Working Stiffs

By Don Iannone

I've grown somewhat jaded

about the ability of work

to bring true meaning to our lives.

Pragmatically, I understand

that most of us must work to survive--

that is we must do something

for money to support ourselves.

I'm not saying it isn't possible

to find personal meaning and purpose

in the work we do, but

I am saying that it is a struggle--

a fight much harder to fight for many.

Growing up in eastern Ohio in the 1950s,

men literally killed themselves working.

The area's unsafe factories and coal mines

maimed and killed many workers,

denying many children their fathers early on.

Today fewer men and women die on the job,

but many more succomb to stress-related illnesses,

which in many cases cause their death.

Looking inside many workplaces,

I see an equally important issue:

the work people do is breaking their spirit

and robbing them of their happiness.

This too is a form of death.

So this poem is dedicated

to all the working stiffs out there--

those who are underpaid

and even those who are overpaid.

I salute you for your forbearance, and

for doing what you must to survive.

But my advice to you is this:

don't accept your current work reality

as your final work reality.

Work at your happiness, and

what brings meaning and purpose to your life.

In so doing, your spirit is rightfully served.

Recovering on a Snowy Saturday Morning
By Don Iannone

The fresh fallen snow brings welcomed silence
on a lingering gray Saturday morning.
It whispers and hushes,
as only a tender-loving mother can do.
It buries the agitation, frustration and stress
of a disastrous work week, turning
amusing dreams into horrifying nightmares.
The fresh fallen snow brings insulation
from the pain of self-doubt and self-flagellation--
both all to familiar ways we abuse
the beautiful spirits given us by God.
Once again, there is the reflection:
What really is the work we do?

Is Your Work Worth It?
By Don Iannone

Work is not all it is cracked up to be.
It's filled with great pain and suffering
that is killing off people's joy and sense of meaning,
and it is killing off people;
causing them to die of work-related stress and strain.
"For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world,
and lose his own soul?"
A Biblical thought worth embracing.
We've missed the mark...badly,
when it comes to the role of work in our lives.
If your heart is so heavy
that you can't rejoice at the sunrise,
and your mind is lethally poisoned
at the thought of the work you do,
then it is time...
Time to let go of your work,
and the pain you attach to it,
and the pain it attachs to you.
Your work will not get you into heaven,
whatever you think heaven might be.
Don't allow yourself to be used by others,
in the name of work, job or career.
Don't enslave yourself to your work desires.
There is no end to that treadmill,
and it leads no where.
Be careful what you say yes to today.
If your work doesn't please your spirit,
say no to it.
Look carefully at who is ultimately served
by whatever work you do.
Is it the stockholders of the company,
who care nothing about you,
except whether they make $100,000
for every dollar you earn?
Is it the ego-maniac shift supervisor,
who was abused as a child, and
believes he is entitled to strip you
of your dignity and sense of well-being?
Who is served by your work?
Maybe it's your own maniacal ego
that persists in clinging to its illusions
that your work is you.
Honor yourself today
by seeing your energy and attention
as supremely sacred.
Be cautious where and how
you invest that energy in your work.
Put an end to your own slavery.
Only you can set yourself free.

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.

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.

Getting What You Ask For
By Don Iannone

too much work
...running behind
......chasing the bus
.........dragging me--into the future
............kicking and screaming
...............trying to catch up
..................too many commitments
.....................dragging me down
........................too many roads
...........................how did this happen?
...............................look in the mirror.