today's bills,
and their sick child who must go to the doctor.
Children shoot marbles…cat's eyes and boulders
under the giant tree on the Elm School playground.
The sun breaks free of the clouds for just a moment,
but long enough to keep the faint hope alive
that they inherit early from their stern, hardworking parents—
who complain about their materialistic children
and how they will never come to visit them
on Sunday afternoons when they grow old.
There is a chemistry about a place,
particularly the place where you grew up.
It lingers in your soul,
quietly waiting for the right moment to come out.
It shows:
in how you greet strangers,
whether you shine your shoes in the morning,
how generous you are with your smile,
especially when you don't feel loved.
It even makes a cameo appearance in how you cut your grass.
The chemistry of Martins Ferry can be as rancid
as the dead catfish fishermen leave
along the shores of the Mighty Ohio, and
it can be as sweet and peaceful,
as the sun-filled clover fields,
inviting young boys to lie on their backs and dream
about far-off places they will visit someday.
Either way,
the chemistry makes us who we are.

Written in memory of James Wright, Martins Ferry's poet son.
Inspired by my adventuresome childhood friend, Dan Shimp.

Boys Playing by the Side of Road
By Don Iannone

Young boys playing their hearts out
before the late summer sun sets
and the stars take over the sky,
Boys filled with overwhelming eagerness
and untamed magic--
the sort only young hearts can contain,
Dirty-faced boys
lusting for adventure
in far away places
their hearts long to visit,
Boys pretending to be men
pretending to be boys,
But for now,
just young boys playing
along side a dusty country road
they pray will never end.

Haunting Family Secrets
By Don Iannone

Aunt Empsy's house was haunted.
Everyone thought so,
but nobody just came out and said so.
I was deathly afraid of the place.
The place smelled old,
like something long dead.
Suffocating.
Always cold and drafty.
Dark all the time.

Aunt Empsy's cat howled night and day.
You never saw the thing,
only heard it.
People said the cat was possessed
by Uncle Sy's spirit after he died.
He fell down the wooden basement steps.
Aunt Empsy said he was stone drunk
and lost his balance.
Cracked his head wide open.
Blood everywhere.
I didn't see it,
but I imagined the whole thing
every time we visited.
Some folks said Aunt Empsy shoved him.
Made him fall,
because he did something bad
to a young girl from the holler.

I hated going over there.
Everybody just sat around
talking about the past
--talking about dead people,
old things, and secrets.
Plenty of secrets in the family.
Stuff nobody supposedly knew about,
but you knew. You knew.

She's dead now.
Aunt Empsy lived to be 96.
The funeral was all black
and morbid.
People were afraid to look in the casket.
I did.
Wish I hadn't,
because I can still see her sinister face.
The minister giving last rites
at her funeral service
didn't look well.
Later we found out he had a stroke.

After all these years,
the house still sits there--empty
but filled with something foreboding.
Nobody wants it.
Why doesn't somebody just tear it down?
Some boys went up there last summer--
messing around,
gettin' into stuff they shouldn't.
A copperhead bit the Macklin kid.
He got real sick.
Almost died.
The other boys said
there was a nest of snakes in the old well.
Maybe a hundred or so.
It's a sign.
People should stay away.
That's just what I'm planning on doing.
My kids want to go up to the old place.
They've heard the stories.
I told them to leave well enough alone.
Some things you should never mess with in life.

Rainbows on Dusty Country Roads
By Don Iannone
When we were young
we walked ordinary country roads
in search of hopes and dreams.
The road itself didn't matter, really.
Back then
the road didn't even need color,
for we were rainbows ourselves,
following something larger,
something more significant,
than the country roads we walked.

We tolerated the boney dust,
stirred by a lone 57 Ford pickup truck.
Even the hot noonday sun
beating down on our heads
didn't take our minds away
from the river of dreams
that swept us inside,
and away from the world,
where boys walked country roads,
leading nowhere,
and yet anywhere
their dreams could take them.

We would do it over again,
that is walk dusty country roads,
if we could be young again,
and if we could be desparately possessed
by dreams that stirred our souls,
and made us feel alive.
After all
what else is there?

Hyacinth Growing by the Old Gray Fence
By Don Iannone
Why ever do the hyacinth
grow next to the dying gray fence
on the east end of the farm?
Nobody ever goes back there.
Who's going to ever see them?
Beauty like that shouldn't be wasted
where there is no eye to see.
They're stubborn--
downright hard-headed,
hiding there next to the old fence.
I came back a couple weeks later,
and they were gone.
Just like the beautiful sunset from last night.
Just like my grandmother
who lived on the farm
when the fence was brand new.
Why ever do those hyacinth
grow next to the dying gray fence
on the east end of the farm?