Day After Thanksgiving
Friday, November 24, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Looking Back and Wishing
By Don Iannone
Not so long ago, I was a young boy,
and the world overflowed with magic
of the sort only a sorcerer can portend.
Days were near eternities
that filled me with mystery
from early sun up to late sundown.
I still have my moments
when the stars speak to me in whispers,
and when joyful animation fills my soul.
My childhood was far from perfect,
and I'm sure yours was much the same.
But I'd give myself over in a heartbeat,
if I could play baseball for hours again
without a care to pull me in.
By Don Iannone
Not so long ago, I was a young boy,
and the world overflowed with magic
of the sort only a sorcerer can portend.
Days were near eternities
that filled me with mystery
from early sun up to late sundown.
I still have my moments
when the stars speak to me in whispers,
and when joyful animation fills my soul.
My childhood was far from perfect,
and I'm sure yours was much the same.
But I'd give myself over in a heartbeat,
if I could play baseball for hours again
without a care to pull me in.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Hearin' the Train Comin' for Me
By Don Iannone
In the eery far off distance,
I hear the train whistle blowin'.
And by its sound,
I know it's comin' for me.
I didn't think it was my time,
but if not mine...whose time?
Nothin' more hauntin'
than a freight train's whistle...
blowin' all alone, late at night.
I just hope this one night...
the train don't stop in Wheelin'.
And I pray it ain't comin' for me.
My heart stopped and started
all throughout the long pitch black of the night.
As I sleep totally all alone,
the train keeps on comin'...
I just hope and pray
it don't stop for me tonight.
Note: This one comes from my childhood.
Superstitious folks believed if someone was
very sick and they were awakened by a train
whistle, it meant they were going to die.
By Don Iannone
In the eery far off distance,
I hear the train whistle blowin'.
And by its sound,
I know it's comin' for me.
I didn't think it was my time,
but if not mine...whose time?
Nothin' more hauntin'
than a freight train's whistle...
blowin' all alone, late at night.
I just hope this one night...
the train don't stop in Wheelin'.
And I pray it ain't comin' for me.
My heart stopped and started
all throughout the long pitch black of the night.
As I sleep totally all alone,
the train keeps on comin'...
I just hope and pray
it don't stop for me tonight.
Note: This one comes from my childhood.
Superstitious folks believed if someone was
very sick and they were awakened by a train
whistle, it meant they were going to die.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Illusory Adventures
By Don Iannone
Seeking won't save you,
nor will grasping what clutches at your heart.
Much as the sun, moon and stars
appear to hover out there somewhere,
so too is your experience of your true nature.
These things...all things...rest in you.
If you must waste your time searching,
mount an inward path from where all arises,
but don't be surprised, or disappointed,
if you find nothing.
There is nothing to find,
since all rests within you already.
Remind yourself that you are...
one and the same with whatever you seek.
Moreover, your true nature and my true nature
are no different; rather completely the same.
We are not cut from the same cloth,
we are the same cloth--
one whole piece, complete,
and yes surprisingly perfect.
By Don Iannone
Seeking won't save you,
nor will grasping what clutches at your heart.
Much as the sun, moon and stars
appear to hover out there somewhere,
so too is your experience of your true nature.
These things...all things...rest in you.
If you must waste your time searching,
mount an inward path from where all arises,
but don't be surprised, or disappointed,
if you find nothing.
There is nothing to find,
since all rests within you already.
Remind yourself that you are...
one and the same with whatever you seek.
Moreover, your true nature and my true nature
are no different; rather completely the same.
We are not cut from the same cloth,
we are the same cloth--
one whole piece, complete,
and yes surprisingly perfect.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Sifting Sand
By Don Iannone
Life sifts
...like sand
...through open outstretched fingers.
No hourglass to contain it.
No beach providing a gestalt.
We play with it
...like some game
...we can win.
Don't bother tying up loose ends...
all ends are loose.
Just let it flow through you
...and wash you up on shore.
Celebrate wherever you are...
you're dead if you don't.
It fills us...
only to empty us
...spilling us on the floor
...abandoning our hope
...leaving us bare
...rubbed raw
...and finally...
just leaving us.
By Don Iannone
Life sifts
...like sand
...through open outstretched fingers.
No hourglass to contain it.
No beach providing a gestalt.
We play with it
...like some game
...we can win.
Don't bother tying up loose ends...
all ends are loose.
Just let it flow through you
...and wash you up on shore.
Celebrate wherever you are...
you're dead if you don't.
It fills us...
only to empty us
...spilling us on the floor
...abandoning our hope
...leaving us bare
...rubbed raw
...and finally...
just leaving us.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Simplifying Mindfulness
By Don Iannone
Mindfulness begins
when we tune into our heart,
and its message
about who we are
and why we are here.
Mindfulness is simple,
once we remember
that we are already mindful,
and the world is already perfect.
Mindfulness is realizing
there is no separation of the mind and heart,
other than one we impose on ourselves.
Enjoy your mindfulness
because it is all we really have.
By Don Iannone
Mindfulness begins
when we tune into our heart,
and its message
about who we are
and why we are here.
Mindfulness is simple,
once we remember
that we are already mindful,
and the world is already perfect.
Mindfulness is realizing
there is no separation of the mind and heart,
other than one we impose on ourselves.
Enjoy your mindfulness
because it is all we really have.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Encounters with a Long Winter's Night
By Don Iannone
I can't help but dream
on this long winter's night
when the fire blazes bright
and time stands perfectly still.
I can't help but drift
like the fresh fallen snow
that blankets the earth
and hushs me fast to sleep.
Somehow the purity and depth
of this early December snowfall
reminds me how simple life can be
when we just allow it to happen.
On this early winter's eve
the silence plumbs the depths
and awakens me while I sleep
stranding me amidst a single moonbeam.
By Don Iannone
I can't help but dream
on this long winter's night
when the fire blazes bright
and time stands perfectly still.
I can't help but drift
like the fresh fallen snow
that blankets the earth
and hushs me fast to sleep.
Somehow the purity and depth
of this early December snowfall
reminds me how simple life can be
when we just allow it to happen.
On this early winter's eve
the silence plumbs the depths
and awakens me while I sleep
stranding me amidst a single moonbeam.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Today is a Snow Day...at least poetically!
Growing up in Eastern Ohio in the 1950s, it snowed in the winter, sometimes heavily. We had "snow days" when it snowed a great deal. School was cancelled because the buses couldn't pick up the rural kids.
Snow days were unexpected gifts. We went sledding, built snow forts, had snowball fights, and longed for a hot bowl of soup and a toasted cheese sandwich for lunch before returning to our winter wonderland playground.
It looked like this...
Growing up in Eastern Ohio in the 1950s, it snowed in the winter, sometimes heavily. We had "snow days" when it snowed a great deal. School was cancelled because the buses couldn't pick up the rural kids.
