A Dying Friend: Trying to Find the Words
By Don Iannone

Our friend Joanne is dying.

It's February 14th, and
she has been dying for a long time.

Please understand that
it is not my job to pronounce, or
predict another's passing.

What do I really know about dying?
My knowledge is strictly theoretical.
You might say...
it's vicariously second-hand.

Cancer takes many of us.
It is ghastly insidious.
Infiltrating us cell by cell, and
like Amazonian piranha,
eventually all is eaten away, leaving nothing.

Cancer is just one of death's ugly paths.
There are many others.
I don't have to name them all.
Like the bodies I saw on stretchers
by the side of the freeway
just a week ago.

On the matter of death,
I am utterly word-bound.
You watch it.
It watches you.
You turn away.
For now, the shroud is not yours.
You go on living.

Snow-Bound Tuesday
By Don Iannone

The winter cares nothing
about whether it is Tuesday,
let alone whether you're cold
and trapped under her heavy wet blankets.
She doesn't mourn your loss of time
due to impassable snow-clogged roads.
Frankly, she does only what she knows how to do,
which is to be winter,
complete with bitter blowing winds, mind-numbing cold,
and deep piles of silencing snow.
Don't blame winter for being true to her nature.
Heed her powerful message: be true to your nature.

Otherwise
By Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

With the Feet God Has Given Us
By Don Iannone

God gave us feet
so we could take steps,
moving us closer to Her.
She couldn't rightly ask us
to follow Her, if
we didn't have a way
to get from where we are
to where She invites us to be.
Footloose at times,
we can be fancy free to wander
where our will entices us to go.
Our feet ground us, and
keep us sure-footed as a Capricorn,
steadfastly climbing Kilimanjaro.
Then at the top,
where the feet can take us no further,
we suddenly sprout wings, like Mercury,
lifting us into the sky, and
carrying us the rest of the way home.

Spam
By Don Iannone

We ate spam
when I was a young boy.
Reluctantly so, I might add.
Disgusting stuff.
Horrid tasting, even fried
and served up with gobs of ketchup.
Mom tried tricking us
into eating the slithery, sliced, spiced ham
and who knows what else amalgamation.
She'd hide it under a fried egg,
a slab of Velveeta cheese, and even once
she tried to disguise it as meatloaf.
The taste was distinctive;
much like castor oil or K-rations
left over from World War II.
Hormel has even stooped so low
as to create a Spam Museum,
and sponsor annual Spam fests.
Give me a break!
Beware. Just last year,
Hormel came out with Spam Singles, and
no these are not unmarried Spam eaters.
You got it.
We're talking single packaged slices
of the gristlely, greasy stuff.
Don't bother buying me a ticket
to the Ohio Spam Fest this year.
I think I'm busy.

Heart Fires Burn Brightly
By Don Iannone

A fire, well-stoked,
burns with tenacity and passion,
like a heart filled with love,
whose embers glow bright red and orange,
casting out the lonely darkness
that for so long cloaked its light.
Find your way--by the fire.
Rest there, as the night passes,
and as you engage the light
and enter finally into its midst.

Impermanent Being
By Don Iannone

Comes a time
when we must go.
Before that time
we don't exactly know.
Seems unfair
a secret to the very end.
But how much notice
we cannot amend.
No matter how much time
we have to be...
It's never enough for you or me.

Poetic Steps Toward a Bleacher Seat in Heaven
By Don Iannone

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

Spread the Wings of Your Love
By Don Iannone

The sky is the limit
in terms of your love.
Reach high, and wide
in your quest to love the world
and everybody in it.
Contrary to what you might think,
and at times even feel,
our love is endless, and abundant
beyond what our minds can grasp.
After all, love is a quality of heart,
and as such, is felt, not thought.
Spread your love,
like the wings of a glorious
full-blossom butterfly.
And while you're at it,
be open to other's love.
It's there for the picking,
like fresh juicy strawberries
awaiting your sweet embrace.

Signs of an Early Spring
By Don Iannone

Sunset lingering brunt orange
in steadfast February clouds, hovering
in azure sky, poised
to receive nothing less
than an early spring, quieted
by the lack of opposition from
a fast-moving winter, trundling
toward April, when
early wildflowers sing, and dance
their way through winter's final remains.

Is Your Work Worth It?
By Don Iannone

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

Bad Accident on the Interstate
By Don Iannone

Traffic had nearly come to a standstill.
You just knew...
there was a major problem ahead.
It wasn't long before there were
red and blue lights flashing everywhere.
I studied the streak of eerie blue light
making its way across my left hand and arm
propped against the arm rest.
Ten minutes later
we knew exactly what the problem was--
an accident, and a big one at that.
The red flares directed us
to the right berm of the road.
All four lanes were closed by this one--
two trucks, a van, and a car...
all tied up in a knot.
It was a hideous sight, but
the worst part was to come:
the bodies on stretchers;
especially the black man writhing in pain,
while three technicians try to steady him.
It's amazing how much you can observe
in a 30-second drive-by of a truly ugly accident scene.
The images of the horrid scene lingered in my mind
nearly half way to Detroit.
On a frigid, sub-zero morning such as this,
salt doesn't do much to counteract the icy roadway.
I slowed down for the next two hours,
and just accepted that I was going to be late
for my first meeting.

Finding Poetry on a Bitter Cold February Day
By Don Iannone

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

Sundays Long Ago
By Don Iannone

Growing up,
Sunday was clearly a day of rest,
when work was completely set aside,
and the spirit was given primacy.
The day started
with Sunday morning church services
and Sunday school.
Our main meal of the day
was in the early afternoon,
leaving room for a leisurely afternoon,
and then Sunday night church services--
at tops a one-hour event,
when the heart was invited to speak
and explore more personally
its relationship to the Holy.
Social gatherings often followed
Sunday night church services,
allowing those sharing worship
to join hands in friendship.
All this was a long time ago--
lost in the shuffle from childhood
to young adulthood.
Spirit joined our family,
both nuclear and extended.
Not always did I agree
with our Bible-thumping minister;
let alone how Mom and Dad chose
to adapt and apply these teachings
to the conduct of the household.
Too strict, I thought,
as a young hellion,
sowing my seeds in long-gone Martins Ferry.
Looking back,
there was more good than bad
to the rhythm and portent
of Sundays in my younger years.
I'm surprised to hear myself say this, but
there comes a time in your life
when equanimity truimphs over differences,
large and small,
that cause civil war within us.
And so,
looking back,
I smile upon the Sundays in my early life,
and give thanks for their rich blessings,
lingering on inside me even now.

Transported from the Other Side
By Don Iannone

From the other side...
the place where dreams start
as newborn rivers flowing through you,
another reminder is given:
be the mystic that you are.
From the other side...
where emptiness swallows all form,
and where from nothing all somethings arise,
a dream so real unfurls,
like a mythical flag,
waving in the breath of my soul.
A dream so real
I couldn't possibly have made it up.
A dream of how I am...
moving from a secret undercover world
to a transcendental world of spiritual light,
where all secrets and shadows disappear,
and where that which contains finds ending,
and that which is genesis finds new beginning.

The Second Hand
By Don Iannone

My wristwatch,
probably like yours,
has a second hand.
It goes round and round
the face of time,
cutting through nothingness,
creating and destroying the moments
with each clockwise tick.
I bill by the hour,
but live breath to breath,
like the second hand of my watch.

We worry too much about time.
It robs us of living...
downright cheats us out of life
that moves not only clockwise,
but in all directions simultaneously.
Your soul is timeless...
it knows nothing of your watch's second hand.
Listen!
Your soul is laughing at your obsession with time,
and what you miss between ticks
of your watch's second hand.

