Author: Don Iannone, D.Div.

Thanksgiving Day,
What can I say,
Four days to go,
Hope we get some snow.

Cranberries, turkey, oh the dressing,
But always first, say a blessing,
Pumpkin pie, not ala mode,
All this food, stuffed like a toad,

Family time, all come together,
Always fun, big endeavor,
Macy’s Parade, on the tube,
Beats playing, Rubik’s Cube.

Giving thanks, for everything,
Lucky us, so we sing,
Backward glances, we recall,
Thanksgivings past, good for all.

Stuffed we are, at day’s end,
On the phone, greetings send,
To those not here,
We give some cheer.

Count the days,
Hearts ablaze,
Let us cheer,
Thanksgiving Day, almost here.

If you look closely, you will see
the masterpiece Winter painted
along mighty Erie’s shore
in the darkness, well into the early morning light.

You will see winter’s fondness for ever so subtle shades of gray,
How one by one, winter’s breath bends, sheaths the tall ornamental grass
in rounded silvery whiteness,
And how he paints ripply footprints at the water’s edge.

If you look closely, you will see
the fluttering gulls in the distance,
Seemingly small, yet not insignificant,
Every detail a pixel of life.

There’s more, if you look closer.
If you’re willing to brazen the biting wind,
Like the pile of jagged sticks, and mossy green rocks from summer.
Now a single creamy white ice sculpture.

And if you hold your eyes and heart wide open,
You can read the painter’s signature,
Written in the battleship gray sky—
December!

All that is above
is also below.
The invisible inside
eventually is projected outward.

What takes form outside reflects back,
like the pond’s perfectly still surface,
allowing the soul to glimpse itself,
if only for a fleeting second,
before dissolving like the day into night.

The world around us appears and disappears
with each turn of the psychic wrench,
tightening and loosening our grip
on all coming and going as reality.

All springing from the inner depths
eventually is planted
in the outer mirror
for all to see.

As above,
so below.
As above,
so below.

I gaze upon her,
Virgin as she is,
But not for long,
Her purpose from the start—
To meld, join, transform,
Bring about what doesn’t exist,
Birth new beginnings.

First beginnings, I think:
Eden, Big Bang, cosmic innocence,
All other beginnings, only because
There was a first beginning,
A starting point before all others.
A single, untouched placeless event.
From that point, all others.

I hear him:
Making holes again.
Hollow places in dead trees.
He’s very old, you know.
Prehistoric!
Pterodactyl-like, I think.

With his red crest
bobbing up and down,
He seems very proud.
Cocky, I’d say.

His drilling stops.
Oh, I hear him.
Odd cuk wucka sounds.
She makes him wait.
I know he’s listening for her.
Finally she returns his call.
His pecking resumes.

Strange fellow–
that pileated woodpecker.
Feasting on ants and beetles
Deep in the old forest,
where there is plenty of dead wood.

The hollow tree is his drum.
He plays a driving beat.
Latin rock, I think.
He’s ancient, you know.
I hope I see him.

A certain clumsiness comes with old age,
Almost another adolescence,
We stumble–
On our words, footsteps, and
even our prognostications about life.
All else keeping us awake at night.

A certain clumsiness comes with old age.
Even when we’re seventy-one.
Thinking back, I remember
When my parents were where I am today–
Clumsily closer to nonexistence–
Where all is lost, including ourselves.

A certain clumsiness comes with old age.
And then, there is nothing,
Even the clumsiness ends
Once we get out of our own way,
And allow our stream of existence to empty back,
Into life’s sea of new possibilities.