Author: Don Iannone, D.Div., Ph.D.

Biography Writer, photographer, poet, and teacher. Holds doctorates in Divinity and Metaphysical Philosophy. Author of 20 books, including seven poetry books, nine photography, and four nonfiction books. Contact Information Contact Don Iannone by email: diannone@gmail.com

Makes You Wonder

Makes you wonder
Why we worry so much
Why we fret reality
What’s completely inevitable
Far beyond our desires

Makes you wonder
What lies inside
Making us so sensitive
To a sunrise, sunset
And everything in between

Despite all we think we know
Tomorrow shows up
Magically intertwined with today
And all other days
That have ever been

Wanting to simply believe
In Santa Claus, Jesus, God the Father
Yet it is so clear
What we believe
Always serves what really is

So we appear in each moment
Somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow
The key, never fear or doubt
What and how life presents itself
Instead, savor each breath, its life-giving

We’re All Naked

Past a point
We’re all naked
Without purpose
Any end destination

Once you look closer
See past all good and bad
Where we live daily shows up
Like a boil on our ass

Crude you say
How life treats us
Or what washes up
On life’s ever-churning beach

Don’t lose hope
Or forget all reason
For surely in between
Life worth living reappears

December Years of Our Lives

I wish I could be
Satisfied for just one moment
Unafraid of serendipity
Strangers stealing sweet complacency

Somehow we manage
To find ourselves
Side by side
With truth and unreality

No answers
To all questions
Far less certain
Than our lingering fragile suspicions

So many times
I, like you, wondering
Is this all there is
Have I lost my direction

Just the other day
I met a man using fire
Forging reflective glass
Helping us see ourselves, find our way

Dismissing youth
Men with fewer years
I sat and watched
My own dismal, fading sunset

Doing My Christmas Shopping in Martins Ferry One Week Before Christmas in 1958

Once again thinking back
Christmastime Martins Ferry
Shopping list inside my gray wool mitten
Trudging through virgin white knee-deep snow

The walk uptown
Past Teare’s Drug, the rowdy Antler Bar
Finally down South Fourth Street
Woolworths, the Fenray Theatre

Emptying my Christmas Club account
All seven dollars and nine cents
At the old Citizen’s Bank
Just north of Isaly’s, best ice cream in town

In 1958, seven bucks bought a lot
Presents for Mom, Dad, my sister, both grandmas
Magically, the right gifts always appeared
With at least a dollar to spare

Arms full, the walk home
Along South Fifth Street
But first a stop in the library
Then a browse of candy at Tidbit’s

The snow started again
A week till Christmas
I hoped, prayed it would last
Ensuring Santa’s on time arrival

Taking Us Home

This time we’re going back
To move forward
This time less will be more
Not more and more

This move will simplify
Clarify us inside out
Bring us into focus
Help us back home

We were getting painfully close
To losing what’s most important
Not money, what it buys
But what’s deep in our hearts

Hard times remind us
With some pain, what’s most precious
Certainly life itself
All it dreams

December Reminiscences

Sometimes I wish I could go back
To my younger years
When magic walked the Earth
And all destiny rested in my dreams

Dreams that went beyond what was
To new untouched places
By me, you, anyone
Places deep inside our then tender hearts

Things weren’t particularly easy
Plenty of struggles with reality
But you felt what love was
Never more than a hug away

Things meant something back then
For their own sake, it seemed
Not because they helped you do anything
Or be anybody

Back then, dreams could overtake you
Grab you up in their big arms
Hug you like a bear
Shake you to life

We laughed and cried
Because they were the right things to do
Joy, as simple as a shiny red apple
Pain, just tiny scratches on a mountain

If you wished hard enough
Any day could be Christmas
Daily experiences outnumbered memories
So many lingering sweet first kisses

Days and nights were playmates
Not irreconcilable opposites or indecipherable dialectics
You said your prayers each night
You woke up happy in the morning

I go back once in a while
More and more as I grow older
And as life and death become equal partners
And goals give way to just being

Nam Christmas

No perfect world
So very far from it
Yet here we are
This place called Vietnam
It’s almost Christmas, again
And we’re still here

Not a place we dreamed of being
When we were kids
Hardly could we find it on a map
But we’re all here
Somebody else’s home
Courtesy of…the US of A

Here we are
Hoping, waiting, doing what we can
To survive each day
Outlast what belies us
What eventually unravels us all
Hidden in these hideous forests, swamps

After a while
You forget the reason
Why you signed up
Why you forgot
A razor thin line
Separates us all from life and death

Christmas Eve has just landed
Give thanks to God
No more incoming fire
Just dead silence
If only now there was some sign
There will be a tomorrow