The Aetnaville Limestone Cave
By Don Iannone

For some reason today,
I remembered the old limestone cave
we used to explore,
as growing young boys in Martins Ferry.
The cave, located in Aetnaville,
just south of Martins Ferry,
was very much a hidden mystery,
known only to the true initiates
of the sacred geometry of Eastern Ohio,
or those taking the time to trapse
the area's ancient woodland landscape in detail.
While a long time ago in years,
the Aetnaville cave and our adventures
are never more than a thought away
at given moment.
Give them a thought, and there they are,
and there you are.
Sensing the cave could swallow us up
in any loose-footed moment,
even as boys we took precautions
to ensure we could safely exit
what we had in the first place entered.
Wet and cold,
the cave was not conducive to candles,
or the homemade kerosene torches
we used for light in other caves.
We were entirely dependent upon
our trusty ever-ready battery flashlights
to light our cautious footsteps
into the earth's deep limestone belly.
To ensure we found our way out,
we tied together four balls of sturdy string,
each the length of a football field.
Twelve hundred feet into the earth was deep
for three eleven year-old boys,
who lived about the same distance
from the Elm School,
where they spent days
from early September to early June.
To this day, I vividly recall
the damp sweet smell
of the Aetnaville limestone cave.
And to this day,
I equate the twelve hundred feet
into the foreboding cave,
as roughly the same distance
I must travel inward
to reach the cave of my heart.
Isn't it funny how
all inward journeys feel the same?

The Poet's Pain
By Don Iannone

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

A January Encounter with St. Louis
By Don Iannone

Beloved river city,
nestled on the west bank
of the mighty Mississippi,
that magically snakes through you,
and connects you to other river cities.
Your roots grow deeper by the day,
while your future arches its back
like an awakening calico,
warming herself in the afternoon sun.
You've seen many dark nights,
when the moon fails to glow,
yet starlight continues to grace your soul.
Lazy snowflakes flirt with the biting westward wind...
a wind you know so well
on this late January afternoon.
You toy with me in word and image,
daring me to grasp you about the waist
and dance on tiptoes with you
into the westward-leaning sun.
South of you at Cairo,
the industrious Ohio joins your Mississippi.
At your right elbow, ancient Cahokia's 20,000 souls
have restlessly slept now for more than 600 years.
Farther south, midway to Memphis,
nobody wants to talk about New Madrid,
where the earth shakes off excess energy
on a regular basis, and where in 1811
the Mississippi reversed her flow...
a feat not since accomplished,
nor even wished.
You are a city of poets and writers,
entrepreneurs, athletes, actors and scientists.
A city prone to division at times,
but once again learning to come together
about what means most in life.
You are a city mattering to so many,
even those begrudging the redbird his special feast
on tiger last October 27th.
My simple wish for you, Oh St. Louis,
is happiness sparing none,
and may you, in your unfolding urbane glory,
never cease to amaze.

Standing Strong During the Perilous Storm
By Don Iannone

Dreams once again awaken me...
to the truth I must follow.
This time it is an old building toppled
by high winds and ominous dark storm clouds.
The old building is not just any building...
it is the iconic Cleveland Terminal Tower;
built in 1930 and standing 708 feet high.
My observation point is high above,
from the very top of a newer building,
which miraculously withstands the perilous storm.
The old Terminal Tower sways back and forth,
and eventually breaks in half,
causing its top half to crumble and fall to the ground,
exposing the building's frail interiority,
and causing panic by those in the building.
I am stunned, but instantly called
to rescue those trapped
in the fallen building.
I extend myself through
a mysterious arm of the newer building,
to help those trapped
to climb from the fallen Terminal Tower
to the stronger and newer building.
Once all are safe,
I awaken,
remembering the dream,
and feeling something powerful
has taken place inside me.
Something has changed...
perhaps died, and certainly fallen
and arisen anew within me.
The deep heartfelt question
I've carried around for several long months
has been answered:
my new calling is about being
the bridge that I am, and
helping others move
from the old and fallen
to the new and ascending.
Gratitude fills me,
as I ponder this amazing dream,
and ready for the next leg of my journey.

Secrets
By Don Iannone

You walk into a place
and just know,
it's filled with secrets.
Not necessarily your secrets,
but those of others
whose mystery hides
in the secrets they leave behind.
They let you know they're there
without letting you know what they are.
At first, it seems
like a ridiculous hide-and-seek game,
but soon you realize
it's no game at all.
Our secrets give us away.
They let others know of our mystery.
They let others know
we are like them.
They let others know
we are like them...

Twenty-One Years Later Still Holding On
By Don Iannone

Mom died twenty-one years ago today
in a cancer-stained single bed
in the Reverand Oral Roberts' City of Faith Medical Center
in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
How fitting we should die in single beds--
yet another reminder, the journey home
is ours to take alone.
Mom never intended to die at fifty-eight,
but I doubt she would be ready to go at any age.
Death was Mom's constant fear,
and her fear was the death of her.
I know, because she birthed her fear into me,
her first child, born on a cold snowy January 19, 1951.
I often think back upon the last time I saw Mom alive
in that single ghost-white-sheeted bed.
I knew she would die soon,
but she still clutched a single thread of hope
that her God would spare her saying good-bye
to all she loved and all she dreaded in her life.
Her voice was hollow and empty
when I kissed her good-bye for the last time.
She was ready for her pain to be over,
but like all of us, she clutched life in any form
rather than surrendering her pain,
no matter how unbearable.
Five days later,
they called me out of a business meeting
in downtown Cleveland,
to tell me that Mom had finally lost the fight.
A large part of my life flashed before me
as I tried to imagine life without the woman
who brought me into this world.
At her funeral, my sister Diana,
my brother Doug, and I encircled each other
and cried the heaviest tears
our lives had ever known.
The tears have finally dried,
but twenty-one years later,
there is still a piece of me
that holds onto a piece of her,
and in a strange sort of way,
I feel she holds onto a piece of me.

The Call of Silence
By Don Iannone

The silence rings
throughout the room
I've lived in so long
and have always called my home.
The silence shatters the mirror
in the room
I've lived in so long
and always called my home.
The silence cries lonely tears
that flood the well
just outside the house
wherein lies the room
that for so long
I've called my home.
The silence speaks my name in words
that only I can hear...
words that lead me outside the room
that for so long
I've waited for silence to come.
The silence beckons me
to follow my hungry heart
now so aroused
I can no longer live
in the room
I used to call my home.
And now outside the room
never ever alone
the silence watches over me.

Your Conversation
By Don Iannone

Your life boils down to a conversation
that started at your birth, and carries on
until the day it is over, or
when you decide you can carry it no further.
For most of us,
this conversation is like water:
trickling at times,
gushing at others, and
when it's really cold, freezing up
like a frozen pond in the midst
of a Minnesota winter.
This conversation, flowing in so many directions,
always finds its way back to what matters;
like why you suffer so
about your own self-perceptions,
or why you think
you are so unworthy of God's love.
Like all conversations, your conversation
must involve both talking and listening.
Always there must be another,
even if it's an imagined other,
for a conversation to take place.
Tune into the conversation flowing through you.
Be sure to listen first,
and once you're plugged in,
ask the hard questions;
that is those whose answers you fear the most.

Note: Inspired by David Whyte's recent seminar in Cleveland.

No Beginning or End
By Don Iannone

Maybe like me,
you have hopelessly wondered
at some point in your life
how you will know
when your spiritual journey has begun,
and when it will be over.
If so,
these words by Dogen Zenji
will bring resonance to your heart:
"There is no beginning to practice
nor end to enlightenment;
there is no beginning to enlightenment
nor end to practice."
And so,
simply find joy in life
as it comes to you,
and give up any notion
that life is a race
with any start and finish lines.

I Am Truly Blessed

I just learned this morning that I share a birthday with Dogen Zenji.

Dogen Zenji (19 January 1200–22 September 1253) was a Japanese Zen Buddhist teacher born in Kyoto, and the founder of the Soto school of Zen in Japan. He was a leading religious figure of his time, as well as being an important philosopher. Zenji is a title meaning "Zen master", while the name Dogen means roughly "Source of the Way".

Dogen was born into a noble family. Dogen's father died when Dogen was 3 years old, and his mother when he was 8, which strongly impressed Dogen with the Buddhist notion of impermanence.

