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

Breaking Ego’s Hold

Ego servants, you and me
To things we love, can’t get free
Ensnared we are by selfish pride
Forgetting that, in God we all abide

So much energy oft gets spent
In things propelling our descent
In things focused just on you and me
Leaving no thought to humanity

Habits learned over a lifetime
Worsen yet in our prime
For it’s then, we’re at the top
Afraid we are, bad habits stop

Off course at times, we steer our ship
Hard it is to get a grip
And change our proud and selfish side
The dark parts of us, we cannot hide

Because it’s hard, that’s no excuse
Around our necks remains the noose
While no easy answers within our reach
Must we each day, practice what we preach

Our Stations in Life

Stations in life
Places we find ourselves
Often when we least suspect it

Positions we assume
Unknowingly and otherwise

Parts of our journey
Sometimes journeys within journeys

Once conscious
always offering us a view
if we choose to look

A place for seeing, and
escaping what we don’t want to see

As simple as looking into someone’s eyes
Reflecting on a conversation
Giving up what you want deeply
Letting go of one station
without the next one being known

On Advent He Speaks

God speaks to us, always
Even when we think He’s not there
He speaks through everything
and nothing
Not always words
Other signs and wonders

His, a voice inside, coaxing us:
Be true to ourselves
Be true to Him
Honor the Essence, He says
That which comes before
Honor the Creator, the Holy One

Sometimes we want our words
to be His words
Sometimes there are no words
Just silence stilling our souls
Sometimes we forget He’s there
Just His presence, watching over us

Christmas nearing
He reminds us to commune
and shine in Christ’s love
In each breath, Advent
An eternal coming
Within His words and silence

On Being Present

Don’t look back, you’ll only see
A faint, disappearing reality
Your past may beckon, set it free
Things behind you, let them be

Ahead of you, the future lies
Much to come, a surprise
Look ahead, if you will
But careful not, the present kill

Always in the now you are
Dangling even, from afar
Soon enough, the future comes
Now again, it becomes

Time escapes all of us
In between, we are thus
No matter where you are sent
Try your best, be present

Saturday Evening Fireside Reflections

Life…
That which breathes
Returns breath, and
ventures forth into death

Death…
That needing no breath
Beyond immediate comprehension
Waiting on all of us

Breath…
Borrowed at best
Wind, blowing through us
Carrying us to death’s doorstep

Truth…
Breath’s best friend
Always a step away
Everything we are and beyond

The end…
Filled with new beginnings
Always escaping us
Infinity’s juxtaposition

December Comes Again

December
Twelfth month, last page
Sagittarius, Capricorn
Signs, influences, wonders

An end, soon a new beginning
Short days, long nights
Out my window, naked trees
dancing with flirting snowflakes

Lone whitetail deer
Snow-covered forest path
Standing still
All about, winter’s cold breath

Colorful wrapping papers, silky bows
Red and green greeting cards
Sweet-smelling evergreen
Christmas, here soon

December comes again

Fighting Lady

Battery-operated
Powered by under-belly wheels
State-of-the-art motorized assault battleship
She was Remco’s new Fighting Lady

Christmas 1960
I wanted her more than anything
First saw her, Saturday morning TV
Most beautiful woman I had ever seen

Complete with gun-tracking system
rotating pom poms
ash can depth charges
functional plane catapult, and a landing boat

Vividly imagined myself on her bridge
giving commands
steering her
through dangerous Japanese-infested waters

Her two-tone gray body
complete with U.S. Navy insignias
gave me goose bumps
as only a beautiful woman can do

Longed to possess her
Fill my out-of-control boyhood urge for control
Prayed Mom and Dad would approve
of my Christmas marriage to her

To my delight they did
Come Christmas Day, there she was
in her tan and red box, with a red bow
waiting for me under the Christmas tree

Eventually, other women caught my eye
but at nine, she was most special
To this day I wonder
whatever became of my Fighting Lady

Happy Birthday Mary

Fifty-seven years ago
Under three feet of snow
You entered this beautiful world
While wind-blown snowflakes swirled

Mom and Dad so happy, you were a girl
On your forehead, a pretty golden curl
Eyes of blue, cheeks so rosy
Fast alseep with Mom, oh so cozy

Not long before, you were walking
And just as fast, you were talking
Dolls and girly things you loved
Such a little lady indeed, my beloved

Dad, a fireman, was your hero
Fighting fires, thank goodness no Ground Zero
Mom, your daily keeper
Glad she was, you were a good sleeper

In no time flat, you were off to school
Always you observed, the Golden Rule
You grew so fast, and oh so pretty
I wish I knew you then, my what a pity

Always goals, you had in mind
Things to do, new places to find
You loved to smile, laugh and play
Hard you worked everyday

Through school you flew, then off to college
There you gained much new knowledge
A heart of gold, you always had
Just like Ken, your good ole Dad

By some miracle, we found each other
So happy we’ve been, one and another
I count you as my lucky star
Your eyes they twinkle, from afar

Today we celebrate your birth
With rubies, diamonds and some mirth
On this day, we honor you
With this birthday, your life renews

Our Timeless Souls

Beginning of time–
a starting place for the clock
but not for you, or me
Too often, the clock
married to time, enslaves us
locking us into one dimension
missing all others

Too often, we lose track
of all that exists outside time
Like the soul, which is timeless
knowing nothing of minutes, hours
days, months and years
To the soul, a minute is a year
and a year but a minute