Snow days were unexpected gifts. We went sledding, built snow forts, had snowball fights, and longed for a hot bowl of soup and a toasted cheese sandwich for lunch before returning to our winter wonderland playground.
It looked like this...
Finding Hope
on a Cold January Morning
By Don Iannone
Fluttery flakes of mad whiteness
tumble like flocks of butterflies,
without cause, or tribulation.
The morning air, stingingly cold,
drapes over me, like death,
on this razor-sharp January morning.
The fire toys with me, sputtering,
almost dying,
and finally resuscitating itself.
There is sun, bright white as the snow,
painfully harsh,
piercing the frozen windowpane.
Half buried, like some macabre effigy,
the morning paper taunts me
from a snowdrift at the end of the drive.
Then, without warning, my spirits revive
as the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee
fills my gasping nostrils.
The paper no longer seems so far away,
the snow not so deep,
and the day no longer frozen beyond hope.
on a Cold January Morning
By Don Iannone
Fluttery flakes of mad whiteness
tumble like flocks of butterflies,
without cause, or tribulation.
The morning air, stingingly cold,
drapes over me, like death,
on this razor-sharp January morning.
The fire toys with me, sputtering,
almost dying,
and finally resuscitating itself.
There is sun, bright white as the snow,
painfully harsh,
piercing the frozen windowpane.
Half buried, like some macabre effigy,
the morning paper taunts me
from a snowdrift at the end of the drive.
Then, without warning, my spirits revive
as the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee
fills my gasping nostrils.
The paper no longer seems so far away,
the snow not so deep,
and the day no longer frozen beyond hope.
Storm
By Robert Pack
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
By Robert Pack
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
The Cracked Bell
By Charles Baudelaire
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Translated by Norman R. Shapiro
from Selected Poems from Les Fleurs du mal: A Bilingual Edition
Copyright 1998 and 1999 by The University of Chicago
By Charles Baudelaire
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Translated by Norman R. Shapiro
from Selected Poems from Les Fleurs du mal: A Bilingual Edition
Copyright 1998 and 1999 by The University of Chicago
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Free Will or Determinism
Read by Don Iannone (Click the link above)
So, what is your thought about free will and determinism?
Read by Don Iannone (Click the link above)
So, what is your thought about free will and determinism?
Free Will or Determinism
By Don Iannone
Free will or determinism...
that age-old debate
carrying most of us
to a conceptual fork in a conceptual road.
To the left, we conceive of free will,
or the thought we possess unbounded creativity.
To the right, we conceive of determinism,
or the thought that our creativity is bound.
To conceive, in any case, is a creative act;
that is to give birth to a concept pointing to reality.
This implies, of course, there is a difference
between reality and our ideas about it.
Are we ever completely free,
in the sense our choices are infinite?
Are we ever completely determined,
in the sense we have no choice?
Is it possible that we are free within limits,
and those limits are as much self-imposed,
as they are divinely-imposed?
Here again, our ideas imply
that the divine is separate from us.
Perhaps this separation is only an idea,
and nothing more.
Perhaps our self-imposed limits stem
from our ability to conceive
of only a limited number of choices.
Perhaps our divinely-imposed limits stem
from the Creator's wish to reserve
certain possibilities for itself.
This presumes, of course,
there is a divine "it,"
that exists separate from us.
And by the way, who are we?
Perhaps, the concept of "we" is nothing more
than our conceived need to believe
that something larger than us exists,
because we fail to realize
the full extent of our own power.
Or maybe, we are indeed powerless
without the idea there is a God,
or some divine being.
Is it possible that we co-create
our lives and the universe with the Creator,
and that each of us is a spark in the Creator's flame?
I must admit I'm not convinced
there is any separation between us and God,
or for that matter,
any separation in anything
conceived of as parts of the universe.
Perhaps there are no parts,
and perhaps we as parts don't even exist.
In which case, free will and determinism
is nothing more than a feeble attempt
to exist as separate, freestanding, beings.
Perhaps we are free to determine
only in any given moment,
and that freedom is only momentary, and
ceases to exist when that moment has passed.
Then again, are the moments we experience
separated in any way,
or is it just always now,
and time is a fiction created by our minds
allowing us to separate our thoughts?
Or perhaps we are determined to be free,
but that determination rests wholly in any moment.
Yet, for a determination to be wholly
implies it exists to a complete degree.
But if we must be determined to be free,
are we really free?
More importantly, free to be what,
and free of what?
Free to be what we think we are?
Free to be more than we think we are?
And free of what...
our illusions about being free or determined?
This poem was sparked by recent posts about free will
by Rob Quick and Trinitystar.
By Don Iannone
Free will or determinism...
that age-old debate
carrying most of us
to a conceptual fork in a conceptual road.
To the left, we conceive of free will,
or the thought we possess unbounded creativity.
To the right, we conceive of determinism,
or the thought that our creativity is bound.
To conceive, in any case, is a creative act;
that is to give birth to a concept pointing to reality.
This implies, of course, there is a difference
between reality and our ideas about it.
Are we ever completely free,
in the sense our choices are infinite?
Are we ever completely determined,
in the sense we have no choice?
Is it possible that we are free within limits,
and those limits are as much self-imposed,
as they are divinely-imposed?
Here again, our ideas imply
that the divine is separate from us.
Perhaps this separation is only an idea,
and nothing more.
Perhaps our self-imposed limits stem
from our ability to conceive
of only a limited number of choices.
Perhaps our divinely-imposed limits stem
from the Creator's wish to reserve
certain possibilities for itself.
This presumes, of course,
there is a divine "it,"
that exists separate from us.
And by the way, who are we?
Perhaps, the concept of "we" is nothing more
than our conceived need to believe
that something larger than us exists,
because we fail to realize
the full extent of our own power.
Or maybe, we are indeed powerless
without the idea there is a God,
or some divine being.
Is it possible that we co-create
our lives and the universe with the Creator,
and that each of us is a spark in the Creator's flame?
I must admit I'm not convinced
there is any separation between us and God,
or for that matter,
any separation in anything
conceived of as parts of the universe.
Perhaps there are no parts,
and perhaps we as parts don't even exist.
In which case, free will and determinism
is nothing more than a feeble attempt
to exist as separate, freestanding, beings.
Perhaps we are free to determine
only in any given moment,
and that freedom is only momentary, and
ceases to exist when that moment has passed.
Then again, are the moments we experience
separated in any way,
or is it just always now,
and time is a fiction created by our minds
allowing us to separate our thoughts?
Or perhaps we are determined to be free,
but that determination rests wholly in any moment.
Yet, for a determination to be wholly
implies it exists to a complete degree.
But if we must be determined to be free,
are we really free?
More importantly, free to be what,
and free of what?
