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.

Halloween

Read by Don. Click link above.

BOO!

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.)

On Being

Read by Don. Click on title above.

How "are" you?

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.

Poetry Reading

Living in the Moment

Read by Don.

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.

Dreary Saturday Morning in Late October


Click link above to hear Don read this poem.

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.

Winter Night

Click on the link above to hear Don read this poem

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.

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.

Click to hear Don read this poem
Flirting with the Flame

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
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.

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.

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.

Fallen Leaves
By Don Iannone

.

.

.

.
.

.

.

Battered tie-died leaves
tumble helplessly
to the waiting forest floor.
Unrelenting sheets of rain pummel
the trees' thick coats
into uncontested submission.
Naked and shivering,
the trees ready for winter's paintbrush
to color them in unadulterated whiteness.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Let Your Light Shine

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

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
wordless bliss
...found in the spaces
......where emptiness lives

2
eternity
...the length of any moment
......lived fully

3
love
...not a feeling or anything
......just your true nature

No Real Need for Words

Spectacular!















Source: Edelweiss

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.

Lake Erie Autumn Sunset

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
grasp truth
...within the breath
......then release it

2
fleeting moments
...like dripping sand
......through the hourglass we fall

3
mindful reflections
...resting in silence
......peace descends

Don is Interviewed by Oman Poet and Writer Nasra Al Adawi

Recently 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 Capital
By 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.

A Side Benefit of So Much Business Travel

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.

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.

Gates Pass, Tucson, Arizona
Look at this and tell me there is no God!

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.

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.

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.

Tucson Sunset
Magic painted on sky and saguaro cactus

Zapped by Truth
By Don Iannone

Bare truth descends,
like an unannounced lightning bolt
from inner sky.
It's a direct hit.
All in its path--
blown to bits.
Complete descimation.
Debris everywhere.
Nothing left to cling to.
Ego loses. Truth wins.

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?

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
morphing caterpillar
...walks from one life
......into another

2
wind whistles
...leaves fall
......fall leaves

3
full moon
...full heart
......life is good

sunny voices
......long ago
............Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young

remember to tell yourself today
......that you love you
............just the way you are

Friday poems
......happy ones
............TGIF

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.

huddled cornstalks
......leaning on each other
............we all need someone in life

frisky squirrels play tag
......squabbling over fallen acorns
............everything in life has its truth

gentle earth spirits stir
......once sleeping golden aspens
............awakening in powder blue sky

golden sunlight reaching
......through lingering morning clouds
............a new day begins

God appears
......as white sunlight
............streaking through tall snowy hemlocks

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.

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.

plump ripe pumpkins
...smiling in patches
......fall laughs last
.

one day at a time
...life streaks through us
......leaving nothing behind
.

single leaf floating
......downstream on water
............on the way home.

Driving in the Driving Rain
By Don Iannone

Driving in the driving rain.
Traffic clogged like a drain pipe
filled with crap--
the sort you wish would get out of the way
and let things flow.
Herky jerky drivers--
slowing down and speeding up,
remind me of hungry sandpipers
chasing tiny crabs at the water's edge.
In the car next to me,
a rotund young woman paints her face.
I can't shake the image of a moon-faced clown,
as I watch the woman circle her lips
several times with her bright red lipstick.
The skies clear,
but my mind remains cloudy.
A thick fog sets in,
and I lose sight of where I am going.
Desperate for a cheerful note to end on,
I think of the big woman painting her face, and I smile
thinking she must buy make-up by the gallon.

More Magic with a Paintbrush

Life Is Simple When You Are
By Don Iannone

Before the snow falls,
I shall walk barefoot
upon Nature's pastel carpet
of fresh fallen autumn leaves.
Just the right place will appear
for me to park my tired bones
and soak in fall's magic,
which hugs me as tenderly
as only a grandmother can do.
And before the sun sets--
just beyond the faded old barn,
I will allow myself to smile
in warm admiration for life
and its good to the last drop flavor.
And once the sun sets
and the moon rises full,
I can say with great satisfaction--
that I have truly lived.