A Special Christmas in 1958

I was seven
Though big for my age
Still believed in Santa Claus
That wizardly wise, white-bearded jovial old man
Gifting the world each Christmas
With toys, candy-filled stockings, other things
Of which childhood dreams are made

We lived at 919 Indiana Street
In Martins Ferry, O-hi-o
A large two-story tan and gray house
With an old coal furnace
Warding off winter’s frigid bite
Belching smoke and soot
All about the snow-covered roof and yard

Christmas fell on a Thursday in 1958
So Santa made his long-awaited visit
On a Wednesday night
Prayer meeting night, as we knew it in my family
A special late night candlelight service was held
Honoring the Christ Child’s birth
That went on well past 11 PM

I was deathly afraid Santa would skip our house
On this particular Christmas Eve in 1958
For Dad’s blue ’52 Ford wouldn’t start
In the cold, snowy, now empty church parking lot
The old V-8 refused to turn over
That onerous clicking sound
Only a dead battery can make

My sister Diana howled in tears
The very thought we’d miss Christmas
Mom mad as a hornet
So many loose ends to tie before Christmas morn
Dad’s frustration showed in his face and hands
His dark hair blown in all directions
By the blustery winter wind

At precisely twelve midnight
Dad proclaimed we must walk home
Back then, no cell phones to call a friend
And so we did
We walked and walked
One dark street to another
All good children fast asleep in their beds

At first I thought I was hallucinating
The sound of sleigh bells
Bright lights coming directly our way
Mom exclaimed it was an apparition
A sign surely we’d die this unbearably cold Christmas Eve
Dad hushed us to be quiet
Look past our fear, see reality he said

No sooner had our outbursts stopped
When a horse-drawn sleigh pulled to the curb
A tiny little man, no more than five feet tall
Descended the sleigh, calling out to us “Merry Christmas”
I watched the two large horses’ frozen breath
Spout from their large flared nostrils
As Dad talked with the strange little man

Then with a single motion of his hand
The little man waved us all into the sleigh
Where a heavy burlap blanket awaited us
Which we promptly pulled over our heads
The little man, it turns out, a widower
No children to his name
Asked us to call him “just one of Santa’s friends”

I peeked from under the blanket
Catching an occasional word or two
That either Dad or the little man said
One thing I remember was their talk about real gifts
Those one man gives to another
No expectation of anything in return
All for the joy of just giving

Fifteen minutes later
The sleigh pulled up to our house
Our tree lights still shining in the front window
The neighbor’s cat perched on our front porch
Dad tried to give the man some money
He refused, saying give it to someone in need
Someone who needs the money

As Dad opened our front door
I watched the magical sleigh drive away
And as I fell fast sleep that Christmas Eve
The little man, his horses, and the sleigh bells
Danced through my head
Somehow I knew, deep down inside
I had already been given my best Christmas present

Boys Climbing Trees

Click here to hear me read this poem.

Some things always remain a part of you
Like when you were seven
And shinnied up your first tree
Like some starved Colobus monkey
In search of tenderoni leaves for lunch

Sooner or later, every boy climbs a tree
A rite of passage to manhood
Maybe to see the world from a higher place
Or just because the tree was there
Teasing you silly in the hot mid-morning sun

My first a massive sprawling oak
Jutting out our weedy backyard
Into the red brick alley
Where wood frame garages and steel garbage cans danced
On howling winter nights

I climbed high way up
To the big “y”
Where I perched for nearly five minutes
While my friends below
Proclaimed me a hero

While half the tree remained unexplored territory
I reveled in my accomplishment
Tomorrow was another day
A chance to climb higher
Seeing even more of the world’s vastness

Once the neighbor’s cat, chased by a maniac dog
Darted up the big oak, climbing too far too fast
The fire department was called
To retrieve the terrorized calico
From the high branches

We boys gathered to watch the rescue
Lasting twenty long minutes
Because the cat wouldn’t budge
Till assured its canine assailant was clearly gone
And control of the world returned to the cats

Somehow you just knew
That 1958 would always be
A watershed year in your life
Preparing you for higher climbs
Bigger life adventures ahead

November Sparrow

Hear me read this poem (click here).

See the photograph inspiring this poem (click here).