Free to be what we think we are?
Free to be more than we think we are?
And free of what...
our illusions about being free or determined?
This poem was sparked by recent posts about free will
by Rob Quick and Trinitystar.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Darkness into Light
By Don Iannone
The night brews long,
The sun must wait,
Sing your song,
'cause it's your fate.
Listen for the three AM train,
And when it comes celebrate,
We all at times feel quite insane,
In places deep, love can't penetrate.
Lying there in the dark,
Wrapped in loneliness and despair,
Tonight you seem an easy mark,
For now, life seems so very unfair.
Questions hover like thick clouds,
Darker than the darkest night,
Rise above the somber crowds,
Don't give up without a fight.
Finally, when morning comes,
And the dark night has passed,
Your pain grows light and succumbs,
There your heart stands steadfast.
Greet the sun with a smile,
Let it fill you with soothing light,
Rest there in peace for awhile,
May your day be ever bright.
By Don Iannone
The night brews long,
The sun must wait,
Sing your song,
'cause it's your fate.
Listen for the three AM train,
And when it comes celebrate,
We all at times feel quite insane,
In places deep, love can't penetrate.
Lying there in the dark,
Wrapped in loneliness and despair,
Tonight you seem an easy mark,
For now, life seems so very unfair.
Questions hover like thick clouds,
Darker than the darkest night,
Rise above the somber crowds,
Don't give up without a fight.
Finally, when morning comes,
And the dark night has passed,
Your pain grows light and succumbs,
There your heart stands steadfast.
Greet the sun with a smile,
Let it fill you with soothing light,
Rest there in peace for awhile,
May your day be ever bright.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
On Awakening
By Don Iannone
For each of us,
life is a a process of awakening.
This process is far from linear in nature;
contrary to what our line-hungry minds tell us,
as they attempt to create boundaries where there are none.
We live each day in both dream and awakedness.
Some days we are more awake than others.
Some days the clouds we stand on are real,
and some days they are mere childhood fairy tales.
Our dreams consume us at times, and
they eat alive those we touch
in the twilight of our awakening.
The more we seek awakening,
the more it eludes us like chasing smoke.
Even when we distinguish dreams from reality,
we push awakened reality away.
And so, what is the answer?
Rest in knowing that you are already
the awakened being you seek to become.
Be that!
By Don Iannone
For each of us,
life is a a process of awakening.
This process is far from linear in nature;
contrary to what our line-hungry minds tell us,
as they attempt to create boundaries where there are none.
We live each day in both dream and awakedness.
Some days we are more awake than others.
Some days the clouds we stand on are real,
and some days they are mere childhood fairy tales.
Our dreams consume us at times, and
they eat alive those we touch
in the twilight of our awakening.
The more we seek awakening,
the more it eludes us like chasing smoke.
Even when we distinguish dreams from reality,
we push awakened reality away.
And so, what is the answer?
Rest in knowing that you are already
the awakened being you seek to become.
Be that!
Friday, November 10, 2006
Dream Leftovers on a Friday Morning
By Don Iannone
Scads of uncouth dreams last night,
that lurked, sputtered, darted, and danced
like ghosts, one-engined airplanes, gazelles, and sugar plums
through my tired old sleeping head.
Coffee cup in hand this morning, I sit like the Pink Panther,
searching for clues in fog-heaven.
Time, the joyless and stealthful vulture it is,
steals away the big pieces, leaving only fragments
of what the giant dream machine produced,
while resting on my fluffy white pillow.
As the tug of daylight yanks me into consciousness,
all the freak shows I watched while sleeping
are lost forever in the daydreams bubbling up inside me.
My day mind wants to yield to its ususual yearning for truth,
like a thirsty dog's insatiable longing for a drop of water,
but somehow dream bits,
like shrapnel from the battlefield,
embed themselves, and I can't forget them.
As I gulp down the last of my coffee, I smile
and decide today can only be a continuation of my dreams.
What else could be possible on a Friday?
By Don Iannone
Scads of uncouth dreams last night,
that lurked, sputtered, darted, and danced
like ghosts, one-engined airplanes, gazelles, and sugar plums
through my tired old sleeping head.
Coffee cup in hand this morning, I sit like the Pink Panther,
searching for clues in fog-heaven.
Time, the joyless and stealthful vulture it is,
steals away the big pieces, leaving only fragments
of what the giant dream machine produced,
while resting on my fluffy white pillow.
As the tug of daylight yanks me into consciousness,
all the freak shows I watched while sleeping
are lost forever in the daydreams bubbling up inside me.
My day mind wants to yield to its ususual yearning for truth,
like a thirsty dog's insatiable longing for a drop of water,
but somehow dream bits,
like shrapnel from the battlefield,
embed themselves, and I can't forget them.
As I gulp down the last of my coffee, I smile
and decide today can only be a continuation of my dreams.
What else could be possible on a Friday?
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Don't Fear Your Mystery
Don Iannone
As we walk our paths in life,
the unexpected greets us around every corner.
Why are we so compelled
to treat this mystery we meet
as a completely unwelcome stranger?
What makes us fail our sense of newness,
when we encounter the unknown within us?
Why do we go out of our way
to avoid our deepest dreams,
that seep deeper into the ground of our being?
Are we not better off mystified,
by our own mystification,
than be seduced by the broken-hearted lies
we tell the stranger within us?
Don Iannone
As we walk our paths in life,
the unexpected greets us around every corner.
Why are we so compelled
to treat this mystery we meet
as a completely unwelcome stranger?
What makes us fail our sense of newness,
when we encounter the unknown within us?
Why do we go out of our way
to avoid our deepest dreams,
that seep deeper into the ground of our being?
Are we not better off mystified,
by our own mystification,
than be seduced by the broken-hearted lies
we tell the stranger within us?
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Kicked Their Butts
By Don Iannone
If you smoke in Ohio,
you will now have to puff away
in the privacy of your own home.
That's what voters decided on November 7th.
People are tired enough of having Right Wing politicians
blow smoke up their asses,
let alone having to inhale the foul smoke
excreted from the mouths of cigarette smokers
in their favorite restaurants and bars.
At one time, a status symbol to smoke,
but today, nothing more than a pathetic addiction
polluting our lungs and the rest of the world.
Ohio's resounding defeat of smoking in public
will make a stink with smokers, but
the rest of us will have sweeter smelling air,
unless of course, smokers take up farting in public.
By Don Iannone
If you smoke in Ohio,
you will now have to puff away
in the privacy of your own home.
That's what voters decided on November 7th.
People are tired enough of having Right Wing politicians
blow smoke up their asses,
let alone having to inhale the foul smoke
excreted from the mouths of cigarette smokers
in their favorite restaurants and bars.
At one time, a status symbol to smoke,
but today, nothing more than a pathetic addiction
polluting our lungs and the rest of the world.