Fall Magic
By Don Iannone

The glorious turning fall leaves
torture my sensibilities
with candy-sweet pleasure.
They leave me gasping,
like a diver submerged too long,
beholding the magical coral reef below.
They rip my heart out,
which goes chasing after whispering butterflies,
whose wings brush away lingering clouds.
And I thought early spring wildflowers
were hard to say goodbye to.

Captivating Fall Beauty

Thunder Bay
By Don Iannone

North of Superior--
a quixotic place called Thunder Bay,
where Native spirits roam restless
throughout the night, that lasts longer
than the longest day.
Deep still water,
without bottom, goes untouched
like fresh wild berries spoiled
by the early snow,
drifting away like mysteries exposed
to the piercing white light
of early afternoon sun
on waveless gray-blue water.
The truth appears,
like wind on water,
then dives deep inside me.
Forever I am changed.

Thunder Bay, Ontario
Late September

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.

Red Covered Bridge

(Near Kokomo, Indiana)

Allegheny National Forest

(Near Warren, PA)

Smoke from a Nonexistent Fire
By Don Iannone

If you've ever watched something live,
you've also watched it die.
But not in the sense that living and dying exist
as independent phenomena separated by anything real.
There is no separate reality underlying anything.
It is all part of one.
You and I are but fictitious actors
on a make believe stage,
performing before an imagined audience.
That's all.
But if this is true,
what does this leave us?
We are left with our own impermanence--
our illusively fugitive state of being.
We live by believing
that our minds can know their own reality.
But what are these notions?
All are but consciousness
rising and falling in response to itself,
like smoke from a nonexistent fire.
And this poem--
has it not reached its end?
Yet your mind wanders on,
seeking more than is really here.
Rest in your unknowing, and there
find peace in your emptiness.

With Gentle Strokes She Paints
By Don Iannone

Fall hints
of her coming,
touching the leaves
with gentle strokes of color,
not unlike the painter
who starts out shy,
not knowing exactly where
her heart will carry the brush.
The masterpiece is complete, only when
her heart is full from giving.

Morning Glory
By Don Iannone

Looking east,
seeing
a glowing tangerine sun
rise through
thick late September clouds,
and finally
allowing
its fire to fade
and marble yellow and gold
throughout the perfectly still lingering clouds.

Doesn't This Make You Believe in Magic?

A Tribute to Anonymous Dharma
By Don Iannone

You think
you'd like to know
yourself

and the world
falling
in and out
of synch

with your concept
of who you think
you are.

Would you like
to get beyond
the concepts

and fall
into synch
with that
which lies beyond?

That's your true nature
and that's who you really are.

Allow yourself to be that.

Go: Dan Shimp's Anonymous Dharma

Poetic Glimpses
By Don Iannone

1
silver moon rides high
crossing crystalline September sky
hearts fill with glee

2
glittering stardust
nighttime extravaganza
all eyes turn upward

3
poetry
courageous words
words that en-courage

4
happiness
like smoke
eludes our chase

Growing Old on the Way To Dying
By Don Iannone

I watch her--
sitting quietly in her front porch swing.
Her breathing is labored,
and her hands tremble,
as they hold onto what life remains.
By my account,
the old woman is pushing ninety.
She looks remarkably peaceful.
Her thinning hair, snowy white,
blows in the breeze.
The old woman savors each moment--
as though each may be her last.
I think...she is living in the moment.
Makes me wonder...am I?

On the way to dying,
we grow old,
and we give back large parts of ourselves
to the well from whence we came.
It's the same well for all of us--
that we come from and return to.
Getting old isn't easy,
especially as our bodies slow
and our minds forget
at times where they are.
Then again, where can our minds be
but right here in the now?
On the way to dying,
we grow old,
and then,
we grow young all over again.