So small, delicate
So full of November
That something making you
Fit perfectly into the whole
That I so desperately seek

It’s so easy for you
To be yourself
Not worrying what others think
For somehow you know
Who you are without trying

You, the November sparrow
Just happened along one day
I saw the sparkle in your eye–
The sparkle of life
As the sunlight fell upon you

There was music
No words
But life’s sweet melody
Drifting from you, through life
Touching everything about you

You make life seem so instantaneous
So there
Within reach
Approachable
Sadly believable
For all us nonbelievers

You, the November sparrow
Sitting meditatively still
Your hush overcomes me
My heart fills
Overflows with emotion

I am angered to think
That for so many years
I have hurried through November
On the way to Thanksgiving, Christmas
And all these years I have missed
The blessing of November

But for this moment
Because of you
I am filled with November
Her barren trees
Faded gray skies
Earthy browns and rust

My dear November sparrow
I thank God for you
My sweet reminder
Of November’s beauty, grace, charm
Because of you
November is a special place inside me

Her First Christmas Without Him

Hear me read this poem

At the window she stood watching
Waiting for him to meet her
As they had met so many times before

This hotel
Once filled with their happy moments
Times they had spent
In each other’s company
Sometimes just talking about small things
Only mattering because these things they shared

It was just before Thanksgiving last year
They had had a quite lunch
At their corner table
Their spot away from the world
Where they held hands
Where he looked at her
In that special way
Only he could look at her

She felt beautiful in his presence
She felt loved
He felt safe from his demons
Those he lived with all his life
And besides himself, only she understood

Nothing lasts forever
Not the happy times, nor the sad
Not even the demons
Even the memories fade away
Like paper-thin clouds
On a breezy summer day

He had been gone nearly a year
It had taken her that long to return
To their corner table at the hotel
The same three men were hanging the Christmas ornaments
A sight they had shared together
So many times before

They always closed their eyes
Until the last wreath was hung
At the window overlooking the square
Only then did one of the men turn on the lights
Only then did they open their eyes
And again their dream came true

She waited till the last wreath was hung
Before she walked to the window
Then she closed her eyes
Letting her tears fall
Like they never had before

She kept her eyes closed this time
Not quite ready to let him go
Maybe next year
After her first Christmas without him

A Sunday Morning Reflection on Nothing Special

White satin flowers
Azure summer sky
Gone for now
No need to cry

Wispful thinking
Maddening dreams of hope
November morning
Life’s unending scope

Seasons change
One to another
Watch your window
Thank Earth Mother

Faint gray-white clouds
Paintbrush sky
Leaveless trees
Oh my my

Easy going Sunday morn
Nothing to be done
Take it easy
Walk don’t run

No Words

Sometimes no words are needed
To say what the heart feels
Sometimes the words simply aren’t there
Perhaps they never were, never will be

At times like these
We can only share what we feel
Through a quiet hug, a knowing smile
A hand’s gentle touch

They’re never easy–
Fragile moments like this
Ever so beautiful flowers
Waving in a summer breeze

It’s hard saying goodbye
To the golden orange sun at sunset
Or the full moon casting shadows
On fresh fallen snow

And when we feel the melody so deeply
There are always tears
Those reminding us
It can never last

A Wednesday Afternoon Metaphysical Rant

Here is a poem I performed back in September. I have posted the poem with the prompts (found in caps and parentheses) I used in its reading so you can see how I approached the poem on stage.

Prefer to listen to me read this poem? Click here.

(GAZE OFF & EARNEST TONE)
Each moment, a piece of it all
A fragment, flash on the screen, an echo
An engagement of our most sacred being
If we REMEMBER, something reminding us
Who we are, who we’ve become
IN BETWEEN good looks in the mirror (PAUSE)

(SHIFT: SHAKE HEAD & SERIOUS) Growing up, I NEVER liked my hair
Too thick, too curly
Not flat and combable like my friends
(EMPHASIS & LOUDER, PAUSE, SHOCKED FACE) NOW LOOK AT ME!
Silver-white hair
Too thin
My Dad’s BALD spot at the back of my head
(SLOWER) Now I wish I had thick curly hair (PAUSE)

(SHIFT NORMAL VOICE My annual physical is next week
I’m not looking forward to it
Ten pounds heavier than last year
THOUGH I’ve been on a diet ALL year
Well, not the one those CLINIC doctors put me on (PAUSE)
(EMPHATICLY) Mine instead
Much easier, FAR more satisfying (PAUSE)
An extra dollop or two of mashed potatoes
Ice cream once a week
REAL ice cream
Not that low-fat stuff tasting like frozen wallpaper paste (PAUSE)

(SHIFT) This year they stick that tube with the flashlight up my BEE-hind
(EMPHATICALLY & SHAKE HEAD) Why would anyone want to be a proctologist? (PAUSE)
Don’t get me wrong (PAUSE)
The world needs butt doctors
BESIDES it pays well
But too bad they can’t fix the OTHER type of ASSHOLE
Like Joe Camel, (PAUSE) who flicked his cigarette butt out his pickup truck window
That NEARLY hit the hood of my new Lexus (PAUSE)
(DISGUSTED & SHAKE HEAD) Why don’t smokers put their stink sticks out in their car ash trays?
Every car comes equipped with one (PAUSE)