Ohio's resounding defeat of smoking in public
will make a stink with smokers, but
the rest of us will have sweeter smelling air,
unless of course, smokers take up farting in public.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Living Moment by Moment
By Don Iannone
November Tucson Sunrise
Your life is your life, but
it's also a piece of something much larger.
Your life is a gift, and
a priceless one at that, which
must be lived fully.
Your life is your creation, and
it's a direct outcome of all you think and do.
Your life is a mystery, even with
all the answers you think you have.
Your life is not a continuous,
cast-in-stone process, rather
it exists moment by moment.
Your life is not something separate
from who you are; instead
it is how your life looks
when you stare into the looking glass.
Your life neither stands before you, nor behind you;
those are illusions, causing you to forget
that your life is your life moment by moment.
By Don Iannone
November Tucson Sunrise
Your life is your life, but
it's also a piece of something much larger.
Your life is a gift, and
a priceless one at that, which
must be lived fully.
Your life is your creation, and
it's a direct outcome of all you think and do.
Your life is a mystery, even with
all the answers you think you have.
Your life is not a continuous,
cast-in-stone process, rather
it exists moment by moment.
Your life is not something separate
from who you are; instead
it is how your life looks
when you stare into the looking glass.
Your life neither stands before you, nor behind you;
those are illusions, causing you to forget
that your life is your life moment by moment.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Re-Embracing Tucson
By Don Iannone
To see yet again the olive-brown Catalina Mountains
sweetly embrace the powder blue sky
and maze-colored Sonoran desert.
To behold a fire red sunset at Gates Pass,
making my heart soar as the sun sinks,
and spreading magical stardust on the Old Pueblo.
To smell the sweet pungent sage and palo verdes
after a short afternoon rainshower.
To feel the sacred earth under my feet;
walked so long ago by the ancient ones,
and even now feel their mystical energy.
To return to Tucson one more time and re-embrace
what has long been a part of my soul.
By Don Iannone
To see yet again the olive-brown Catalina Mountains
sweetly embrace the powder blue sky
and maze-colored Sonoran desert.
To behold a fire red sunset at Gates Pass,
making my heart soar as the sun sinks,
and spreading magical stardust on the Old Pueblo.
To smell the sweet pungent sage and palo verdes
after a short afternoon rainshower.
To feel the sacred earth under my feet;
walked so long ago by the ancient ones,
and even now feel their mystical energy.
To return to Tucson one more time and re-embrace
what has long been a part of my soul.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Snowy Cabin
By Don Iannone
Something inside me longs to find warmth
in the midst of the deepest cold,
like that found in a cozy log cabin
nestled in the deep snowy woods,
where I can sit in the still darkness,
and nestle up to the blazing fire in the fireplace.
Something inside me cries out to be heard,
like the unrelenting howling wind,
that swirls and sweeps virgin snow against the windows,
and echoes in the very seat of my soul.
Something inside me seeks the infinite comfort of knowing
that I am completely snowbound,
and have no choice but to accept
whatever the snow, the night's darkness,
the howling wind, and the blazing fire can offer me.
Something inside me wants to surrender all that I hold onto,
for just one night,
in this still cabin buried in the snowy woods.
By Don Iannone
Something inside me longs to find warmth
in the midst of the deepest cold,
like that found in a cozy log cabin
nestled in the deep snowy woods,
where I can sit in the still darkness,
and nestle up to the blazing fire in the fireplace.
Something inside me cries out to be heard,
like the unrelenting howling wind,
that swirls and sweeps virgin snow against the windows,
and echoes in the very seat of my soul.
Something inside me seeks the infinite comfort of knowing
that I am completely snowbound,
and have no choice but to accept
whatever the snow, the night's darkness,
the howling wind, and the blazing fire can offer me.
Something inside me wants to surrender all that I hold onto,
for just one night,
in this still cabin buried in the snowy woods.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Adagio for a Journey to the Soul
By Don Iannone
Stirrings at the seat of my soul
draw me into the deeper waters,
To places beyond the light,
and beyond all time,
For in such places,
neither can be your guide,
I must walk,
as though death calls,
knowing there is still life,
I must follow--
what seems an unknown voice,
No words are spoken...only silence,
What good are words in this place,
that is beyond words?
What good am I,
to this place, or myself,
if I don't follow the call?
Poet's Note: This poem was composed while listening to a wonderfully deep and touching piece of music. The words flow directly from the music. Listen for yourself while you read this poem. As a suggestion, turn the volume down on your music player (MIDI file), start the music, listen for several seconds, and then read the poem aloud. Click here. (Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings)
By Don Iannone
Stirrings at the seat of my soul
draw me into the deeper waters,
To places beyond the light,
and beyond all time,
For in such places,
neither can be your guide,
I must walk,
as though death calls,
knowing there is still life,
I must follow--
what seems an unknown voice,
No words are spoken...only silence,
What good are words in this place,
that is beyond words?
What good am I,
to this place, or myself,
if I don't follow the call?
Poet's Note: This poem was composed while listening to a wonderfully deep and touching piece of music. The words flow directly from the music. Listen for yourself while you read this poem. As a suggestion, turn the volume down on your music player (MIDI file), start the music, listen for several seconds, and then read the poem aloud. Click here. (Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings)
Friday, November 03, 2006
Magic at the Water's Edge
By Don Iannone
It is the tide that gives birth to the grains of sand
...that become the beach
...that welcomes the tide's daily coming and going.
And all of this is moved by light
...with the sun by day and the moon by night.
And so is life
...as each moment is born
...as the timeless tide of love washes over it
...giving the light something to reflect upon.
And we find ourselves
...mere grains of sand on the beach of life
...created each moment by love.
By Don Iannone
It is the tide that gives birth to the grains of sand
...that become the beach
...that welcomes the tide's daily coming and going.
And all of this is moved by light
...with the sun by day and the moon by night.
And so is life
...as each moment is born
...as the timeless tide of love washes over it
...giving the light something to reflect upon.
And we find ourselves
...mere grains of sand on the beach of life
...created each moment by love.
Full Moon Buffalo Clouds
By Don Iannone
Odd buffalo-shaped clouds gallop
across the cold November sky.
I would have missed them completely
were it not for the perfect-circle full moon
glowing hauntingly bright at their backs.
Stripped of their leaves,
the naked skeleton-like trees reach into the sky,
as though searching for answers why
these near extinct clouds roam restlessly--
like my heart, which longs for peace
from its incessant wanderings.
Why does the light torment the darkness so,
and why does my heart suddenly long to be filled
by the moon and her secrets?
By Don Iannone
Odd buffalo-shaped clouds gallop
across the cold November sky.
I would have missed them completely
were it not for the perfect-circle full moon
glowing hauntingly bright at their backs.