Cleveland's Emerald Necklace
By Don Iannone

Emerald necklace--
green chain of forest being,
draped like Christmas garland
around Cleveland's shoulders.
Rich, deep, magical,
yet at times captivatingly introspective,
like a dark green Freudian slip,
worn loose and hanging below
the city's gray and blue silk dress.
As fall approaches,
and the air chills,
the jeweled necklace transforms
from just emeralds
to rubies, garnets, and golden sapphires.
And in winter,
the forest is aglow in diamonds,
sparkling bright as stars
on a clear winter night.
Every city has its gems--
Cleveland has its priceless emerald necklace.

Turning Leaves Messaging Change
By Don Iannone

The leaves know their days are numbered,
as the sun visits them less often
and the stars play tic-tac-toe
much longer into the night.
All those earlier painting lessons pay off,
as the leaves meticulously bodypaint themselves
in rich hues of yellow, orange, red, and rust.
One last hug,
and the leaves let go,
as the autumn breeze lifts their spirits
and gently brings them to rest on the ground,
where they form a plush rainbow carpet.
The glorious fallen leaves,
like the sparkling snowflakes that follow them,
are God's messengers that change is our essence.

Old Dreams Like Rainbows Fade Away
By Don Iannone

Old dreams fade
in and out of focus
like vaporous rainbows
arching their backs in the sky.
My dreams of being anything
more than I truly am
are not far behind the rainbows,
losing themselves forever
in clear blue expectationless sky.

When Catalina Eyes Touch You
By Don Iannone

Soulful arisings overflow within me,
while standing before the sage-brown Catalina Mountains,
that stare back with soft reassuring eyes.
These eyes say "you are a part of it all,
celebrate this union, and
welcome the sudden transforming beauty
drifting through this very moment."
To call all this magical
seems to rob Tucson of its real feel--
so quiet, deep, beckoning,
and warm as the early morning sun,
giving the desert its rich colors and sharp shadows.
How can you deny who you really are
when something so powerful touches you?

Pure Magic

Up
By Don Iannone

Up...a direction
pointing to the sky,
where the sun, moon, and stars live as one.
Up...some place above
wherever you are in life,
including some place you've never been
but have always wanted to go.
Up...a feeling you have
when the power of the universe
fills you beyond all comprehension.
Up...the only place you can go
when you hit bottom,
and think there is nowhere else to go.
Up...an illusion creating expectations
separating you from being one with the moment.
Up...another very small word
that means nothing but everything.
Up...the opposite of the end of a poem,
but certainly the way
you want people to feel
after reading it.

It
By Don Iannone

So much can be packed
into such very small words
that seem to mean nothing
but end up meaning everything.
Like the word “it” that points
to something different
every time you use the word.
One time “it’ is the sunset
that just disappeared beyond the horizon.
Another time “it” is the work project
that is about to give you can ulcer.
Yet in another instance,
“it” points to that unidentified feeling
welling up inside you,
stopping you dead in your tracks.
One thing “it” is not is me referring to me
or you referring to yourself.
The only time an “it” can exist
is when you as the subject point to something
other than yourself as an object.
Got “it’?

Grains of Sand in Your Life
By Don Iannone

How far you’ve come in your life.
Bet you’d never have guessed
the amazing things you’d do,
given where you came from
and how you started out.
It seemed like so many things
were working against you,
when you struggled with your first grade reading,
and when you finished next to last
in fifth grade basketball try-outs.
Remember when you were six,
and how you cried that hot summer night
because you were too frightened
to sleep out in the back yard?
Now just look at you,
and the amazing person you’ve become.
Like the irritating grain of sand in the oyster’s shell
that helps give rise to a beautiful pearl,
your struggles make you who you are.
Give thanks for the grains of sand in your life
and the growth they spark.

"People only see what they are prepared to see."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Quick Glances Through the Darkness
By Don Iannone

1
Amidst your sadness, trust
that hope floats down
the wide and winding river of tears
flowing through your soul.

2
Silence creeps
through your being,
like a dejected snake,
filled with submission,
unable to escape
the darkness of its own shadow.