Mind Drift at 4:40 AM
By Don Iannone

Sitting in the Phoenix Airport at 4:40 AM,
one's mind is desperately prone to drift
to whatever one's mind can grasp onto,
and at this ungodly hour, that's not much.
No coffee shops are open yet,
and so, no cafe-adreno highs, and
that all too familiar mind-surge that kicks in,
like the second four barrels of an eight-barrel carburetor,
after that first mug of steamy hot coffee.
Are you following me?
I hope so, but don't--
because I'm not going anywhere;
not even with this driveling 4:40 AM poem.
The airport has public WiFi,
and so there is Internet connectivity,
but without coffee, and so
mental connectivity is painfully fuzzy,
with only four hours sleep, and
no coffee to accelerate the synapses needed
to complete sanity circles at 4:40 AM.
What the hell are we doing in Iraq anyway?

Awakening to Morning's Dream-Like Reality
By Don Iannone

Stand witness to the morning sun,
as she cuts through
the clutter of dreams
left behind by your spirit
on your still fluffy pillow.
Embrace your new beginning,
as the clouds part,
allowing your heart to rejoice
in the newborn light of daybreak.
Resolve yourself to the reality
that how this day seems to you
flows directly from how you really are.
Appreciate early in this day
that the spirit-spun dreams
left behind on your pillow
may be your best shot at truth,
so long as you awaken to your dreams
before you sleep once again.

Rising Above
By Don Iannone

Spread your wings,
like a bird, or angel,
and fly high above
whatever cares or woes
anchor you to earthly suffering.
Fly away,
and soar,
like the eagle you are
when God lights up your heart,
illuminating all about you.
Rise above all illusions
causing you to drift
from reality's center.
Embrace the you encountered
as all that you're not
falls aside, and
let's the real you sail away.

What is the Right Path?
By Don Iannone

There comes a time when
each of us falls prey to wonder
whether our path is the right path.
Rest assured that...
your path is your path.
Is it right?
Is it your path?
Some times it helps to remember that:
"All paths are paths to God, because,
ultimately, there is no other place for the soul to go.
Everything has come out of God,
and everything must go back to Him."
Look inside this path you follow,
and there you will find your God.

Note: Ending quote from Paramahansa Yogananda

Cosmic Wisdom Encountered
by the Fireplace on a Saturday Night
By Don Iannone

Be as you are...
for being anything other
brings the death of you.
Be always as you can be...
for being anything other
robs you of joy--
always your best friend.
Be true to your dreams...
for they are your future,
and they set the stage
for your infinite becoming.
Be open to the moment's lingering...
for therein your soul resides.
Breathe in,
and inhale truth's fragrance,
for there...
the sweet smell of life overtakes you.

Withholding Judgment on a January Saturday Morning
By Don Iannne

A few arbitrary snowflakes tumble
from the airy gray January sky,
like lazy marshmallows,
with no certain destination.
Just like life: tumbling down into,
and through us...lacking any certainty beyond
what the moment knows and teaches us.
Einstein once said: "Before God,
we are all equally wise,
and equally foolish."
How foolish to judge the morning snow,
or its destination; let alone life
as it so happens, and dances,
like a sure-footed ballerina,
spinning on the head of a pin.

1,767,187,856 Seconds Old
By Don Iannone

Once a year, you are officially reborn,
and you become a year older,
or at least that day, your birthday,
is the tipping point people seem to remember.
Well, not everyone remembers, but some folks do,
or at least I hope a few do.
Truth is we are reborn in every budding moment,
whether we want to be or not.
Every wave of consciousness
sweeping through you
brings about a new you.
Just think if you needed a social security card,
or a driver's license for all those new yous.
There are 31, 556,926 seconds in a year...
that's a whole lot of new yous.
Imagine how that requirement would increase government spending!
And you thought we were wasting a lot of money
on the George W. Bush War in Iraq.
By the way, GWB was born in New Haven, Connecticut,
and not Texas, as his accent would suggest.
You'd think he'd treat Easterners nicer
because of his place of nativity.
Oh well, today is my birthday,
and it's a cold snowy day here in Cleveland,
matching the weather in little old Martins Ferry,
where I first popped up fifty-six years ago.
That was 1,767,187,856 seconds ago, and yeah I know...
that's a whole lot of new mes!

The New You is Ready
By Don Iannone

Is your soul asking you
to turn in a new direction:
one having more light, and
one having more heart?
Is the old you getting in the way
of the new you...
that is trying desperately
to come into being?
Is your day filled with resistance,
causing you to wonder
if you're possessed
by some demonic force?
Do you find yourself...lost,
alone, afraid, and uncertain...
more than you find yourself at peace,
assured, happy, and connected to the universe?
Listen to your soul,
and its message
that you have been reborn,
and the new you is ready.

Let the Morning's Silence Set You Free
By Don Iannone

Morning broke in silence
only the heart can hear.
Her slow steady breath enraptured
the dark sleeping trees,
whose silhouette forewarned
a shadowless January day.
It has been said...
that we must always bear in mind
that we are not going to be free,
but we are free already. And
that every idea that we are bound
is only an illusion.
Let the morning's silence set you free
as your shadow dissolves
in the morning's next breath.

Note: Quote on freedom by Swami Vivekananda

Until the Desert Night Once Again Falls
By Don Iannone

The desert night gasps for air,
like a seething tornado howls after
its own coveted perfectly still center.
Acetylene stars hang in pitch black sky
like crystalline Cinderella slippers
on a black velvet evening gown.
Too petrified to blink, our eyes lock
with the night's penetrating stare.
We long for the moon, but fear
the dreams it may birth in us,
crippling reality before its first awkward step.
The dunes cry mournful tears,
like those of a mother losing her only child.
I pray that one of the camels will move,
breaking the suffocating silence,
whose razor-sharp knife cuts deep
into the very jugular of our being.
Morning comes not a moment too soon,
and again we walk
until the desert night once again falls.

Avoiding Our Void with Fear
By Don Iannone

What is it that we fear
when we are afraid?
Look closely.
Observe your fear.
My fear is just more mind dust
trying to fill the unfillable void
emptying me into the endless river
beginning and ending nowhere.
Why do we work so hard
to fill the void inside us?
The void stands alone.
It is the only part of us that does.
All else requires something more...
something other that comes before or after.
The void needs nothing; not even you.
Once again, what is it you fear
when you are afraid?

Observing January
By Don Iannone

Cold dark late January afternoon.
Snow clings, like fluffy lint,
on frozen tree limbs shuddering
at the thought of three more months of winter.
Daylight fades, as afternoon gives way to evening,
and light wisps of snow now flurry their way
through openings pushed by winter's icy breath.
One lone sparrow in the distance
eyes the swaying feeder,
waiting for just the right moment
to descend for an early dinner
before darkness falls,
and the new moon rises.

My heart longs to sit
by a blazing fireplace,
nursing a stiff scotch on the rocks.

Friday Night at the ER
By Don Iannone

The hospital emergency room is filled
with long sick faces most nights.
It's Friday night, and
things are much worse than normal,
as a steady stream of e-squad vehicles
pull up and drop off sick and injured people.
You wonder how some people are still alive
after such horrible things happen to them.
A young girl is brought in
with the top of a pop bottle embedded
in her blood-drenched right eye.
Down the long corridor,
desperate unanswered cries echo
long after two men's bodies are hauled off
on cold black gurneys,
draped with stiff white sheets.
I listen in as a trembling elderly woman
with matted white hair
begs the trauma nurse to promise
someone will feed her cats,
who sit faithfully on the front window sill
until they are noticed and let into the house.
As I ready to leave,
a medical team rushes past me.
It's a major trauma patient...
a gunshot wound in the abdomen.
It's bad.
I partially turn away as the team wheels
a lifeless ashen-faced young Black boy
through the side entrance door.
His bright red blood is puddled
atop the piled sheets covering his thin frame.
As I walk limply to the car,
the cold January night air grabs me like death.

Snowbanks North of the House
By Robert Bly

Those great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six
feet from the house ...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more
books;
the son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no
more bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a
party, and loves him no more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls
leaving the church.
It will not come closer
the one inside moves back, and the hands touch
nothing, and are safe.