Stripped of their leaves,
the naked skeleton-like trees reach into the sky,
as though searching for answers why
these near extinct clouds roam restlessly--
like my heart, which longs for peace
from its incessant wanderings.
Why does the light torment the darkness so,
and why does my heart suddenly long to be filled
by the moon and her secrets?
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Second Take on Streisand's The Way We Were
By Don Iannone
Untold memories
of the sort
making us remember
how we were.
Like a song
lingering in the heart
we remember
one last time
how we were.
So long
we longed
for just a taste
of the good times
and less those we opt forget.
Somewhere deep
there lies an answer--
the one we can't but hear
in our heart.
And always
there are the memories
of how we were.
By Don Iannone
Untold memories
of the sort
making us remember
how we were.
Like a song
lingering in the heart
we remember
one last time
how we were.
So long
we longed
for just a taste
of the good times
and less those we opt forget.
Somewhere deep
there lies an answer--
the one we can't but hear
in our heart.
And always
there are the memories
of how we were.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
November
By Don Iannone
November arrives,
as lustful as bare wind on slackened sails,
Determined and forceful,
as only Scorpio can be, and always
secretive and magical in her poison sting,
The circles she spins...not beginnings of anything,
and not usually the end of anything, but
a time to be thankful for everything,
Also a time to celebrate pilgrimages, and
adventures to other worlds, that lie beyond
usual boundaries, and beyond
those normal parts of ourselves, that we wear
like costume jewelry to the theatre,
Her passionate skies wide open, and yield,
as only a woman can do,
ensnaring all she receives,
Her hypnotic smile intoxicates, and befalls
the unsuspecting seeker of her dark secrets,
November is here...I hear her spinning near.
By Don Iannone
November arrives,
as lustful as bare wind on slackened sails,
Determined and forceful,
as only Scorpio can be, and always
secretive and magical in her poison sting,
The circles she spins...not beginnings of anything,
and not usually the end of anything, but
a time to be thankful for everything,
Also a time to celebrate pilgrimages, and
adventures to other worlds, that lie beyond
usual boundaries, and beyond
those normal parts of ourselves, that we wear
like costume jewelry to the theatre,
Her passionate skies wide open, and yield,
as only a woman can do,
ensnaring all she receives,
Her hypnotic smile intoxicates, and befalls
the unsuspecting seeker of her dark secrets,
November is here...I hear her spinning near.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Halloween
By Don Iannone
It's Halloween; that one day in the year
when it's ok to dress up as George Bush,
Hillary Clinton, Saddam Hussein,
or any other ghoul you'd like to be.
A Celtic holiday handed down to us,
over two thousand years ago, that
outlasted the many devilish efforts by the Vatican
to overthrow the spirited celebration.
Originally just seen as the boundary
between summer and harvest, and
the long brutally cold days of winter.
But also a magical time, when the boundary
between living and dead slipped away, creating
a fortuitous time for prophecy by the Druid priests,
looking for clues about what the future might hold.
Bonfires blazed, casting shadows all about,
creating the in-between world, that
the priests used as windows through time.
All danced in costumed mystery in that single eve,
when the light and darkness embraced in twilight shadows.
As we watch the last of the autumn leaves
free themselves from the trees, and
we awaken to the first dusting of snow,
we don masks, light candles, and
whirl in the streets as dervishes,
coaxing the unknown from lit jack-o'-lanterns
crying for release from the secrets they hold.
Happy Halloween!
By Don Iannone
It's Halloween; that one day in the year
when it's ok to dress up as George Bush,
Hillary Clinton, Saddam Hussein,
or any other ghoul you'd like to be.
A Celtic holiday handed down to us,
over two thousand years ago, that
outlasted the many devilish efforts by the Vatican
to overthrow the spirited celebration.
Originally just seen as the boundary
between summer and harvest, and
the long brutally cold days of winter.
But also a magical time, when the boundary
between living and dead slipped away, creating
a fortuitous time for prophecy by the Druid priests,
looking for clues about what the future might hold.
Bonfires blazed, casting shadows all about,
creating the in-between world, that
the priests used as windows through time.
All danced in costumed mystery in that single eve,
when the light and darkness embraced in twilight shadows.
As we watch the last of the autumn leaves
free themselves from the trees, and
we awaken to the first dusting of snow,
we don masks, light candles, and
whirl in the streets as dervishes,
coaxing the unknown from lit jack-o'-lanterns
crying for release from the secrets they hold.
Happy Halloween!
"Doing Well by Doing Good"
Excerpts from Speech by Dr. William R. Brody
(Read by Don Iannone. Click on the title to hear it.)
Excerpts from Speech by Dr. William R. Brody
(Read by Don Iannone. Click on the title to hear it.)
Monday, October 30, 2006
On Being
By Don Iannone
By chance you see that you're free
to be however you would like to be,
Would you be as you are,
or how you've been in life thus far?
Or would you be very differently?
Then, would you be more happily?
Not at all a simple play on words,
Nor an excuse to follow the herds,
Think about this deeply as you can,
Then craft for yourself a new life plan.
By Don Iannone
By chance you see that you're free
to be however you would like to be,
Would you be as you are,
or how you've been in life thus far?
Or would you be very differently?
Then, would you be more happily?
Not at all a simple play on words,
Nor an excuse to follow the herds,
Think about this deeply as you can,
Then craft for yourself a new life plan.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Living in the Moment
By Don Iannone
Never a day shall I weep,
Each precious moment I shall keep,
While weary I grow and so I sleep,
In my dreams life does seep.
I shall not tarry or fret too long,
For to the moment I do belong,
In so doing there is no wrong,
So there my life sings its song.
Our sight is bound to a glance,
If we're lucky there's a second chance,
To live it better and so enhance,
The life we live in joyful dance.
Look past yourself and you'll see,
What's good in life and also free,
If you're willing to just let it be,
Each moment goes on for eternity.
By Don Iannone
Never a day shall I weep,
Each precious moment I shall keep,
While weary I grow and so I sleep,
In my dreams life does seep.
I shall not tarry or fret too long,
For to the moment I do belong,
In so doing there is no wrong,
So there my life sings its song.
Our sight is bound to a glance,
If we're lucky there's a second chance,
To live it better and so enhance,
The life we live in joyful dance.
Look past yourself and you'll see,
What's good in life and also free,
If you're willing to just let it be,
Each moment goes on for eternity.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Winter Night
By Don Iannone
By the golden fireplace we sat, listening
to the deep silence fall,
like the heavy snow, blanketing
the unflinching forest, lit with sharp edges
by the light of the near full December moon.
Stray fluffy flakes momentarily come to rest,
and then melt on the steamy windowpane.
The fire's flames rise and fall in lunar harmony,
casting faint shadows about the room.
We marvel that each moment seems so different,
much like the magical snowflakes.