At times like that
I try to remind myself of what my guru, Swami Kund-a-gaspar said
“EVERYTHING in life is an opportunity to learn and grow (PAUSE)
Even the pigeon crapping on your head is a teacher
The pigeon teaches us to accept what the moment presents”
(EMPHATICALLY) “But pigeon crap?” I asked Swami
(LOW VOICE) His reply: “Yes. We must learn to deal with the SHIT in life
To detach from what we hold onto and mistake for the TRUE way” (PAUSE)
And so, I didn’t lay on the horn, and give Joe Camel the FINGER (PAUSE)
But deep down I prayed a pigeon would drop a BIG one on his noggin

(SHIFT & EMPHATICALLY) This economy STINKS (PAUSE)
(POINT FINGER) I blame that BOW-LEGGED, WAR-MONGERING George Bush (PAUSE)
And yes, Enron, AIG, and the rest of those corporate thieves (PAUSE)
OK (PAUSE), so we ALL share in the blame for our economic mess (PAUSE)
It’s the worst it’s been since the Great Depression
Which I missed, but certainly Dad experienced
He even had to drop-out of high school his junior year (CONTINUE)
To work at Gus McCann’s filling station in Benwood, West Virginia
Dad says it was the best thing he ever did
Ole Gus taught him to play the guitar—
Something that brought true happiness to my father (PAUSE)

(LOWER VOICE & SERIOUS) Dad died last October at 86, nearly a year ago
(NOD HEAD) He kept his sense of humor to the end
During one of my last visits with him, Dad said:
(GRAVE VOICE) “Boy (PAUSE) this economy is bad
I better get the HELL out of here
Before they raise the price of funerals
And up the admission fee to get into Heaven” (PAUSE)
(SMILE) He made it through, before both hiked their prices (PAUSE)

(SHIFT & EMPHATICALLY) I want to do something DIFFERENT with my life
HONESTLY, I am TIRED of working (PAUSE)
That is doing things for MONEY (PAUSE)
DON’T get me wrong, I LOVE money
But REALLY, work ISN’T all it’s cracked up to be (PAUSE)
Mostly I’m tired of the PIGEONS
You know, those people who are forever CRAPPING on you
Because they pay YOU to do something
That frankly THEY should do themselves (PAUSE)

(SHIFT) The older I get
The more KARL MARX’S words ring true to my ears (PAUSE)
(EMPHATICALLY) NO, I’m NOT talking about one of Groucho Marx’s brothers (PAUSE)
I mean the big-bearded, 19th century political economist and philosopher (PAUSE)
Who said (PAUSE): “Work enslaves the spirit and beguiles all goodness in life” (PAUSE)
I guess that’s why I like art—
It frees the spirit, UNSHACKLING us from our own MADNESS (PAUSE)
That’s also why I HATE it when someone says:
(RAISE BROWS) “Your poem or photograph is a TRUE WORK of art”
Art, to me, is the ANTITHESIS of work (PAUSE)

(SHIFT & SMILE) I’m glad I got all this off my chest
I feel MUCH better
MAYBE I’ll even go back to work
And put up with those pigeons (PAUSE)
MAYBE I’ll listen to my doctor this year
And cut back on the mashed potatoes and ice cream (PAUSE)
MAYBE I’ll grow what REMAINS of my hair long
Take up the guitar
Buy a farm and raise pigeons
Register as a Defense contractor (PAUSE)
(LOWER VOICE & SLOWLY) And SELL my pigeons to the Pentagon (SMILE)

As We Grow Older



As We Grow Older, originally uploaded by © Don Iannone Photography.

This photo is best seen in large size view to see its details. A new poem:

As We Grow Older
By Don Iannone

Summer flowers
Slipping away
Like the sun at dusk
The youthful spring, no more
In the old man’s steps

Dog-eared cone flowers
Droopy pink petals
Spiny orange tops
As best they can
Holding on for dear life

Our lives at times
Weak-kneed, fragile, out of kilter
Like some faint bad dream
Weighing upon us
Lingering well past morning coffee

Sometimes we wonder
Especially when afraid
Is it something we’ve done
That’s driven our lives away
Or maybe just time to say goodbye

Gazing Inside

Look deep inside
That place only you really know
That somewhere, always home
Never too far away
In reach when you need it
There in a glance

No need to linger
Longer than a moment
You already live there
It’s your place to be who you are
Everyone else, just a guest
At your invitation

See that stargazer lily over there
Its stamen jutting outward
It’s an invitation to you
Step inside, yourself
Smile
Give yourself a hug

Truth Dangling in Early Morning Sunlight

The morning sunlight reveals
What the night’s darkness stole away from us
Those things haunting us well past 3 AM
Well past the time for usual self-inflicted salvations
Things we promise to do should we live
To see daybreak in our now slumbering garden