3
We sat in silence,
our hearts separated
by an uncrossable ocean of hurt,
deepening with the passing
of each fathomless moment.

4
Straight-jacketed hopes,
constrained by harsh illusion,
fade faster than shadows
in the late afternoon winter sun.

5
Empty words hold nothing,
and nothing comes close to words,
in our feeble attempt to describe
our inner god of self-understanding.

You Are Appreciated

Work has been very demanding,
and I find myself barely able
to feed the poetic stream,
but I do because I know I must.

I am truly sorry for not being
able to engage all of you as fully
as I have in the past.

Please know that I appreciate
you stopping by, reading my poetry
and leaving your beautiful thoughts behind.

Eventually, more time will appear.

My blessings to all of you,

Don

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
Crisp autumn leaves
cool morning breeze
seasons change and so do we.

2
Refreshing desert oasis
rejuvenation at hand
give your journey a rest.

3
Nuggets of truth
tumbling in the stream of life
gold washes up on life's shore.

4
Falling leaves
life turns
a new season overtakes you.

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
Location,
more than place
right mindset at the right time.

2
Like a mirror
art reflects
what lives inside us.

3
Navigate
around your pride
your truth lies deeper.

4
Death
cuts through life
the sharpest razor's edge.

Short Poetic Breaths
By Don Iannone

1
Browning leaves
crisp morning air
book your seat for winter.

2
Twilight
light to dark
many shades of gray in life.

3
Far off
inside you
truth is nested.

4
Very early morning
no birds
only silence sings.

"If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else."

--Marvin Gaye

Who Am I?
By Don Iannone

If you ask the right life question,
the right answer will come.
If you attend to this answer,
the right doors in life will swing wide open.
If you walk through these doors in trust,
your life path will take positive new directions.
If you head your life in these positive directions,
your soul will find its rightful place in the sun.
With the illuminating light of the sun showing you the way,
your deepest doubts and fears will melt away.
As you stand with arms outstretched facing the sun,
the gates of reality will open, inviting you in.
With gladness and thanksgiving, accept this invitation,
peace and love will fill every last drop of your being.
All this begins with the right question.

To fully understand this poem, please
click on this link and visit the Headfooters
Art Gallery website.

Headfooters
By Don Iannone

Perfectly imperfect circles,
with gangly arms and legs,
reaching out for love.
Simple ungraceful lines,
each living in a separate world,
on the same page of life.
Freshly poured pallets of color,
spilling over their boundaries,
not unlike the passion and fear
hiding inside all of us.
Obsessive, intricate etchings,
intent upon filling the blind inner emptiness,
suspended somewhere between the heart and mind.
Distorted images of childish joys,
submerged in deep pools of self-abuse and anguish.
Sunny faces hanging
with crooked smiles from dimly-lit buildings.
Puzzling gray paint smears,
hiding the endless inner labyrinths
the artist walks daily in search of sanity.
One-dimensional wild beasts, engorged phalluses, and
simple chairs made from broken branches.
Headfooters, outsider art, raw vision,
all glimpses of reality from imprisoned minds,
all jarring reminders of the fine lines in life for all of us.

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.

Signs of Fall
By Don Iannone

Today a rust-colored leaf fell quite helplessly
from the large maple tree in the front yard.
There was no wind.
It was just its time to let go.
I listened as a stateman-like bluejay squawked nonstop,
forewarning us of swirling red-tail hawks,
who eyed the plump young morning doves, sitting in pairs
in the red cherry trees in the back woods.
The bluejay's shriek poked the air,
like sharp needles chisling colorful upper arm tattoos.
We found two writhing baby garter snakes
in the garage earlier in the week.
Both wore bright yellow necklaces--
the sort a mother gives her daughters
to wear at their debutante ball.
The flowers are enroute to seeds,
and their nectar runs sweet,
enticing full-bloom monarch butterflies
to cling much longer to their sticky honey.
Another Labor Day has passed,
and the kids stand in bunches along the road,
awaiting the golden rod-colored school buses
that carry them off to noisy classrooms,
filled with rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed youngsters,
who swap larger than life stories
about the summer that is gone,
like their innocence, once the teaching begins.
I long for a closer look at the fallen leaf,
but settle instead to let go of it,
along with my clinging to long sun-filled days.
My winter spirit is early this year, and my soul
is already warming itself by the blazing fireplace.