On this night, the things mattering before,
now seem far less important,
as the silence of the winter night fills us.
By Don Iannone
By the golden fireplace we sat, listening
to the deep silence fall,
like the heavy snow, blanketing
the unflinching forest, lit with sharp edges
by the light of the near full December moon.
Stray fluffy flakes momentarily come to rest,
and then melt on the steamy windowpane.
The fire's flames rise and fall in lunar harmony,
casting faint shadows about the room.
We marvel that each moment seems so different,
much like the magical snowflakes.
On this night, the things mattering before,
now seem far less important,
as the silence of the winter night fills us.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Subtle Revolutions
By Don Iannone
Subtle changes in all of us,
over time and outside of time.
Our minds force us to live in time,
but remember the heart's beat is always
just one step ahead of time.
Things we scarcely notice,
like the replacement of every cell in our bodies
every seven years.
Or things like the maturing of our heart beat,
once it knows love.
These are no small matters,
as you can plainly tell.
Revolutions happen daily,
both inside us and around us.
All this reminds us to pay closer attention
to how we are in any given moment.
By Don Iannone
Subtle changes in all of us,
over time and outside of time.
Our minds force us to live in time,
but remember the heart's beat is always
just one step ahead of time.
Things we scarcely notice,
like the replacement of every cell in our bodies
every seven years.
Or things like the maturing of our heart beat,
once it knows love.
These are no small matters,
as you can plainly tell.
Revolutions happen daily,
both inside us and around us.
All this reminds us to pay closer attention
to how we are in any given moment.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Click to hear Don read this poem.
A Walk on the Dark Side
I'm new at this recording thing.
Please tell me what you think.
Thanks.
A Walk on the Dark Side
I'm new at this recording thing.
Please tell me what you think.
Thanks.
A Walk on the Dark Side
By Don Iannone
Supposedly everyone has a dark side.
Anyway, that's what the experts say.
Not the sort of thing
people like to just come out and talk about,
but something we should be able to put our finger on,
so we know how it shapes who and how we are.
I kind of think of the dark side
as a place inside us
that the light just hasn't reached yet.
In that sense, it's like a distant planet or star
that takes a while for light to get to and from.
Another way to think about this side of us
is to see it as a place that truth hasn't visited quite yet.
Eventually truth makes its rounds
to all parts of us.
Rest assured that it will stop by your dark side.
Usually it's best to be proactive
about things like this in our lives.
Take the bull by the horns,
and waltz on over to your dark side.
Take a friend.
I'm told that truth is a good friend
to take along on such an adventure.
By Don Iannone
Supposedly everyone has a dark side.
Anyway, that's what the experts say.
Not the sort of thing
people like to just come out and talk about,
but something we should be able to put our finger on,
so we know how it shapes who and how we are.
I kind of think of the dark side
as a place inside us
that the light just hasn't reached yet.
In that sense, it's like a distant planet or star
that takes a while for light to get to and from.
Another way to think about this side of us
is to see it as a place that truth hasn't visited quite yet.
Eventually truth makes its rounds
to all parts of us.
Rest assured that it will stop by your dark side.
Usually it's best to be proactive
about things like this in our lives.
Take the bull by the horns,
and waltz on over to your dark side.
Take a friend.
I'm told that truth is a good friend
to take along on such an adventure.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
First Snowfall
By Don Iannone
Click to hear Don read this poem
First snow fell
upon yards and woods
late last night
while we were sleeping.
Heavy flakes,
six-sided drops of baker's dough,
plopped here and there,
without warning or plan.
Tree limbs gasped and groaned
as mounds of slush
exploited their good nature.
The blustery winds--
we should have known--
an omen of first snow's coming.
But somehow,
the October leaves deceived us into thinking
we had more time.
Suddenly,
a child-like urge to play hooky
seized our hearts,
and we decided then
to sit by the window
and sip second cups of coffee.
By Don Iannone
Click to hear Don read this poem
First snow fell
upon yards and woods
late last night
while we were sleeping.
Heavy flakes,
six-sided drops of baker's dough,
plopped here and there,
without warning or plan.
Tree limbs gasped and groaned
as mounds of slush
exploited their good nature.
The blustery winds--
we should have known--
an omen of first snow's coming.
But somehow,
the October leaves deceived us into thinking
we had more time.
Suddenly,
a child-like urge to play hooky
seized our hearts,
and we decided then
to sit by the window
and sip second cups of coffee.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
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.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Flirting with the Flame
By Don Iannone
Come gather round the blazing campfire.
Let her sensual dancing flames
arouse the sleeping naked you in you.
Let her tongue lap and lick your heart
into unforeseen submission,
and make you want her in ways
you can want no other.
Feel her heat,
growing and subsiding with the wind.
Smell her sweet burning scent
that erupts wild hallucinations inside you,
spilling mystery on the willing host
sitting motionless at her bare feet,
that cling to the cold earth
with roots deeper than your mind can ever go.
Welcome her carefully;
for too much will surely vaporize every last drop of you,
putting you out in the darkness,
where no impassioned spirit can live without her.
Seek her if you will,
and ever so gently touch her,
but hold back enough of yourself,
because once you give your all,
she is you and her fire consumes you,
and she disappears inside you,
and you become her darkness.
By Don Iannone
Come gather round the blazing campfire.Let her sensual dancing flames
arouse the sleeping naked you in you.
Let her tongue lap and lick your heart
into unforeseen submission,
and make you want her in ways
you can want no other.
Feel her heat,
growing and subsiding with the wind.
Smell her sweet burning scent
that erupts wild hallucinations inside you,
spilling mystery on the willing host
sitting motionless at her bare feet,
that cling to the cold earth
with roots deeper than your mind can ever go.
Welcome her carefully;
for too much will surely vaporize every last drop of you,
putting you out in the darkness,
where no impassioned spirit can live without her.
Seek her if you will,
and ever so gently touch her,
but hold back enough of yourself,
because once you give your all,
she is you and her fire consumes you,
and she disappears inside you,
and you become her darkness.
Fruit Flies, Updrafts, Tipped Scales and Self-Spun Realities
By Don Iannone
Sometimes the fruit flies get the best of you,
especially when you're not watching,
and when life seems to go astray,
like a loose kite getting caught up
in an unforeseen updraft,
forcing your feet off the ground,
and lifting your spirit far above the highest cloud.
All the while,
the clock inside you spins backwards,
tipping your scales,
making you crazy,
and causing you to lose hope
that anything in life--
least of all your appetite for adventure--
can save you from whatever haunted house
your mind spins when its lonely.
Welcome to the insanity of self-spun reality.
By Don Iannone
Sometimes the fruit flies get the best of you,
especially when you're not watching,
and when life seems to go astray,
like a loose kite getting caught up
in an unforeseen updraft,
forcing your feet off the ground,
and lifting your spirit far above the highest cloud.