The father grieves for his son, and will not leave the
room where the coffin stands.
He turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.

And the sea lifts and falls all night, the moon goes on
through the unattached heavens alone.

The toe of the shoe pivots
in the dust ...
And the man in the black coat turns, and goes back
down the hill.
No one knows why he came, or why he turned away,
and did not climb the hill.

Beginning
By James Wright

The moon drops one or two feathers into the fields.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine

Happiness
by Jane Kenyon


There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

On Living
By Don Iannone

Live in hope,
For there, you can transcend,
Live in thanksgiving.
For there, you reap gratitude,
Live in wonder and surprise,
For there, you find joy,
Live in beauty,
For there, you find richness,
Live in truth,
For there, your heart rejoices,
Live in balance,
For only there can you live.

On Creativity...

"Any form of art is a form of power, it has impact, it can affect change--it can not only move us, it makes us move." --Ossie Davis

"[The artist] speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation--and to the subtle but invincible conviction of solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear…which binds together all humanity--the dead to the living and the living to the unborn." --Joseph Conrad

"The capacity to be puzzled is … the premise of all creation, be it in art or in science." --Eric Fromm

Tempering Our Haste to Change
By Don Iannone

The world is what it is.
What we make of it
is what really matters.
Leads me to say: Not a thing different
than what already is.
It's all perfect...
in its own imperfect way.
Too often, we fight what is,
and end up wanting things,
which make us suffer
even more than we would,
than if we simply came to terms
with ourselves and what is.

People You Meet in a Convenience Store on a Cold January Sunday Morning
By Don Iannone

Freeman, he calls himself.
I asked, and he told me
his amazing story of rebirth and freedom.
His real name: John Sylvester, and
a free man now, after forty-seven long years.
All this I learned while standing in line
at the local convenience store
buying a morning newspaper
on a cold January Sunday morning.
Yes, this was Freeman's first free Sunday,
after spending seventy-five percent of his life
in an Ohio penitentiary.
No, I didn't ask him what he had done.
Why steal away a man's first free Sunday morning
in forty-seven years?

Dancing with the Cobras Inside Us
By Don Iannone

Silent desperate virtues float
like dancing flames on burned down candles
in the timeless cave of the heart.
Just a feeling you say. Maybe, but
isn't it funny how habits of character--
both good and bad,
seem to linger inside us,
and dance like magical king cobras,
spitting their venom into our lives.
Destruction and regeneration, both potentialities
inside us in any given moment.
Sometimes one, and other times more...
quivering inside us, like slowly burning candles
awaiting the right breeze to ride in our direction.

Feline Tornado at 1:56 AM
By Don Iannone

Nothing rests or finds comfort in the house,
when the three tan-brown and white calicos
run amok in the late night shelter
of a fresh-blown full moon.
Nocturnality is their nature,
rushing through their feline veins
like triple X strength java coffee.
Blame their mania on global warming,
or an electromagnetic overload
from too many electrical devices in the house,
but deep down you know--it's their nature.
Look at their crazed eyes glowing in the dark,
like runway landing lights at the airport.
For God sake don't move...
your shins will be bruised below recognition,
like battered prize-fighters going into the last round.
Like tornadoes,
ripping their way across flat-ass Kansas,
the calico trio's night high must run its course.
God help us all
if the full moon lingers one more night.

Trouble Till the End
By Don Iannone

The trouble with life
is most of us live it
fearing its inevitable end.
The trouble with death
isn't dying, but
thinking we can escape it.
The trouble with time
is the fiction it writes
all over our lives.
The trouble with expectations
is they drag you screaming
from the moment, where
the only peace exists, and
where you always end up
until the last moment
passes through you.

Poem-Prone
By Don Iannone

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

Untroubling Your Mind
By Don Iannone

There is no need
to keep your mind full,
like your car's gas tank.
The mind needs no help filling itself,
which by now, you so well know.
This is what the mind does naturally,
like a horse filling its stall with crap,
when it isn't walked often enough.
The whole idea is
to keep the mind fresh, empty, and
receptive to what it encounters,
without replacing the mind's emptiness
with anything, other than
its original still emptiness.
After all,
all things come from nothing, and
after rising, return
to their untroubled empty state.

Artful Living
By Don Iannone

Life is creative.
We have choices
between the moments
that paint our life canvas.
Leading an artful life
gives life its meaning.
What is art?
It's what we are.
Never perfect,
but always imperfectably ours.
Art is what we make of our lives.
For me...
Poetry is one dimension.
Relationships another.
Work still another.
Even money is art.
Remove the change from your pocket.
Look at it closely.
We make it, so money is also art.
Today is a work of art
we are in the process of creating.
Tomorrow, just a gleam in our eyes,
leaps from the creative depths within us.
Live artfully.
It all means something then.

Uneventful January 1, 2007
By Don Iannone

Two thousand and seven begins with rain,
a fire in the fireplace, good wine,
and pleasant conversation.
Thoughts stray later in the day
to work and its return tomorrow.
Amibition sleeps a quiet watch,
and thoughts of the mundane drift,
like wispy late night dream clouds,
through my head.
Nothing resolved--
already too many promises made and broken.
Joy ebbs and flows,
between the steady drizzle of rain,
and parched words seeking sentences.
Just another day, falling upon us
moment by moment.

A Wish on the Eve of the New Year
By Don Iannone












This year has just about passed, and
the new year stands wait at our front door.
Pausing to reflect upon the world,
and all it is to all we are,
the notion that we are one seamless being
pushes our imaginations beyond
their normal comfort zones, and to a place
where all things are just one thing,
and that one thing is all we are.
Should a candle of hope ignite inside me,
giving birth to a wish, it would be
that we find meaning in our unbounded connectedness,
transcending the galaxy of excuses we allow
to separate ourselves from all else.
May I light this candle, and
may we all be enjoined by this wish.

As the Year Draws to a Close
By Don Iannone

Nearing the end...of the year.
Time to recount our blessings,
and look ahead in thanksgiving.
Time to see every end as a new beginning,
and every new beginning as an opportunity--
to renew and remember who we are.
Much to be thankful for in 2006;
not the least of which is abundant love
from family, friends and others
playing important roles in who we are.
Good health, happiness and above all...
union with Spirit, enlivening everything we are.
Many opportunities to grow...
through new learning and experience.
Welcomed prosperity through work
shaping our souls and moving us forward.
And creative moments in poetry, relationships,
and work solutions for those we exist to serve.
Looking ahead, and being open...to the moment,
and all it holds for us throughout 2007.

New Weather Patterns
By Don Iannone

Five-day forecast...
temps in the upper 40's and sunny.
This is late December, and
far from typical weather.
If you don't believe in global warming,
you might want to reconsider, because
the weather worldwide is changing, and
not exactly for the better.
As a youngster growing up in the 50s,
there was always plenty of cold and snow
during the Christmas season.
Now, we face March temperatures in December.
Not exactly what I'd order, but
exactly what we are getting
as I watch the Earth rain cleansing tears
in rememberance of winter's long-lost past.
Tears commemorating a part of us forever gone...
times fallen away like the snow-filled clouds
blanketing us in whiteness in earlier years.
Tears washing us away in time...
leaving us down river from times we knew
so well growing up so many years ago.

Readying Ourselves for the New Year
By Don Iannone

We create our own dragons in life, and
even the brave white knights that slay them.
Both are parts of the drama we imagine
as we move through life.
Walt Disney was partly right:
an imagination is a terrible thing to waste, but
it's also true that an imagination let run wild
is an out of control freight train headed for town square.
Some say: seek balance.
There's more than being balanced in life--
that's a convenient, and even PC, thing to say,
when we fall short on genuine self-understanding.
Beyond balance, we must understand
what the stars have written for us
on the giant tablet of fate.
In this way, we can exercise real choice in life.
Unless we know this first,
there is no way to ascertain balance, or
anything else in life.
And so, as we ready for 2007,
let's bear in mind our dragons, white knights,
and the self-understanding we must gather
to put all into perspective in the coming year.