Cast your eyes upon something of beauty
Like those dangling pink flowers where morning dew drops cling
Like each breath we take holds on
Till the next can take its place
Leaving nothing in between
No room for the darkness to reenter

Admire the pink flowers, if you will
But they can’t save us
Nor can the garden itself
Soon to be choked to death by weeds
Then covered by snow
Freezing shut the ice blue lips of hope

Look more closely at the dew drops
Each a tear reflecting back to us
Parts of ourselves lost, broken, forgotten
One by one suck them into your mouth
In small measure, let them quench the thirst
That has become your life

I Wonder

You must have wondered, more than once
Where the time has gone, and
Why things have changed
So suddenly, like the harvest wind
Why life, like sand in an hourglass
Slips quietly away, while you sleep
Or stand naked in your cold morning shower

Sometimes I look in the mirror
Late at night, when no one’s watching
And I catch a awkward glimpse of myself
Remembering way too much
Like the chewing gum I stuck under my desk
In third grade, when I once wondered
Why is love so difficult
And will there be a time
When the fighting stops
At home inside me, where I always live
And where I find myself just sitting
Waiting for another night to pass

Dedicated to Wink

Thelma

Ninety-three
Once, so full of life
Now, breath by breath
Making room for another life

Still proud
Not in a vain way
But to have lived through so much
To have carried her cross the distance

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
Little she wanted in life
Nothing to want in death
Except to go home

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
No more evil to fear
No more valleys to walk
No death to await

All goodbyes have been said
Her angel has come
Sweet sunlight falls across Thelma’s face
A new star will light the Heavens tonight

Note: Thelma was a hospice patient. I sat vigil with her last week. She died on July 1st. I read the 23rd Psalm to her before she died, not knowing it was her favorite scripture, which her great-granddaughter told me afterward.

Morning Sun in the Garden

July morning sun
Creeping through the trees
Into the front flower garden
A young blue jay watches on

The jay understands
There is nothing to be done
Nowhere to go
Just observe, soak up the sun

Sometimes we make life too hard
Harder than it needs to be
See the sun streaking through the garden?
Such is life in each moment

Heaven

As a child, the better of two places
You might go when you die
A place with pearly gates
Where God and Jesus live

A place you imagined
When times were tough
A place giving you hope
For a better tomorrow

A place Grandma talked about often
Praying we may all go there someday
A rendezvous for family and friends
Like some magical tree house in the woods

And now, a frame of mind
Not a place anymore
But a way of being in any moment
Allowing life to pass through us

Nothing special
Or different than anything else
No need to be anything or anyone anymore
Just being for the sake of being

Like art, beauty for its own sake
Like beauty, in the eyes of the beholder
Like creation, unstoppable
Like now, Heaven

Gray Rainy Days

Gray rainy days
Why we need inner sunshine
Why we need inner focus
Bringing light to the world

We fret too much, this and that
Making unnecessary choices
After all, we’re here
It’s always now, never sooner or later

Bright pink azalea blossoms in sunlight
They’re possible any day
Come rain or shine
Always inside us, waiting

Outside my window—
A determined blue jay
Squawking about this and that
I laugh; that’s me

The rain subsides
Giving way to stillness
Even that nature provides
It’s ours, if we stop our squawking

Then there are the clouds
Hiding the sun
So nature’s tears can soak deep
Into the thirsty earth

Gray rainy days
Reminding us, listen, hear
The rain singing on the roof
Reminding us, bring our light to the world

A Special Place Inside Me

there is this place inside me
i find myself there quite unexpectedly
without ever trying

a happy place
warm with early morning sunshine
just the hint of a breeze
turning grandma’s petunias side to side
on her green and yellow front porch

this place is grandma’s living room
i’m always a little boy
playing on the floor
next to the screen door
maybe this place is a wormhole—
an invisible tube—
connecting me to who i am

often when i hear the engine
of a small plane flying overhead
the low-vibration sound waves carry me to this place
this special place of comfort inside—
a place my grandma created just for me

this is a place of peace
where the better part of me steps forward
leaving the other parts behind
it’s always a gentle landing
like a cloud drifting across a perfectly blue sky
on a warm summer day

i always feel just a bit sad
when it’s time to leave
eventually we must all go

Red Tulips

they knew me
turned their heads
looked my way
made me turn mine
there we stood—
face to face

i loved them
first moment i saw them
bright red dresses
decked out to the nines
voluptuous vixens
dancing in the wind

a bit of déjà vu
soulful remembering
strangely familiar—
the smell of fresh baked bread
the sweet scent of lilacs
a springtime long ago

they invited me to dance
sing out with them
red tulips touch us deeply
especially on a warm spring day
when the sun holds death at bay
and each moment is an eternity