All the while,
the clock inside you spins backwards,
tipping your scales,
making you crazy,
and causing you to lose hope
that anything in life--
least of all your appetite for adventure--
can save you from whatever haunted house
your mind spins when its lonely.
Welcome to the insanity of self-spun reality.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone
1
beauty
...awaits
......inside you
.........to be released
............just let go
2
each sunset
...a reminder
......that even beauty
.........must be let go
............just say goodbye
3
each sunrise
...an invitation
......hope can be awakened
.........within you
...........accept the invitation
By Don Iannone
1
beauty
...awaits
......inside you
.........to be released
............just let go
2
each sunset
...a reminder
......that even beauty
.........must be let go
............just say goodbye
3
each sunrise
...an invitation
......hope can be awakened
.........within you
...........accept the invitation
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Using Our Field of Awareness
When you meet with people,
at work or wherever it may be,
give them your fullest attention.
You are no longer there primarily as a person,
but as a field of awareness,
of alert Presence.
The original reason for interacting with the other person ~
buying or selling something,
requesting or giving information,
and so on ~~ now becomes secondary.
The field of awareness that arises between you
becomes the primary purpose for the interaction.
That space of awareness becomes more important
than what you may be talking about,
more important than physical or thought objects.
The human Being becomes more important than the things of this world.
The arising of that unifying field of awareness
between human beings
is the most essential factor
in relationships on the new earth.
~ Eckhart Tolle
Passed along to me by Dan Shimp.
When you meet with people,
at work or wherever it may be,
give them your fullest attention.
You are no longer there primarily as a person,
but as a field of awareness,
of alert Presence.
The original reason for interacting with the other person ~
buying or selling something,
requesting or giving information,
and so on ~~ now becomes secondary.
The field of awareness that arises between you
becomes the primary purpose for the interaction.
That space of awareness becomes more important
than what you may be talking about,
more important than physical or thought objects.
The human Being becomes more important than the things of this world.
The arising of that unifying field of awareness
between human beings
is the most essential factor
in relationships on the new earth.
~ Eckhart Tolle
Passed along to me by Dan Shimp.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Don is Interviewed by Oman Poet and Writer Nasra Al AdawiRecently I had the distinct honor of being interviewed by Nasra Al Adawi, a well-known poet, writer, and humanitarian advocate from Oman. I am deeply touched by this honor and privilege. With all my heart, I thank Nasra for taking an interest in me and my poetry.
You can read the interview here: Living in Poetry. In addition, please visit Nasra's wonderful poetry blog, A Window Within Myself. There you can read some of her beautiful poetry and learn more about her published collections of poetry.
Born in Zanzibar and brought up in the United Arab Emirates, Nasra (her pen name) began writing in her teens in Arabic and then slowly turned her attention to English poetry.
Nasra is a blessing to all of us. She is truly a shining star and loving heart. Read about Nasra here, her poetry, and her efforts on behalf of cancer survivors. You will never be the same once Nasra touches you.
My deepest thanks to you, Nasra.
Barbra Streisand in Our Nation’s CapitalBy Don Iannone
Her first time back in concert
after twenty-seven long years.
At first sight,
the crowd exploded in applause.
One of the longest standing ovations
we’ve seen for anyone—
much longer than for any President.
Barbra sang her heart out—
putting her all into each reminiscent song.
Songs from her early beginning on the Ed Sullivan Show
and throughout her songbird career.
Bringing back the memories of the way we were,
and reminding us how we are even today.
A few political observations shared,
but mostly just musical notes,
pouring through a still pure voice.
Occasionally pushing back
her shoulder length blonde hair,
mesmerizing awestruck fans,
who traveled from as far as Ireland,
and beyond—
just to see Barbra Streisand live
in concert in Washington, DC.
She brought laughter,
and she brought tears,
but most of all tremendous cheers.
A lifelong dream for my wife Mary—
to see Barbra perform live.
Finally her dream has come true.
Even a special experience for me—
until now only a lukewarm fan.
Somehow her voice seems to reach you—
deep inside where only the heart can go.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Reflections on Kabbalah
By Don Iannone
Have you ever been filled by words
that seem alive to you,
without anyone there to utter them,
or even anyone inside you to hear them?
Words put together in a way
that feel like a deep river,
flowing through you,
filling and emptying you simultaneously.
Words that seem to write themselves
in your many blank spaces,
that are filled with possibilities,
going far beyond the ridiculous words you use
to try to articulate what you feel.
Words that know you—
but not because they are your words,
but because they are you.
You struggle to find
where the words start and end,
but somehow you know—
they have no beginning or end.
When your struggles produce nothing,
you’re inclined to dismiss them,
but they won’t go away,
because they are you,
and that is inescapable.
Author's Note: The kabbalist path is the mystical path in Judaism. I learned some amazing things in my course on this topic this past quarter.
By Don Iannone
Have you ever been filled by words
that seem alive to you,
without anyone there to utter them,
or even anyone inside you to hear them?
Words put together in a way
that feel like a deep river,
flowing through you,
filling and emptying you simultaneously.
Words that seem to write themselves
in your many blank spaces,
that are filled with possibilities,
going far beyond the ridiculous words you use
to try to articulate what you feel.
Words that know you—
but not because they are your words,
but because they are you.
You struggle to find
where the words start and end,
but somehow you know—
they have no beginning or end.
When your struggles produce nothing,
you’re inclined to dismiss them,
but they won’t go away,
because they are you,
and that is inescapable.
Author's Note: The kabbalist path is the mystical path in Judaism. I learned some amazing things in my course on this topic this past quarter.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
How Things Are
By Don Iannone
Limits:
what we think, and
not always the way the world is.
Boundaries:
those we impose,
and those imposed by others.
Boxes:
those we live in,
and those others draw.
Time:
a self-initiated pendulum,
and a metronome of the self.
What's important:
what really is,
and not always what we think.
Life:
what's important,
and only ours to borrrow.
By Don Iannone
Limits:
what we think, and
not always the way the world is.
Boundaries:
those we impose,
and those imposed by others.
Boxes:
those we live in,
and those others draw.
Time:
a self-initiated pendulum,
and a metronome of the self.
What's important:
what really is,
and not always what we think.
Life:
what's important,
and only ours to borrrow.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Solving Your Mystery
By Don Iannone
Danger lurks
where the reach of darkness
exceeds the grasp of light.
So is true in life,
when it calls us beyond known darkness,
and into unknown light.
Light and dark are one,
as day and night are one,
as any question and its answer are one,
and as any thing and its opposite--
can only be one.
Just as true,
danger and safety are one,
joined by two threads:
one pulling us together, and
one pulling us apart.
The tension between the two tendencies
creates the mystery that we are.
No need for confusion,
for that too has clarity,
and both together are also one.