Flying with Your Landing Gear Down
By Don Iannone

Ten minutes into our flight home,
the pilot informed us that we were flying
with our landing gear down.
He didn't sound overly concerned,
so the passengers did not react in panic, but
you could feel the tension in the air
throughout the cabin of the 50-seat Embraer RJ145.

Fifteen minutes later,
the pilot came back on to inform us
that he and his first mate were successful
in getting the landing gear back up.
Relief filled the airplane cabin.
I know that I was not the only person on board wondering
whether the crew would be able
to get the landing gear back down
once we were ready to land in Cleveland.

Flying has always been a mystery to me,
even though I do it all the time.
But flying isn't even one percent the mystery of dying,
which plagues our imaginations
from nearly our first breath in life.
No one I know would pick a plane crash
as their preferred way to die, but then
is there really any preferred way to die?
Some people, it seems, find it easier to rest
in the thought of their own impermanence.
I believe for all it is a struggle accepting
that we cannot be forever as we are now.

At this very moment, I look into my own heart,
and there I find remarkable peace
with the knowledge of not knowing
what will become of this airplane
and our lives attached to it.
I'm a long ways from a complete acceptance
of my own impermanence, but
for this moment, there is peace, and
a belief that the landing gear will work
once we are ready to land at our destination.

There is something symbolic in the notion
that at times all of us fly with our landing gear down.
Could this be what happens to us
when we are afraid, and
fail to trust God to deliver us?
In this moment of unknowing,
there is a knowing that can only be experienced
within the unknowing moment.
It is the consciousness that we are here,
while we are here, and
there will be a time for each of us
when we will be no more.

This situation is a reminder to me that when I fly,
I should draw up my landing gear and fly, and
when it is time to land, it is time only then
to put down the landing gear, and
when the time comes...
that my landing gear fails me finally,
I shall release all that holds me,
and fly into the arms of the universe
that will cradle me until
I am ready to sprout my own wings.

PS: This poem was written during our flight from
Burlington, Vermont to Cleveland, Ohio on
December 26, 2006. My wife Mary and
Mother-in-Law Ginny were on the flight with me.

The landing gear worked as we landed in Cleveland.
We were greeted by a team of fire trucks and emergency
vehicles whose services were thankfully not needed.

I rejoice in offering this poem to all those who struggle
at times with their own landing gear in life.

Day After Christmas
By Don Iannone

'Tis the day after Christmas, and
the snow has now decided to fall in Vermont.
Now 'tis time to make our way home to Cleveland,
which is actually a very welcome thought.
Spirits rise and fall during holidays, and
this Christmas was no exception.
The trouble with holidays,
as far as I can tell, is
we expect too much, and
somehow just miss the beauty
managing to show up each day.
Vermont we shall consider a friend from hereforth.
And so, the road has once again carried us in the right direction.

Reflections on an Early Christmas Morning in Stowe, Vermont
By Don Iannone

Dreams filled my head throughout the night before Christmas.
Gifts to myself? Maybe, but
mostly just churning waves lapping at my soul.
Each trying to awaken me to myself,
and the unknown mystery inhabiting all of us.

We went to church last night in Stowe...
something we talk about, but don’t do very often.
I haven’t seen a church so filled in a long time.
There was joy in being with others, and
celebrating something larger, and
there was also sadness in watching families together
with bright-eyed children, filled with wonder.

The awakening eastern sky drapes herself over the mountains,
like a pastel orange and gray shawl.
An omen, perhaps, that snow is on the way.
The sun will soon be up, and
the lodge will be a bustle with folks young and old,
decked out in once-a-year reds and greens.

Last night's dreams have now faded, and
the more mundane has overtaken my ability
to hold a spiritual pose on this Christmas morning.
Fresh baked cookies dipped in ice cold milk would suit me just fine;
but that would be childish of me, but
after all it is Christmas, and
why continue to hold this self-indulgent spiritual pose.
Like I really know anything...
about the unknown mystery within us all.

A voice within says just put one foot in front of the other,
brush your teeth, and let your day happen…
like every day in life.
How can one argue with that?
After all, that is the mystery of life,
and that is precisely how all Christmases happen.

Merry Christmas

May the blessings of Christmas fill your heart, and may you live your dreams always.

Hoping Uncle Paul will Stop By On Christmas Eve
By Don Iannone

When I was a young boy,
our dear Uncle Paul would sometimes stop
at our house on Christmas Eve
after the candlelight service at the old Methodist Church.
We never knew for sure if or when he’d stop, but
it was a joyous time when he did.
For some unknown reason,
he’d always drive past our house and toot his horn,
whether he stopped or continued on home.
I guess that was just his way of announcing his presence,
and perhaps a way for our family to ready for his arrival.
Not only did we relish his presence, and
the adoring interest he showed us as kids, but
his visit was the perfect excuse to stay up much later
than we normally were allowed, and
eat an additional fist full of Mom’s special iced cookies.
Uncle Paul was our eccentric uncle,
which many families seem to have.
Who knows...maybe that’s even my role in the family today.
Every family should indeed have an eccentric uncle, or aunt,
who gives you permission to do what is uniquely you,
and nobody else in life.
As I think back,
there was a certain Santa-like quality about Uncle Paul—
one hard to put your finger on,
but you sensed an innate magic about him.
Maybe it was how his bright blue eyes even twinkled—
just like Jolly Saint Nick, when he laughed.
No, Uncle Paul wasn’t a street smart merchant marine,
or even a burly lumberjack,
who fell tall trees in the wilderness.
Instead, he sold women’s shoes at the popular Baker’s Shoe store
in downtown Wheeling, and he owned a remote Christmas tree farm,
where he often fiddled away his Sunday afternoons.
He told the funniest stories about women, and
how they’d try to convince him
that their shoe size was much smaller than
what his measurement showed.
As Uncle Paul used to say “the customer is always right,
even if they’re wrong.”
As I sit here watching the snow lightly fall upon
the trees and the mountainside here in Stowe,
I celebrate my Uncle Paul and his unpredictable,
but always wonderful visits on Christmas Eve.
For some reason,
I miss him on this particular Christmas Eve.

'Twas the Eve Before Christmas
By Don Iannone

Cold starry December night,
filled with birth-giving anticipation.
Overflowing with creative magic...
of the sort only a child can bring forth.
From deep in the soul's evergreen forest,
new life rustles into being,
rippling itself across the universe,
like the countless stars filling the sky.
In the distance a new voice is born;
its faint cry lingers,
like that of the wind
singing through the trees.
On this eve before Christmas,
as all turn young again,
magic resumes its place
in our hearts just one more time.

Prayin' for Snow in Stowe
By Don Iannone

Off to Stowe
Hoping for snow
Even a dusting
I'm still trusting
Christmas in Vermont
Comes to miracles, we're dilettantes
Fireplace cracklin'
People cacklin'
Sleigh bells ringin'
Glad hearts singin'
Off to Stowe
No better place to go
But Santa please, bring some snow.

My Christmas Wish For You
By Indianchild

My Christmas wish for you, my friend
Is not a simple one
For I wish you hope and joy and peace
Days filled with warmth and sun

I wish you love and friendship too
Throughout the coming year
Lots of laughter and happiness
To fill your world with cheer

May you count your blessings, one by one
And when totaled by the lot
May you find all you've been given
To be more than what you sought

May your journeys be short, your burdens light
May your spirit never grow old
May all your clouds have silver linings
And your rainbows pots of gold

I wish this all and so much more
May all your dreams come true
May you have a Merry Christmas friend
And a happy New Year, too ..
We wish you a merry Christmas.

