Pondering Poetry
By Don Iannone

Poetry is
one of those things
I like to do
and do often.

Poetry is
one of those things
seizing my imagination
and never letting go
until it has had its say.

Poetry is
something that starts
deep inside you
and doesn't stop starting
until it has run its course.

Poetry is
one of those things
helping you find your way
when you're lost
and therefore
poetry is a big part of my life.

Poetry is
something that people tried
to live without
at points in history
only to discover
that poetry is who they were.

Poetry is a blessing and a curse
and those possessed by it
have no choice but
to let it write itself
through them.

Finally
poetry is not
the exclusive domain of poets
with special gifts.
Poetry is for anyone
who breathes air.

Poems and Dreams: Close to the Other Side
By Don Iannone

Poems about dreams
are excruciatingly hard to express,
and probably just as hard to understand,
even once written on the page.
Dreams about poems are no easier,
when on occasion you have one, and
they are far less expressible, as they
venture into a creative realm beyond--
where the poetry-creating mind usually goes, and
beyond where the poetic hand can write
with any measure of sensibility.
Having said all this, I believe
poetry and dreams come roughly
from the same place inside--
a place very close to the mystery
as we can visit, and return safely,
without falling through to the other side--
a place we write poems about
and have late night dreams about, but
a place we are reluctant to go, until
it is absolutely our time to go there.

My Poems are My Friends
By Don Iannone

My poems are my friends.
They tell me things I need to hear, and
to which I am prone not to listen.
They give words to feelings inside, that
otherwise I may not know I have.
They steady me during times of turmoil,
and times when I'm too lost
to find my way.
They remind me of parts of myself
that I've forgotten
and not spoken to in a long, long time.
They help me feel something
for others' pain and suffering,
which too often gets buried deep
beneath my own.
They encourage me to see the world differently--
in ways I'd ordinarily not choose to see it.
They give advice, understanding,
compassion, and wisdom to others--
to many I've never met, or will ever know.
My poems are my friends, and
for their honesty, candor, humor and love,
I honor them with my deepest poetic thanks.

Poetic Steps Toward a Bleacher Seat in Heaven
By Don Iannone

Perhaps the best thing I do in life
is birth a single poem every day.
It seems the greatest defense
against life's bitter illusions,
trounching last drops of honesty
inhabiting my ageless soul.
Perhaps the only thing qualifying me
for even a remote bleacher seat in Heaven
is the early morning verse tumbling
from my heart into my fingers, and finally
onto the blank page before my eyes.
Poetry in and of itself can't save us, but
can you imagine life without poetry?

Finding Poetry on a Bitter Cold February Day
By Don Iannone

Bitter cold February wind
bites hard at my near numb cheeks
with its tiny razor-sharp teeth,
as I crunch down the driveway
to dig loose the now meaningless morning paper
from the crusty deep-drifted snow.
Fluffed up morning doves huddle
and peck slow motion
for half-buried seed under the icicled feeder.
Angry winds gather and howl
through the skeleton-like tree limbs.
Lonely songs they sing
about broken unfulfilled dreams
from somewhere long ago.
At twenty below, even the piercing bright sun
fails to permeate the artic air
that hovers thick like death.
For an instant, my mind warms
at the fleeting thought of spring
and fresh-born wildflowers.
But that too is snatched away
by the stinging wind,
that pours bitterness
on misplaced stillborn tears.
Trudging back to the house,
I resolve to build an even larger fire,
and sit in quiet reflection,
until a poem comes to me.
I feel one beginning to thaw.

The Poet's Pain
By Don Iannone

I wonder seriously
if I'd have my poetry
if I didn't have my pain.
You may smile smugly, thinking perhaps
you know my pain.
Rest assured, you don't, and
frankly, there's no need for you
to know my pain.
After all, it's mine, and
you have your own pain--
giving rise to your poetry, maddening dreams,
insufferable prognostications, fits of sexual hallucination,
or even drunken spells leaving you numb.
Yes, poets suffer...
not first with their poetry, but with life.
And those reading poetry suffer too...
not with the poetry they read, but also with life.
I think of Oscar Wilde, who once said:
We are all in the gutter,
but some of us are looking at the stars.
Wilde's point isn't that misery loves company, rather
some of us are more able to use our misery
to see life awhole, including its pain.
For some of us, poetry is our weapon of choice
in seeing the reality of pain,
without the rose-colored glasses.

Poem-Prone
By Don Iannone

Sometimes it seems poems flow
like blood through you...
nourishing, revitalizing,
rejuvenating, and
animating your soul,
waiting to be called to its feet.
Sometimes you just can't miss with words...
hitting the bullseye from any angle
at any distance.
Relish your poem-prone moments,
because like sunshine in Cleveland,
they just won't last.

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.

Just a Poem In Between
By Don Iannone

What do you do
when someone or something
gets inside you--
you never knew you knew
and suddenly
they are a deep part of you?
What do you do
when something you've dreamed of
when you were asleep and awake
magically appears
from the other side of the mirror?
What do you do
when your fading reality
creates choices you don't want to make,
setting you adrift in the tide
washing you hopelessly out to sea?
What do you do
when a kindred spirit overtakes you
like a serene tsunami
and you are left drowning
in your own feelings
you never knew you had?
What do you do
when something beneath
your conscious mind
spills you into another galaxy
you are speechless to describe?
You write a feeble poem
hoping it will save you from yourself
and from what you might do
if there wasn't at least a poem
between you and this new reality.

The Word Charmer
By Don Iannone

Cobra-like words
dancing on empty unlined pages,
Following their creator's hand
side to side and up and down,
Merging briefly with the hand
that feeds them,
Tempted at times to bite it,
then quickly dancing away,
At times, mouthing the words
with slippery pointed tongue
and thick red lips--so large
even the dictionary could hide behind them,
Releasing them finally like soft bubbles
drifting in thin air,
Charming hard women into ladies
and calloused men into well-mannered young boys,
Words snaking their way inside you,
making you squirm and shudder
as they fill your heart,
As they bring back the dead part of you,
buried long ago but never forgotten,
Beware the word charmer--
he becomes you and you become him.

Morning Word Rush
By Don Iannone

Spastic fingers clumsily type
euphorically exotic word rushes
onto an unlined virtual page
like an out-of-control waterfall
spewing liquid rainbows
on thick droopy half-opened eyelids
sagging from an opium overdose
of early morning REM sleep.

Suddenly a poem appeared.