Lake Erie from Cleveland
By Don Iannone

Proud, but smaller than her four siblings,
Erie wraps herself,
like a rough hewn blue-gray shawl
around Cleveland's burly brown and green shoulders.
She hugs the city in places,
giving needed comfort and reassurance.
Then, like any beautiful woman,
she steps back and flirts at a distance--
even sometimes defying our advances.
Her shallow waters seethe at times,
standing tall and swaying back and forth
like a quiver of king cobras.
Her current four thousand year old incarnation
remains hard to fathom, let alone
her Pre-Pleistocene Ice Age roots,
stretching back over two million years.
With age comes grace, and surely
this fair lady commands our respect
for her deep flowing wisdom and beauty.
All this said,
why is such scarce notice given by us
to this watery Cinderella to our north?

A Visit to Stan Hywet
By Don Iannone













Stan Hywet is the precisely built 65-room home,
where the tire baron Seiberling family lived in Akron
for more than 40 years, starting in 1912.
At the time, it was a country home,
four miles from the center city.
Now, it stands tall in a stately,
but wearing neighborhood on Akron's northside.
By design, Stan Hywet was a Tudor Revival creation,
and as architectural buffs know,
this is a carry back to 16th Century Elizabethan times.
Franklin A. Seiberling, founder of Goodyear Tire and Rubber in 1898,
and his wife Gertrude, had the house built with the fineries sufficient
to attract the likes of U.S. presidents and other celebrities
to dine and spend the night in the mansion.
Last Friday night we toured Stan Hywet
to soak in its lavish Christmas decorations,
and experience whatever mystery may await us.
We weren't disappointed on any level.
The Seiberlings were gone, but their spirits lingered,
peeking occasionally at us from the end of darkened hallways;
those the tour intentionally ignored.
Officially, Franklin and Gertrude's remains rest
in Glendale Cemetery in Akron,
but anyone setting foot in Stan Hywet knows...
that a part of both can still be felt
within the mansion's mighty walls.
While opulent in many eyes,
the spirit of Stan Hywet feels rich
in other more meaningful ways.
Stan Hywet challenges you
to find yourself in an earlier time--
one where empires were built
from mighty ideas that changed the world.
You can't help but want to build something in life
after experiencing Stan Hywet.

Dreary Saturday Morning in Late October
By Don Iannone

The times may be a changin'
as poet-musician Bob Dylan says,
but tonight the time is really changing,
as we turn the clocks back an hour
and go off daylight savings time.
The time may change tonight,
but it's the weather
I wish would really change.
It's a dreary Saturday morning.
The kind of morning causing you
to keep your bathrobe on longer,
and maybe even go for a third cup of coffee.
It's the kind of morning,
that even at nine o'clock,
you need the lights on
to read the newspaper.
It's the the kind of morning
that makes you appreciate sunny days,
especially here in Cleveland,
which will always be outmatched for sunshine
with the likes of Tucson or Tampa,
or even mile-high Denver.
I'm really not complaining.
Days are days, and life is life.
Just some poetical commentary
for folks to read and laugh at.

A Simple Plate Hanging on the Kitchen Wall
By Don Iannone
Click here to see Grandma's Plate

There is a plain-looking green and white plate
hanging on our kitchen wall,
that commemorates the 108th anniversary
of the West Wheeling Methodist Church,
where Mom and her family received the Holy Spirit,
when Mom was a young girl.
For some reason, someone decided
to have the plates made up in 1953,
remembering the church's 108th birthday.
Makes me wonder why the honoring process did not occur
on the 100th birthday of the church.
Why celebrate its 108th birthday?
Math was never a priority in most Appalachian hollers.
That could explain it.
Maybe the church's longstanding preacher decided to retire in 1953,
making it an occasion to remember the church.
Most likely, folks' attention was focused on just one thing in 1945,
when the church had its centennial: the end of World War II.
I suspect that had something to do with it.
In any case, I am delighted to have the plate.
It's the only material reminder I have of Grandma Secrist,
and for that I am forever grateful.
Grandma was a wonderful loving lady,
who always wore a hair net, and
who always fed stray dogs and cats roaming the holler.
She also grew the world's biggest petunias,
that spilled over the green flower boxes
on the front and side porches of her 4-room house,
where nine kids, including my Mom, grew up.
Like the old West Wheeling Church,
not a one of the children is still standing, even Mom,
who went home 20 years ago.
The West Wheeling Methodist Church
was a country church in every sense of the word.
The kind of a church with its windows wide open
in the spring and summer to cool off the congregation
from all that hot hell, fire and brimstone preaching.
Also it was the kind of church that had communion at Easter,
and quaint and colorful Christmas pageants
that all the kids played a role in.
It was also the kind of church that hosted too many funerals
because too many men died young in coalmine accidents,
and too many funerals for stillborn babies
because healthcare wasn't what it is today.
Mom and Dad were married in the church in 1947.
I wasn't there...obviously.
Nor can I even remember having been in the church,
but most likely I was, since Mom was the church-going type.
I'm glad the old plate spoke to me this morning
as I made my way to the coffee pot.