It's December 21st and Where's the Snow?
By Don Iannone

Bone-chilling December rain fell lightly
upon depressed red-headed cardinals, pecking
through muddy seed beneath a dripping feeder.
I overheard one redbird urge her mate
to book a flight to Billings, where
surely the snow will fly on Christmas day.
The neighbor's Christmas decorations,
hung ever so carefully a couple Saturdays ago,
looked pathetically helpless
in bringing cheer to the season.
I met the mail lady at the box this morning,
greeting her with a contrived Merry Christmas.
Mustering a bah humbug smile,
she returned the greeting, but
quickly added that everyone should try singing
"I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas"
to bring on some winter whiteness.
Why do we long so for snow on Christmas?
My Buddhist friends would say it's our conditioning...
and I'm inclined to agree, yet
I guess I'm still dreaming of a white Christmas.

Country Bar Martini
By Don Iannone

Strange town, strange bar.
Long day, long face.
Filled room, no seats, I'm shot.
Vodka martini in hand, relief in sight.
Country music, not my style...
but this is rural Pennsylvania,
and I'm a city slicker from Cleveland.
Nasty smell, burned popcorn.
Fat man, cigar, saddle shoes.
Retake...saddle shoes, fat man?
No way...not in a country bar
out here in the sticks!
Nasty smell, not popcorn...who knows what.
Chug-a-lug, martini glass empty.
Cheeks warm, head numbs.
Even this dingy place begins to look better.
Bar maid with big teased red hair pushes
drinks across the bar to eager customers,
working on leaving reality.
The idea for this poem pops into my head.
That's it!
Time to blow this joint...
no cotillion likely here tonight.

A Visit to Stan Hywet
By Don Iannone













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

Dreams Reveal the Dark Side
By Don Iannone

More dreams...
informing me about my psyche,
and its journey toward self-understanding.
This time...
they tell me how my dark side continues
to assert itself in my life journey.
This time...
it is an old black car--
an Edsel I believe--
running into my shiny new red car.
No serious damage done--
just another temporary disruption
in the journey homeward.

Snow in the Suburbs
By Thomas Hardy

Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward, when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.

A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eyes,
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a lower twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.

The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.

The Christmas Spirit
By Adams Burchell

Amongst the lights and tinsel
and the parcels wrapped with care,
Amongst the pies and puddings
and sweet aromas in the air,
Are hearts just spilling over
with love and generosity;
Is this not what Christmas is all
about - sharing our prosperity?
Volunteers, giving freely of their time,
show it in their eyes.
It's seen on the face of the less-fortunate,
receiving a Christmas surprise.
Carols sung as we light the tree
can make a senior smile;
Warm smiles and hugs can really help them
to walk that extra mile.
Amongst these joyous, loving deeds
is Christmas, pure and clear;
This is the part that could spill over,
amongst all the days of a year.

Sealing the Deal with a Kiss
By Don Iannone

Last night in my dreams,
I walked with a lovely young woman at my side
to Elm School...the grade school I attended
as a young boy in far-off Martins Ferry.
I was who I am today,
and she was a young alluring woman,
walking with me through my dream.

Given the choice,
I'm not sure I would have picked her
to co-star in my dream, but
there she was...
fetched up and sent my way
from my inner depths.
Given the choice,
I don't believe I would have
even drawn up this particular dream...
but there it was...
and there I was...
walking in the direction of a childhood dream
on the school yard of my old grade school.

It was bright daylight...
a sunny day, but
inside I knew it was really almost 2 AM...
much later than it seemed.
The young woman was familiar to me,
but I didn't really know her,
but I wanted her, and she wanted me.

She said she wanted to work for me...
like a student intern works for a professor.
Her studies were demanding,
but she was willing to work for me part-time...
up to twenty hours a week.
I think she knew she couldn't have me fulltime.

I asked her how much she needed to make.
She quickly replied two times $2.50 an hour.
I remember thinking that two times $2.50
was an odd way to say $5.00 an hour,
but I was overwhelmed by my fascination
with the young woman and the opportunity.
I felt the need to add it all up,
as though the math made any difference.
I did the math in my head...
concluding that employing her for a year
amounted to a mere $10,250.
This sounded like a very good deal to me...
a relatively small price to pay.

I offered her the job,
and she accepted without reservation.
We smiled at each other,
forcing our eyes to meet
with nothing in between.
Suddenly, I wanted to kiss her.
My heart beat quickened
as I entertained the thought.
I knew this was what she wanted as well.
Our faces drew near and our lips met.
It was a short and sweet embrace,
but her taste lingered.
Inside I knew we had a deal,
and it had been sealed with a kiss.

Awaking suddenly,
I was left to wonder...
about the deal I had just made.
I also realized that five bucks an hour
for twenty hours a week for a year
was actually only $4,800.
Something deep inside tells me
this lovely young woman,
so eager to work for me,
might be my own feminine energy
wanting to join in the business of my life.

Return to Campus
By Don Iannone

Eyes closed, sitting
while my uplifted face fills with Tucson sun
on a warm December morning.
Mind wondering back...to 1969,
when I was here before.
A U of A student then, and
still a student, and
always a student...of life.
Innocent then. Well maybe not
as much so as I think.
Young then, and full of myself, and yes
still somewhat full of myself, but
now older and filled with other aspects of life.
It's magical to sit in the same place
you sat 37 years ago, observing life
from a different place in life's river.
It's wonderful to be reminded
on a park bench on campus
that your soul is still young.

Things You Didn't Put On Your Resumé
By Joyce Sutphen

How often you got up in the middle of the night
when one of your children had a bad dream,

and sometimes you woke because you thought
you heard a cry but they were all sleeping,

so you stood in the moonlight just listening
to their breathing, and you didn't mention

that you were an expert at putting toothpaste
on tiny toothbrushes and bending down to wiggle

the toothbrush ten times on each tooth while
you sang the words to songs from Annie, and

who would suspect that you know the fingerings
to the songs in the first four books of the Suzuki

Violin Method and that you can do the voices
of Pooh and Piglet especially well, though

your absolute favorite thing to read out loud is
Bedtime for Frances and that you picked

up your way of reading it from Glynnis Johns,
and it is, now that you think of it, rather impressive

that you read all of Narnia and all of the Ring Trilogy
(and others too many to mention here) to them

before they went to bed and on way out to
Yellowstone, which is another thing you don't put

on the resumé: how you took them to the ocean
and the mountains and brought them safely home.

Crusoe
By George Bilgere

When you've been away from it long enough,
You begin to forget the country
Of couples, with all its strange customs
And mysterious ways. Those two
Over there, for instance: late thirties,
Attractive and well-dressed, reading
At the table, drinking some complicated
Coffee drink. They haven't spoken
Or even looked at each other in thirty minutes,

But the big toe of her right foot, naked
In its sandal, sometimes grazes
The naked ankle bone of his left foot,

The faintest signal, a line thrown

Between two vessels as they cruise
Through this hour, this vacation, this life,
Through the thick novels they're reading,
Her toe saying to his ankle,

Here's to the whole improbable story
Of our meeting, of our life together
And the oceanic richness
Of our mingled narrative
With its complex past, with its hurts
And secret jokes, its dark closets
And delightful sexual quirks,
Its occasional doldrums, its vast
Future we have already peopled
With children. How safe we are

Compared to that man sitting across the room,
Marooned with his drink
And yellow notebook, trying to write
A way off his little island.

The Child's Creative Spirit
By Don Iannone

Nothing comes close
to a child's love to create
from that magical well within.
No imagination can reach
as far or deep as the child's inner eye,
when consumed totally...
by whatever the moment holds.
Each stroke of the brush,
every word written,
and every smile cast--
all unadulterated symphonies
echoing in the soul's sky blue waters.
Is it any wonder
that we cry when we grow old,
and slip into our child-like dreams
to bring us joy and comfort?

Dedicated to the children in
Oman's Sultan Qaboos University Hospital.

Wintertime
By Robert Louis Stevenson

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

Snowflakes
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

Seeking
By Don Iannone

We circle life,
and it circles us.
All the while...it seems at times
we are so far away...from life
and all else we seek.
On the surface...I know
the answers cannot be sought, and
that seeking is not the answer.
Deep down, however...
an ancient program goes off,
and sets me on a chase
for something or someone
other than what or who I am.
It's easy to intellectualize, and say...
why seek...there is nothing,
but the search program--
far more powerful than Google--
goes off and sends us chasing
after our tails, and God knows what else.
All we can do is remind ourselves,
and not in a punishing way,
that we already have everything
we will ever need in life,
and it's there for us when we turn inward.