Memories on Mother’s Day

she’s gone, my mom
her memories linger
like her sweet motherly scent
the enticing aroma of her cooking

mothers are magical
no way to be without one
how they love us, even when we’re bad
especially when we’re good

she died way too young
only 59 in 1986
wish we had more time
so many foregone memories

we reminisce more
the older we get
the more of life behind us
than ahead

boys and girls need their moms
to grow, become men and women
men and women need their moms
to remember the eternal child within them

Be Like the Flower

No greater honor—
Be like the flower
Face the sun
Let its warmth fill you
Overturning whatever steals your joy

Be like the flower
Proud, but ever humble
Never too straight
Always able to bend
Flowing with the wind

Be like the flower
Use the day to grow
Give back to the Earth
Use the night to rest
Rejuvenate from a hard day’s work

Be like the flower
Always ready to live
And when the time comes
Be ready to die
Making room for another

Click here to see the picture going with this poem.

Spring Beauty in Focus

Springtime
New beauty born
New beauty in our lives
Sharper focus on life’s becoming

Sometimes we try too hard
To be what we’re not
Possess what’s not ours
Fight who we are

Red tulips in a garden
No bucking the tide
Or clinging to anything
They simply are

We give the tulips our attention
They smile, their redness grows even brighter
We look beyond them
Life’s eternal fountain appears

We look inside ourselves
There our beauty lies
Eternal spring within our hearts
Our beauty comes into focus

Click here to see the photo that goes with this poem.

Secrets Locked Away Forever

So much inside us
Locked away
Inaccessible until
We discover the combination
Releasing deep secrets buried in the soul

These secrets
No mystery to the deepest part of us—
That part belonging to something larger
Yet out of sight they remain
Until the rusted lock and chain are taken away

Never easy
Dealing with the hidden
Even terribly lost parts of ourselves
But once in
So much more becomes known

Once we find our way
Even the deepest secrets—
Those buried in the cave of our heart
Become known
Releasing our grip on what binds us to eternity

Click here to see the picture that goes with this poem.

Daffodil Hill

There is this place
Called Daffodil Hill
Springtime magic covers it
Perky whites littering its base
A sea of brilliant yellows along the top

Sunlight graces this place
Touches your soul
Leaves you spellbound
Something larger ignites in your heart
When you hear the daffodils sing

I was a young boy once again
Speechless
No words to describe
Tears from nowhere filling my eyes
For an instant, connected to it all

Hard not to believe
In something divine, overwhelmingly powerful
Yet in its presence, a tenderness
Emanating from the magical chorus
On Daffodil Hill

Click here to view the photograph accompanying this poem.

New Life in Focus

New life
Emerging each moment
With each breath
Hope is born
Bringing our deepest desires into focus

New blossoms on the tree of life
Pure, virgin whiteness
Against a burning blue sky
Each blossom a breath
Each breath a new beginning

Programmed from birth
To become the fruit of life
Sustaining us
Transforming us
Like the rain and sun give us rainbows

No pain
Unless we resist
Stand in tomorrow’s way
Accept the gift—
New life in focus

Click here to see the photograph accompanying this poem.

It’s Good to Be Alive

Last night’s star-filled sky sang me fast to sleep
This morning’s warm sun graced my windowpane
Awakening me with its hypnotic laughter
Looking in the bathroom mirror this morning I thought—
It’s good to be alive

Things don’t always go our way
At times they totally run amok
Defying our sense of justice
Showing us how vulnerable we really are
It’s good to be alive

At times, we delude ourselves—
A good life is about getting our way
Having things as we want them
Stirring my morning coffee, I thought—
It’s good to be alive

Have you noticed how spring sunlight
Completely transforms the needles on a white pine
And how the sky and clouds peeking through the forest
Appear like blurry blue and white diamonds
It’s good to be alive

Sometimes we gravitate too much
In the direction of our dreams
Failing to appreciate the beauty, magic of life
Just as it presents itself
Truly, it’s good to be alive

Click here to see the image going with this poem.

Depression Faces

Like ghosts
Their faces linger in my mind
Can’t forget them
No matter how hard I tried
They’re still there
Feeding on what’s left of me

Which faces?
The Depression faces
Dark, hollow, hungry
Haunting faces
Men, women, children
Especially the children

They sold their shoes
For pennies, a scrap of bread
Their filthy faces and feet
Dirtied by their worst nightmare
No washing away their pain

It changes you
Having nothing left to lose
Even worse
Having something and losing it
It changes you
Even looking back and remembering

Blue Spring Beauties

From a distance
I watched you dance
Like a sea of tiny blue stars
Dreamy circles you waltzed
Never missing a step
Perfect harmony with the wind

Inching closer
I saw your sweet smiles
Blue spring beauties
Forever in tune
With that something larger
Casting a spell over me