When a Factory's Life Ends
By Don Iannone

The foul gray smoke that once belched
from the tall brick stacks
was a bittersweet sign of life--
that the old factory was still working.
The smoke has now ended,
along with the noisy metal-banging,
that for so many years kept men busy from sun up till sun down.
The iron gates are chained shut,
and never again will greet the dark faces of the hardened men
with stale breath from strong black coffee and cigarettes.
It's too easy to blame too many strikes
for the factory's foreboding silence,
but hungry workers elsewhere,
willing to work for much less,
and customers needing less metal,
are just as much the reason
why the dark faces have grown much darker.
The mill is history--
a cold, lifeless archeological ruin,
and so are the paychecks that paid the bills
and gave some small consolation to the two thousand men,
who laughed at each other's lame jokes,
and dreamed of days when they wouldn't have to work so hard.
Now that day has come,
and the dreams and jokes have ended.

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.

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.

Rainy Night in Kokomo
By Don Iannone

From my stale-smelling hotel room window,
I watch the warm August rain pound Kokomo,
like a unbeaten prizefighter
pummeling the neighborhood sissy.
I hate the rain,
sometimes even more than raw oysters--
slippery disgusting bastards that they are.
Almost 9 PM and still light.
No moon or stars tonight.
Just heavy clouds pissing on K-Mart shoppers
madly dashing to their beater cars.
Have you ever really studied the carpet in a hotel room?
Not exactly the Marrakech Express.
All those grimy toe jams--
the sort you wiped on your younger sister
and made her cry when you were kids.
This place is pretty clean,
compared to some places I've spent the night.
I remember discovering dust balls
the size of African Bush elephants
under my bed in a flea bag hotel in Erie
not too long ago.
There's no privacy in a place like this.
The poor SOB next door
should either lay off the bean dip
or save his cherry bombs for July 4th.
No need for a wake-up call in this joint.

A Return to Tucson
By Don Iannone

Tucson,
Late August,
Rain,
Blistering sun,
Hot,
More rain,
Scorching sun,
Even hotter.

So begins--
the long
and almost lost replay
of earlier wild poetic adventures,
Just the sort of thing
for a hopelessly romantic 50-something
still possessed by good times,
fun friends,
and rock and roll.

Where did it all go?
The years,
The dancing,
and carrying on till two,
Pulling all those all-nighters
to write papers
and cram for exams,
All those candles--
burning out of control,
Wild flames--
shooting in all directions,
Tethered to roller coasters,
everyday was an adventure.

Life-shaping memories--
seemingly lost,
but then...
rushing back,
like the Columbia River Gorge,
while just standing there
at the sage-scented,
date palm-lined entrance
of the U of A campus.

I saw myself then--
back in 1969,
and now--
yes especially now,
My smile hasn't changed.
Deep down,
the same spark burns--
well into the night,
illuminating the path
I must follow.

All gray hair aside,
it's all the same--
inside me,
nothing has changed--
inside me.
And guess what?
I'm glad.

All's Not Well in the City
By Don Iannone

Abandoned hopes grow
like incurable cancers
in brownfields in the city.
Lifeless forms walk
downtown's empty streets
in search of make-believe shadows.
The clock on the square
is not only broken
but lost in time.
Factories once filled
with buzzing machines and workers
are graveyards where dog-sized rats
feed on rusted metal and scum.
Early every morning
even before you wash your face
the local newspaper pours raw acid
into the eyes of suffering citizens
who flip hamburgers for a living
and who worry late into the night
about how to live in a dying city.
Service is a thing of the past
in the remaining stores where you shop.
Nobody even cares enough to hope in a town
where good sports teams are moored to self-defeat
even before the season begins.
Political elections are nothing more
than depraved freak shows
featuring vampires and demons
sucking the last drops of life out of the city.
Everyone denies
in their own way
that we have a real problem.
It's a black spot on the city's soul
that is growing larger everyday
and only a massive exorcism can remove it.
So don't bother acting surprised
that nobody wants to live here.
That is just your way
of denying we have a real problem.

Rainy Monday in Cleveland
By Don Iannone

Heavy gray Cleveland skies
cry rain and gloom
on all those trapped
in this nidus of shyness and angst
hovering south of the lake
we abused for years
with our lives of waste
mired in sewage, soot, and shame.
Hearts full, and
searching for hope
upon this droopy rainy Monday
ruining a perfect May opportunity
for sunshine and virgin greenness.
Blame it on your god
however you imagine your luminosity
or slip away to that special place
where you buried some sunshine
to get you through rainy Mondays.

Memories of Puerto Penasco
By Don Iannone

Flashback.
1970.
Puerto Penasco, Mexico.
Early summer morning.
A soft orange sun
climbs slowly
a morphing blue sky.
The gentle lulling breeze sucks me
into the warm salty water.
All that separates seeps away
like the sand between my toes,
leaving me naked
of all pretense.
There is no resistance left
in any part of me
or anything else.
Floating
on a cloud,
the water carries me far away
to a place needing no name.
There I rest
at the break of dawn,
overflowing with life.

Back to Martins Ferry
By Don Iannone
with Dan Shimp

It's good to remember
who we are.
It's good to return
as best we can
to places in time
that are now
but mere memories.
It's good to walk
the streets we walked
when much younger.
It's good to talk
with friends we played
when much younger.
It's good to return
to the place you came
with a friend
you never really left behind.