A Sunday Morning Twisted Panties
Conversation with Myself
By Don Iannone

Can you honestly say...
that you intended this life to be?
You might be thinking:
what kind of question is that,
or why even ask such a question?
Well...it hit me this morning
that not only is it tough
to explain my life path to here,
but I'm not really sure where the hell here is.
And where am I go...innng?
Where am I,
and when will that coffee be ready?
Somebody help me! (Said in a goofy Jim Carry voice.)
Ok, so I know I'm typing this poem
on my computer...in my office...at this moment,
but where is my life?
Ok, so maybe I didn't misplace my life...
but where is this thing I call a life,
and is this the life I want?
Either way, this is the life I have--for now.
Yes, this is my life,
including my poetry, and
my obsession to write a poem every morning.
This is nonsense...
mental masterbation.
Why get my panties all twisted in a knot
on a ice cold December morning?
Enough of this.
Gee...maybe I should buy Albert's new book:
You're Not Who You Think You Are.

December Daybreak
By Don Iannone

Deafening quiet December morning.
Still cold air surrounds and bites at nothingness.
Fresh white snow...piled deep, muffles
worldly worries and woes.
Light creeps slowly into day, through naked trees,
awakening bright red cardinals,
plopping from perches into glittering snow
in search of first light breakfast.
No highway sounds, lawnmower roars...
only the sound of lingering stillness
hushing the heart into patient repose.

All Bets are Off
By Don Iannone

I heard the heavy thud as well,
but it registered with Karma even more so.
It took me just a second to ascertain that the thud
was just a small snow avalanche on the roof.
Karma had not fully processed the situation,
and whether there was a threat.
Her face said it all...
well, as much as needed to be said.
Ears back, laying close to her head.
Tail bushed out three times its normal size.
But it was really written in her eliptical eyes,
which said in fright: "All bets are off...for now."
No risks to be taken in this moment.
I respect that in a cat.
After all, what choice do we have
when it comes to cats.
I set no expectations about Karma--
our cat, or that which will follow me in life.
And no, cats don't follow you,
but your soul's residue will.
I left the room.
By the time I returned,
Karma's eyes were shut tight as a drum.
It was apparent...
that all bets were back on, and
I would need to find another chair to sit in.

Reflections on a Snowy December Morning
By Don Iannone

On this gray sky December morning,
tears filling my sleepy eyes,
I long to sled ride with old friends
from my childhood Martins Ferry.
So long I have been gone from my home--
Martins Ferry, and the center within me
that will always be home, no matter where I am.
So long I wanted to forget about the struggles there--
in Martins Ferry...to grow up, feel loved, and just be...somebody,
and really anybody other than who I was .
So long I wanted to forget the me that was born
in that dirty factory town along the Mighty Ohio.
Now...watching lazy snowflakes drift slowly to the ground--
each a child playing happily, without ambition, or
any care stunting their joy,
a certain sadness rises and falls inside me,
knowing I have forsaken myself--
and the most important gift ever given me in life.
Why does it take so long, or at least it seems,
for us to wake up and realize we were born, literally,
with everything we would ever need in life?
Why can't we just let go--
enjoying the ride down the hill
with our friends from Martins Ferry?

Quiet Liberation
By Don Iannone

Caught up in the beauty
of a full moon December night.
Miracles part the clouds,
heavy with august snow--
falling hard, and
drifting slow motion across soundless yards.
No lunar madness,
or catastrophic emotional tidal waves
sweeping hearts out to sea.
Only peace, and
an empty lingering sense of quiet liberation
rising in soul depths.
No urge to cry out,
like a moon-crazed wolf in the tall timbers.
Just undeniable primordial joy.

In the Swing
By Don Iannone

Gentle star-kissed night.
Lulling summer breeze.
Faint lilac scents drifting...
across the yard.
Rocking...
back and forth
in the front porch swing of life.

Unattach
By Don Iannone

Like the man
hitching his wagon
to a mad horse,
the surface world
seeks to harness
our spirits to
thought and desire.

Caught, Captured and Released
By Don Iannone

Caught by will...
somewhere between
here and there
and then and now.
Captured by grace...
transcending all resistance
letting go
and letting God.

Mind and Form: A Poem on Esoteric Thought
By Don Iannone

It burrows its way through life like a mole.
Seeking and creating as it seeks,
and whatever it creates, it seeks again,
because it now knows its target.
Yes, the mind forever leaves its traces--thoughts,
some idle and lame, some subtle and deep,
some indiscernible from feelings and bodily movements.
Not just some organ in your head,
like your boozed out liver,
or your burned out lungs.
It's more like the air you breathe--
it's everywhere inside and outside you.
Mostly you think it's inside you,
but it's also outside the embodied you.
It's a creature and creator of habit.
It adores form, and
simultaneously abhors and delights
at the formless and unmet in life.
It loves form because each form
is a familiar and known furrow
created by an earlier burrow.
It loves the formless and unmet too,
because each is a conquest
to sculpt a form from the formless.
Over time, the mind learns to love itself,
and so it clings to itself and its creations, because
these are its children--
its offspring offered to all it has created, and
the make-believe separate external world,
which it has also created as a plaything, and
as a form against which to forge other forms.
It can only think of itself as a form
because it has low self-insight,
and only sees that which it has formed.
Its true nature, I believe, is formless, and yet
the mind can only grasp the formless as a form.
How sad, you say, that your mind
cannot grasp its true nature.
Don't sadden yourself with such machinations.
Even your sadness is a form, created by your mind,
as a futile attempt to give form to itself.
The answer? Don't go there either...
for answers are also illusory forms
seeking formless questions...
that are nothing more than your mind's gropings
to transcend form and reach formless permanence.
Next time you decide to visit reality, whatever that is,
don't think about it.

PS: Don't take any of this seriously. It could lead to
life-threatening illusions.

Abide in Your Own Emptiness
By Don Iannone

Exactly how big is that hole inside you
that you work day and night to fill?
All the things you throw into yourself,
hoping to fill the emptiness,
that grows deeper and wider
with every scoop of anything
you shovel into the hole.
It's strange how emptiness
attracts something...anything,
that promises to replace it
with anything other than emptiness.
Your emptiness is the real you--
the you that comes before all else,
including everything that fills you.
You are the vessel
that is filled with emptiness.
Embrace your emptiness.
Welcome it like a long lost friend.
It asks nothing of you,
nor does it ask you to be anything.
Be that empty vessel--
always open, and always receptive
to whatever the moment presents.
You won't be sorry.

Melancholy Stranger
By Don Iannone

He comes in the night...
that melancholy stranger,
whose footsteps you hear,
but only after he is upon you.
His night breath whispers
long silence in your ear.
You try not to listen,
but it's too late...
he has reached inside you,
and now possesses you,
like his own.
He comes and goes at will.
Haunting your peace,
stealing your joy, and
making you forget...
the sun rises every morning,
sweeping away the shrouding darkness.

It is Given
By Don Iannone

And what of life...
that which we live,
that which is given...
by another much greater,
much more loving,
much more gentle,
and one amongst us
any hour, day or night.
This one cradles us...
in love and tenderness.
This one holds our hand,
bringing us tears of joy,
reunion, and connection.
It's all within our grasp...
every last drop of life,
every dream we've sung,
every moment we've been lonely,
every smile gracing our lips,
every cloud blocking the sun,
every cleansing drop of rain
nourishing our would-be dying spirit
longing only...to be touched.