How lucky seeing you dance
Your heads held high
Identical green dresses you wore
Like velvet
Shimmering in the sun
Graceful as only a flower can be

I felt you so close
As only a chosen lover can be
Dance with you I did
My heart filled with glee
Now I must go
A date with Emily Dickinson to keep

Click here to see the blue spring beauties

Consider Life’s Outside Possibilities

Too easy
Looking in obvious places
Those we already know
Possibilities already imagined

Imagine an open window
In the midst of your darkness
A place where light is possible
An opening for outside possibilities

Get used to the light
At first too much for your eyes
Then new images take shape
Filling your soul with hope

In this realm
The inevitable disappears
Taking its place
With all other known possibilities

Let the obvious possibilities fade away
Take a chance on the unknown
Bet the farm on it
Walk into the light

Robin Egg Springtime

So much to delight about in springtime—
Fresh green buds on trees, crocuses, daffodils, tulips
But nothing matches a pastel blue robin egg
To ignite spring feelings within me

My robin egg infatuation traces back to first grade
When Miss Woods, using God and science in the same breath
Explained that robin eggs were blue to camouflage them
Among the sun-dappled leaves hovering about the robin’s nest

I decided then and there
That robin egg blue was my favorite color
Because it protected new life
And because it made me feel close to the sky

Even now, some fifty years later
Especially after a long hard winter
Spotting a robin egg shell on the ground
Makes me feel alive in a way only spring can do

We’re Never Really Alone

Given a magic wand
I’d rid the world of loneliness—
What isolates us
Marginalizes us
Disconnecting us from the rest of the world

Mostly we do it to ourselves
We think we are alone
Separate from what sustains us
And sure enough
Our connection to life is broken

Yes, others can break the connection
Escalating our deepest fears of being alone
Heightening the pain of our cancer
Amplifying the weight of our depression
But mostly we do it to ourselves

We’re never really alone
You’re not, I’m not
Something Higher connects all of us
In your darkest hour, reach out
Touch it, let it touch you back

We Wait Too Long

We wait too long
To do what’s most important
Things stirring our hearts
And riding the wild horses of our souls

The clock, time, busy schedules
Just excuses for not doing
What only we can do, and no other
Things making it all worthwhile

It’s gone before we know it
The best part of us
The things we equate to joy
Things worth doing for their own sake

It’s a mistake
To forget who we are
And then pretend truth was never there
Or something else was more important

We wait too long
To surrender to what really matters
To the only thing that can save us
From a life of hopeless despair and misadventure

You do it, and I see it in you
I do it, and you see it in me
If only we could see it in ourselves
Maybe we wouldn’t wait so long

Don Iannone on Live Internet Radio

Subject Line: Don Iannone on Live Radio/Webstream Show this Sunday, March 29th 4-5 p.m. EDT (1-2 p.m. PST)

I am joining a fellow member of Wisdom Workers, Dr. Zara Larsen, on her Tucson-based live talk radio and web streamed show this Sunday, March 29th from 4-5:00 p.m. EDT. "Circles of Change: Conversations on Change Leadership and Career Fulfillment" is dedicated to opening up positive conversations on personal career and organizational change to inspire and help others during these change-rich times. Zara has hosted over 100 shows in just over a year featuring guests from around the country. We will be discussing my portfolio career of leadership development and strategy consulting with Wisdom Workers (as Zara would say, "Your 9 to 5 life"), and creative life work in photography and poetry ("5 to 9, wanting to become more life!").

Join us live within the Tucson/Phoenix broadcast area on AM 1330 KJLL "The Jolt", or via web stream at your computer. www.tucsonsjolt.com/ If you are on an Apple/Macintosh computer, first circumvent Firefox and enter through Internet Explorer. Call-in questions to (520) 529-3508, toll free (877) 544-2580. Email questions can be sent to change@thelarsengroup.com

If you miss the live show, a recap and full podcast will be posted at www.thelarsengroup.com/ "Circles of Change Radio", 2009 Season left hand tab by Wednesday evening, April 1st, where you will also find the full complimentary library of thought provoking shows to date.

Thanks in advance for joining us!