All riddles, kones, puzzles,
and mysteries of all sorts,
never aim to lead us astray,
rather back to who we are,
where our mystery is ultimately solved.
By Don Iannone
Danger lurks
where the reach of darkness
exceeds the grasp of light.
So is true in life,
when it calls us beyond known darkness,
and into unknown light.
Light and dark are one,
as day and night are one,
as any question and its answer are one,
and as any thing and its opposite--
can only be one.
Just as true,
danger and safety are one,
joined by two threads:
one pulling us together, and
one pulling us apart.
The tension between the two tendencies
creates the mystery that we are.
No need for confusion,
for that too has clarity,
and both together are also one.
All riddles, kones, puzzles,
and mysteries of all sorts,
never aim to lead us astray,
rather back to who we are,
where our mystery is ultimately solved.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Thank You for Flying Continental Airlines
By Don Iannone
It's early.
Six AM to be exact.
No sign of sun at this hour
in mid-October in Cleveland.
We're about to take off.
It's that pregnant time
between the gate and the runway.
The plane is jam packed.
Reminds me of a flying sardine can.
I have a winning campaign slogan
for Ohio's next governor:
"Middle seats on all airplanes taking off
and landing in Ohio should be outlawed."
We worry about terrorists...
how about the snoring cowboy next to me?
When is that "beam me up Scotty" technology
going to be available?
I'll bet Continental Airlines has it,
but won't release it
because the company bought too many airplanes--
all of which have those insane middle seats.
Travel is a pain.
No such thing as comfort and convenience.
Both are lost arts,
like a good night's sleep, and
a dry cleaner that really presses wrinkles out of shirts.
Why do I sound like that drone Andy Rooney from 60 Minutes?
God help me if I do.
No roses to smell this morning--
just a snoot full of jet fuel fumes.
How I hate that smell.
Where's that gourmet coffee described
in the Continental flight magazine?
I need caffeine now!
I promise I won't spill it during take-off.
Trust me--
I have a steady hand
when there's a drink in it.
I guess this is the price you pay
for being in business for yourself,
and having clients 2,300 miles away.
Anyway, thank you for flying Continental Airlines.
By Don Iannone
It's early.
Six AM to be exact.
No sign of sun at this hour
in mid-October in Cleveland.
We're about to take off.
It's that pregnant time
between the gate and the runway.
The plane is jam packed.
Reminds me of a flying sardine can.
I have a winning campaign slogan
for Ohio's next governor:
"Middle seats on all airplanes taking off
and landing in Ohio should be outlawed."
We worry about terrorists...
how about the snoring cowboy next to me?
When is that "beam me up Scotty" technology
going to be available?
I'll bet Continental Airlines has it,
but won't release it
because the company bought too many airplanes--
all of which have those insane middle seats.
Travel is a pain.
No such thing as comfort and convenience.
Both are lost arts,
like a good night's sleep, and
a dry cleaner that really presses wrinkles out of shirts.
Why do I sound like that drone Andy Rooney from 60 Minutes?
God help me if I do.
No roses to smell this morning--
just a snoot full of jet fuel fumes.
How I hate that smell.
Where's that gourmet coffee described
in the Continental flight magazine?
I need caffeine now!
I promise I won't spill it during take-off.
Trust me--
I have a steady hand
when there's a drink in it.
I guess this is the price you pay
for being in business for yourself,
and having clients 2,300 miles away.
Anyway, thank you for flying Continental Airlines.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Sunday, October 08, 2006
October Full Moon
By Don Iannone
Why does the October full moon
seem so lonely, yet so bright?
Why does her luminous light
seem so still, without flicker?
Why does solitary moonlight
fill my dreams with deep mysteries,
keeping me awake as I sleep?
Why does the moon remind me
there is more to life
than what the sun can show?
Why do such questions stir and linger inside me
like hungry grey wolves
scouring the woods for prey?
Why is there no rest
until I make peace with the moon?
By Don Iannone
Why does the October full moon
seem so lonely, yet so bright?
Why does her luminous light
seem so still, without flicker?
Why does solitary moonlight
fill my dreams with deep mysteries,
keeping me awake as I sleep?
Why does the moon remind me
there is more to life
than what the sun can show?
Why do such questions stir and linger inside me
like hungry grey wolves
scouring the woods for prey?
Why is there no rest
until I make peace with the moon?
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Snowy Forest Peace
By Don Iannone
I long for the snowy forest,
where the lone owl
speaks between snowflakes,
and where the wind takes my hand
leading me off into oblivion,
and where the quiet is so loud
I can't hear myself think,
and where the cold biting air
snaps reality like frozen tree limbs,
and where I find peace
waiting in silence under the giant hemlock,
and where God appears as sunlight
through snow-covered branches,
and where I stand awe struck
with tears streaming down my cheeks
for no reason other than my feeling alive.
By Don Iannone
I long for the snowy forest,
where the lone owl
speaks between snowflakes,
and where the wind takes my hand
leading me off into oblivion,
and where the quiet is so loud
I can't hear myself think,
and where the cold biting air
snaps reality like frozen tree limbs,
and where I find peace
waiting in silence under the giant hemlock,
and where God appears as sunlight
through snow-covered branches,
and where I stand awe struck
with tears streaming down my cheeks
for no reason other than my feeling alive.
Your Music is Your Life
By Don Iannone
Your music is your life,
singing itself to you.
Not the same tune for everyone,
but the one you hear and dance to,
from sun up to sun down.
Your music is your life,
clinging to you like the air you breathe.
That background melody
you tap your teeth to
and can't seem to shake from your mind.
Your music is your life,
pacing your steps forward, backward, and side to side.
It's that cosmic vibration seizing you,
and shaking you loose from all else,
and bringing you back to you.
Your music is your life,
something staying with you
longer than the longest cold.
Maybe it's Dylan's Blowin' in the Wind,
or Peter, Paul, and Mary's Puff the Magic Dragon.
Listen to your music.
It's your life telling you
what you've always known about yourself,
that no one else could possibly tell you.
Sing along and remember who you are.
By Don Iannone
Your music is your life,
singing itself to you.
Not the same tune for everyone,
but the one you hear and dance to,
from sun up to sun down.
Your music is your life,
clinging to you like the air you breathe.
That background melody
you tap your teeth to
and can't seem to shake from your mind.
Your music is your life,
pacing your steps forward, backward, and side to side.
It's that cosmic vibration seizing you,
and shaking you loose from all else,
and bringing you back to you.
Your music is your life,
something staying with you
longer than the longest cold.
Maybe it's Dylan's Blowin' in the Wind,
or Peter, Paul, and Mary's Puff the Magic Dragon.
Listen to your music.
It's your life telling you
what you've always known about yourself,
that no one else could possibly tell you.
Sing along and remember who you are.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
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