Bad Hair Blessings
By Don Iannone

Bad hair is no excuse for a bad day.
Instead it speaks to the wild beast within you.
You know...that untamed nature
you've worked so hard to tame
with little to no success.
Your wild hair reflects your true nature.
Steppenwolf said it in their 1968 song:
Like a true nature's child...We were born, born to be wild.
Your wild hair is a special sign...from God
that you are an exceptionally strong person
who can handle big life challenges.
Why else would you be afflicted with this curse?
On the other hand,
should you decide that your hair condition is fatal,
consider all the bald people out there,
who wish they warranted a shiny new hair brush
in their Christmas stocking this year.

Don's Albert Einstein Morning Hair

When the Security Alarm Calls Your Name
By Don Iannone

Wednesday 4:16 AM.
Security alarm screeches out in the night.
Hearts jump out of our chests.
Cats streak out of the bedroom.
Confusion and terror all at once.
Groping for the light.
Fumbling to turn off the alarm,
but not too quickly in case...
there is a real threat.
Alarm panel flashes "PHONE."
Phone? What the hell?
Oh, the phone must not be working,
and the security system ties into the phone line.
Check the phone.
Checking...
Dead as a door nail.
Call security company...on the cell phone, because
the regular phone line is...dead.
Security people conclude the obvious:
Sir, your phone line isn't working.
Duh!
Don't you love experts?
Ok Ma'm, so how do we shut off this blaring alarm?
Sir, power down the system.
What? How do I do that?
Go to the basement, and
I will instruct you on the procedure.
Procedure?
Ma'm, I know nothing of these things.
I think, but don't say:
Fixing things skips generations in my family.
And guess what? It skipped me.
Alarm still blaring...
obviously the neighbors hate our guts
for our alarm awakening them two hours early.
Standing in my bathrobe,
with my Albert Einstein morning hair,
I succeed in powering down the alarm system.
Finally it's quiet.
The cats are nowhere to be found for two hours.
I look everywhere.
How do they know how to hide so well?
Must be genetic, like my lack of mechanical aptitude.
An unexpected spiritual moment overtakes me...
Live in the moment...that's what your alarm in telling you.
I think...shit. I just want my coffee.

Plunge in Wonder
By Don Iannone

Mandala by Mandala Visions











Wonder often,
Wonder wide,
Wonder further,
Never hide.
Never cease
to be amazed,
Delve deeper,
Delve wide.
Plunge the depths
for there to find
the truth you seek.
In stillness, there abide.

What's in a Name?

Angela over at Bold Contemplations made me aware of this website by Paul Sadowski that uses numerology to tell you what your name means. Thanks Angela, and thanks Paul Sadowski!

Here is what I learned...

You entered: Donald Terry Iannone.
There are 18 letters in your name.
Those 18 letters total to 91.
There are 7 vowels and 11 consonants in your name.

Your number is: 1

The characteristics of #1 are: Initiating action, pioneering, leading, independent, attaining, individual.

The expression or destiny for #1:

A number 1 Expression denotes the skilled executive with keen administrative capabilities. You must develop the capacity to be a fine leader, sales executive, or promoter. You have the tools to become an original person with a creative approach to problem solving, and a penchant for initiating action. Someone may have to follow behind you to handle the details, but you know how to get things going and make things happen. You have a good mind and the ability to use it for your advancement. Because of these factors, you have much potential for achievement and financial rewards. Frequently, this expression belongs to one running a business or striving to achieve a level of accomplishment on ones talents and efforts. You have little need for much supervision, preferring to act on your own with little restraint. You are both ambitious and determined. Self-confident and self-reliant must be yours, as you develop a strong unyielding will and the courage of your convictions.

Although you fear loneliness, you want to be left alone. You fear routine and being in a rut. You often jump the gun because you are afraid of being left behind.

The negative attributes of the 1 Expression are egotism and a self-centered approach to life. This is an aggressive number and if it is over-emphasized it is very hard to live with. You do not have to be overly aggressive to fulfill your destiny. The 1 has a natural instinct to dominate and to be the boss; adhering to the concept of being number One. Again, you do not have to dominate and destroy in order to lead and manage.

Your Soul Urge number is: 6

A Soul Urge number of 6 means:

With a number 6 Soul Urge, you would like to be appreciated for your ability to handle responsibility. Your home and family are likely to be a strong focus for you, perhaps the strongest focus of your life. Friendship, love, and affection are high on your list of priorities for a happy life. You have a lot of diplomatic tendencies in your makeup, as you a able to rectify and balance situations with an innate skill. You like working with people rather than by yourself. It is extremely important for you to have harmony in your environment at all times.

The positive side of the 6 Soul Urge produces a huge capacity for responsibility; you are always there and ready to assume more than your share of the load. If you possess positive 6 Soul Urges and express them, you are known for your generosity, understanding and deep sympathetic attitude. Strong 6 energy is very giving of love, affection, and emotional support. You may have the inclination to teach or serve your community in other idealistic ways. You have natural abilities to help people. You are also likely to have artistic and creative leanings.

If you have an over-supply of 6 energy in your makeup, you may express some of the negative traits common to this number. With such a strong sympathetic attitude, it is easy to become too emotional. Sometimes the desires to render help can be over done, and it can become interfering and an attitude that is too protective, rather than helpful. The person with too much 6 energy often finds that people tend to take advantage of this very giving spirit. You may tend to repress your own needs so that you can cater to the demands from others. At times, there may be a tendency in this, for becoming over-loaded with such demands, and as a result become resentful.

Your Inner Dream number is: 4

An Inner Dream number of 4 means:

You dream of being a very solid citizen that people can depend upon. You strive for organization and predictable order. You want to be recognized as a person with a plan and the discipline to make that plan work like clockwork.

Want to learn about your birthday? Click here!

According to my birthday analysis, I have a Life Path Number of "9." What is a "9?"

The Life Path 9 suggests that you entered this plane with an abundance of dramatic feelings coupled with a strong sense of compassion and generosity. The key to the nature of a Life Path number 9 person is found in their humanitarian attitude. Even the very average of those with life path 9 possess extremely compassionate tendencies.

Usually this number produces an individual that is very trustworthy and honorable, and one unlikely to harbor any sort of prejudice. Obviously, this is a rather tall order, but you are, in fact, a person that feels very deeply for individuals less fortunate than yourself, and if you are in a position to help, you certainly will. The 9, being the highest of the single digit numbers, holds an elevated position in terms of responsibilities to mankind.

Material gains are not overly important, although the quality of some life path 9 people is such that they are materially rewarded in very significant ways. In this, however, the 9 Life Path is not apt to get rich since they are very generous, sometimes to a fault, and usually have an easy come, easy go attitude about money. The rare 9 life path has a totally selfless attitude, giving up of material possessions for the common good.

The 9 Life Path indicates you have a commanding presence. You have the ability to make friends very easily, as people are attracted to your magnetic, open personality. The term "hail-fellow" may have been coined to describe a 9 Life Path, as you may indeed be one of those who is generally upbeat and heartily friendly and congenial. You meet people easily and are quickly befriended because of your openness and amiable demeanor. Your genial ways often put you in the lead in whatever field of endeavor you pursue.

Relationships can be difficult for you because it is hard to strike a balance that will work effectively. If your partner is one sharing your giving attitudes, the relationship will be happy and lasting. On the other hand, if you choose a partner whose focus is on material issues, problems will arise quickly.

You tend to be quite sensitive, as you see the world with much feeling. The number 9's very deep understanding of life is sometimes manifested in the artistic and literary fields. If drama and acting is not your forte, it will surely be an area of great interest and potential. Likewise, you may be able to express your deep emotional feelings through painting, writing, music, or other art forms.

The purpose of life for those with a 9 life path is often of a philosophical nature. Judges, spiritual leaders, healers and educators frequently have much 9 energy. The number is less inclined to the competitive business environment and may find this a struggle.

As do all the life path numbers, the 9 has its negative side. Because of the demanding nature of the truly positive 9, many tend to fail in this category. It is not uncommon for persons with the 9 life path to fight the realities and challenges of purpose imposed here because selflessness is not an easy trait. You may have difficulty believing that giving and a lack of personal ambition can be satisfying. It must be realized and accepted that little long-term satisfaction and happiness is to be gained by rejecting the natural humanitarian inclinations of this path.