The Crickets' Autumn Song
By Don Iannone

Solitary crickets drone on
through the night's deepest hours
about fall's impending ascent.
They tell poignant epic-level stories,
which they will never quite finish,
leaving last lines for the winter sun
to write on fresh-fallen snow.
The crickets hypnotic chirping drowns out
the 12:07 am train, passing unnoticed,
except by the squealing rails, stretching
from one end of the night to the other.
Summer died suddenly, but gloriously,
like the fuzzy green caterpillar, who morphed
in one afternoon into a graceful butterfly.
The crickets just do what they do,
without being asked, or being rewarded.
For they sing in a voice heard by the turning leaves,
the fading grass, and swelling pumpkins,
who otherwise might miss their time.
When I was young, I was too busy
to hear the crickets sing.
But now autumn rises up in me,
and I ready for the winter sun
to once again write last lines
in the fresh-fallen snow.

I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

Not Until
By Don Iannone

Not until I knew myself,
I stumbled headfirst through life,
believing my fall from grace was an omen
that I was free at last.
Not until I knew you,
I fell prey to my own lies and self-deception,
wishing you wouldn't rob me
of my last filthy remains.
Not until my ego died,
I thought having was living,
and you were mine--
all because I wanted to possess you.
Not until I hit the wall,
I thought I could fly forever,
and never pay the price
for following my foolish dreams.
Not until I saw the universe
with clear blue eyes,
I thought my world was it,
and nothing was beyond me.
Not until you doused the raging fire
that caused me to self-combust,
I thought the fire was my light,
and I was only alive when I was on fire.
Not until I discovered life was a full length mirror,
reflecting everything we are,
I thought I could close one eye
and only see what I wanted to see.
Not until the sun came up,
washing away the darkness in my life,
did I see none of it is mine,
and that life is truly a gift.

When A Dark Night of the Soul Befalls Us
By Don Iannone

Some nights,
the forgotten cemeteries we live near
come back to life,
filling us with ghostly tombstones
floating on thick dark clouds.
Not every night they come,
but certainly on long dark nights, following days
when the world seems more dead than alive.
Morning can't come quickly enough on those nights
when the cries of those in-between
haunt the bottomless valleys we live in.
And when the cries subside,
the stone silence echoes deep
inside the empty cavern filling us.
Until it's finally over,
there is no hope that it will ever end.
And once it has ended,
we can only wait again
for the grass to turn black with night,
and for the air to chill suddenly cold as ice.
It is only then we come to know
the true meaning of light.

In the Heart of the Night
By Don Iannone

There is a heart
that beats in the night.
It carries us into our dreams,
where our heart opens us
to the world of all possibilities.
There is a heart
that beats in the night
connecting us
to the boundaryless universe we call home,
but only know in our hearts.
There is a heart
that beats in the night
awakening our soul,
which exists in both repeated
and unrepeated vastness.
Listen closely to your heart beat at night.
It dreams of new possibilities you will become.

An Adagio on Becoming One
By Don Iannone

Nothing left to live for
until you strip away the illusions,
and tumble down the hill to the very bottom,
where you learn to start over again.
Nothing real to live for,
as long as you cling to faded memories,
jutting up like rugged mountain peaks,
cutting deep incisions into dark clouds.
Nothing meaningful--until
the rain comes,
and washes away the stilted memories,
carrying you downstream--all the way
to where a sunny calm ocean appears,
making you one with life.