Losing Myself Inside a Japanese Wood Poppy

Stepping inside a Japanese wood poppy
I took leave of myself
As some mad man might veer off the highway to work
Only to find himself fishing
Along the banks of an idyllic stream

Not often enough we surrender ourselves
To that something larger
Contained in even the smallest thing
Like a tiny blade of grass
Or the petal of a spring daffodil

Why quibble over a name, or anything
Standing between you and beauty
‘Tis better to be naked of all words
Even poetry
Than miss a flower’s healing kiss

Home but Still at War

So much, unsaid
Like all the mute soldiers
Returning from war
Wordless wanderers
Trying to forget themselves
What keeps them there

It’s in their eyes
Hiding under the lids
Like thunderstorms
Lurking behind clouds
Like numb fingertips
Wiping away frozen tears

More came back than didn’t
But even those returning–
Still there, in that place
The one they carried back with them
That’s now their prison
Life sentences, every last one of them

Will it ever end
War that is
Not over there
In here
It takes your words away
Then takes your life away

Dangling Winter Leaves

Dangling winter leaves
Strangers to each other
And to the world watching on
Quietly hoping for a sign
There is something more
Something worth dangling for

Dangling winter leaves
Strangers to reason
And that which it demands
Like leaves clinging to their branches
Each of us, you and me
Cling to each breath

Dangling winter leaves
Faded, tattered, icy reminders
Long past their season
Beyond all reason
Holding on to our gaze
As we hold on to them

Click here to see my photo “Dangling Winter Leaves”

On a Snowy Sunday Morning

Early Sunday morning, snow fell upon my world
Around and around it tumbled, oh how it swirled
Blinded by its beauty, its virgin whiteness ever brightened
An otherwise drab morning, I felt so full, so enlightened

Snowflakes are so different, like people I’ve come to know
Watching them dance together, spurs my love for them to grow
Even the lovely cardinals, upon the white blanket they sit
And cast tiny shadows, the hazy sun has lit

How could I not feel happy, utter Sagitarian glee
Snowflakes awaken my spirit, my sleeping soul set free
Amidst this snowy silence, God speaks just to me
Reminding me where is Heaven, that bluejay in the tree

Fort Lamar

Trees now grow where soldiers fought
Many died, more than we thought
Outnumbered Confederates, nearly three to one
Turned back Union forces, on their way to Charleston

Hallowed ground, fettered spirits still remain
Things the mind cannot explain
Yet in our hearts, their fear we surely know
Dying, not something anyone can forgo

Fort Lamar, the Battle of Secessionville
One fateful day, such a powerful clash of will
Hand to hand combat fought with pride
Brutal deaths, so many died

Towering oaks, yaupon hollies
Cover now the sins of war, its follies
Bay berries, pines now abound
The silence so loud, so profound

The Civil War over for most
Yet memories linger, some wretched ghost
A gentle breeze between the trees
The cries and whispers, only the heart does seize

Click here to see some photographs of the Fort Lamar Historical Preserve

Ines Langs’ Has a New Book

A German poet and photographer friend, Ines Langs, has a new poetry book. The book is about 50% German and 50% English. Here are two of her English poems to tantalize you.

Love Torture

Oh what a torture love can be
taken and given
driven
by all the spirits
of heaven and hell
choking on a yell
laughing and crying
living and dying
in sweet pain and ecstasy

Copyright Ines Langs, March 29, 2007

————————————————————-

I only need a soft breeze to lift me up into the skies

Softly I came down to rest,
lying still now for a while.
When the sun is turning West,
you can see me softly smile.

Morning sun will wake me up
with his tender loving kiss.
And a breeze will lift me up,
lets me fly again in bliss.

(Copyright Ines Langs, October 26, 2008)

Here is the information to buy a copy.

“Poesie ist Licht und Dunkel”
by Ines Langs
ISBN 978-3-8370-7692-9
available for order in every bookstore and online:
Click here to order online (sorry, only in German)

(title translation: Poetry is Light and Dark)

The book contains a collection of my poems from 1997 to 2008, poems in English as well as in German, and some fitting images.

To Those Who Took Their Pictures

Who will take their pictures?
Helping us remember the tired, hungry faces
Riding cold boxcars into the dark night
Ten long years before World War II

Who will take their pictures?
Of our parents, grandparents, the elderly man living next door
Lonely survivors, waiting with millions in long food lines
Selling a pair of shoes for only a penny

Who will take their pictures?
Those turned out in the streets
Dark silhouettes sleeping in dumpsters
Cardboard box villages under bridges to nowhere

Who will take their pictures?
Barefoot mothers clutching dying hopes
Child-like dreams of tomorrow for sale
Bits of filthy cloth left for the rag man to gather

Who will take their pictures?
Helping us remember
Hard times, here again
Set your price, all shoes and dreams once again for sale

Note: Dedicated to the wonderful photographers capturing the human side of the Great Depression. See more here.

November Songs

Rust colored leaves
Lonesome naked trees
Waving branches, wild dancing fingers
Reaching upward, gray skies, dark clouds above

Early snow, sparse gatherings here and there
Thin streams of streaky smoke
Lazily drifting from red brick chimneys
A sorrowful wind howls cold and lonely

In the distance, two bright red cardinals
Chirping November songs back and forth
Songs of plenty, winter solitude, thanksgiving
Melodies reunited strangers sing

I hope I never forget
How October brought us here
Just to hear the wind
And strangers sing November songs