It’s easy to mistake
what beckons us deeply
for the clock’s ticking
and time’s insistent prodding
It’s easy to forget
time reaches only so far
and the soul so much farther

Seeing the Real Me

Sometimes I wish
I could see myself differently–
as I really am
Free of all illusion
expectation, and
most of all pretense

Sometimes I wish
the actors, plays
and the drama they bring forth
would go on strike
Refusing to perform
Leaving an empty stage

Sometimes I wish
I could step past
all that built up
over my lifetime
and step onto stage
as just myself

Karmic Wheel

That overlooked, we become
Tracks us down, like a hungry wolf
Eventually catching up, devours us
Leaving nothing, but itself

That forgotten, returns
Haunting us, night and day
When least suspected, it floods back
Taking with it, all we protect

That which we pretend to be
engraves its name upon us
for all to see what we have become, and
what we are no longer

And so turns the wheel
around and around
until at last
its work with us is done

Swamplands of the Soul

James Hollis, a Jungian psychotherapist from the Philadelphia area, wrote Swamplands of the Soul in 1996. I have just finished the book and enjoyed nearly every word.

Hollis raises deep questions for all of us. Is the purpose of life to achieve happiness? Who does not long to arrive some distant day at that sunlit meadow where we may abide in pure contentment? But we know life is not like that. Much of the time we are lost in the dismal states of guilt, grief, betrayal, depression and the like.

Swamplands of the Soul explores the quicksands where we have all floundered. It lights a beacon of hope by showing what they mean in terms of our individual journey and the engendering of soul. Encompassing both the meadow and the bog, this author’s perspective asserts that the goal of life is not happiness but meaning. And meaning, though it may not be all sunlight and blossoms, is real.

I especially enjoyed Hollis’ use of poetry throughout the book, drawing upon the works of Rilke, Shelley, Yeats, Eliot, Auden and Robert Frost.

Interested in reading the book? Click here.

Friends Who Dare to Love

Walk with me, be my friend
Continue on, till the end
And when the road disappears
Let’s sit together, count the years

Not one forgotten, or let go by
Each a precious star, in the sky
Then, when each is accounted for
We open yet one final door

Through it together, we slowly walk
Words we hold, do not talk
Once on the other side of time
We await the bells, till they chime

Then through the valley, they echo long
Fill us deeply, with their song
Throughout the night, our love burns strong
Our hearts rejoice, forever we belong

Giving Thanks for My Family

Thanksgiving Day
Giving thanks, for family
Those touching me
most deeply
In gratitude, humbly bowing
in their direction

Mom and Dad
Original veins
feeding my mystery
Through whom
the ultimate mystery worked
This being, my being, made possible

Diana, Doug
Sharing roots
In kindred spirit
sisterhood, brotherhood
Growing up, alongside me
Tied by grace and blood

Jeffrey, Jason
Sons, noble princes
Of my flesh
Of my spirit
Their mysteries
tentacles, beyond me

Evan, Griffin
Beautiful extensions of their parents
Of my flesh
Of my spirit
Their mysteries
tentacles, beyond me

Mary
Soul mate
Chosen mystery keeper
Life dance partner
Love sustainer
balancing my footsteps

Extended family
Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews
Mary’s family
Extensions of us
Reaching outward
into the future

Divine One
Beyond words
To whom, all is owed
Asking nothing
Giving everything
Eternal flame within us

Holiday Nostalgia

Nostalgia always finds me
during the holiday season
I tried to hide this Thanksgiving
but eventually, she tracked me down
like a skilled hunter her prey

She nailed me early this year
Flooding me with scenes, faces
symbols, voices, lost feelings
Most scattered memories–
patches of sun and clouds, holidays long ago

A fire gets lit inside me
whenever nostalgia visits
Washing me back, washing over me
Inviting me, once again
to become what I used to be

This year, inviting me
to be that mischievous young boy
whose playful tricks and jokes brought laughter
at wastefully tense and dull dining room moments
Family, be thankful, but beware this Thanksgiving.

Countdown Thanksgiving

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

Long to Be Wild

Long to be wild
Be nature’s child
Rabbits from hats
Night cries, wild cats

Climbing ever higher
Nothing left, desire
Novelty, each breath
Songs linger, past death

Somewhere in between
Truth we wean
Long to be wild
Be nature’s child

Fire inside, never tame
Always wild, never same
Many forms, all are one
Life multitudinous, burning sun

Play, you will
Distant dreams fulfill
Long to be wild
Be nature’s child

Old, new, side by side
Child of wild, therein hides
Never doubt resides
In the wild, truth abides

In Over My Head

I’m five feet ten inches tall
Average height for an American male
When standing in three feet of water
my head is well above water

When standing in six feet of water
I’m slightly in over my head, and
I can jump up and down, and
bring my head above water

When standing in twelve feet of water
I’m considerably in over my head
Short of floating to the surface
there’s no way to get my head above water

At the bottom of a deep glacier lake
I’m really in over my head
There’s no standing, even for a second
at this unfathomable depth

Clearly, there’s no trouble
understanding any of this
So, why can’t I figure out
when I am in over my head in life?

Why don’t I realize that
when I say yes to 5 work projects
due in the same week
that I am in over my head?

Why do I fail to grasp the insanity
of working twelve-hour days
five days a week, and
two four-hour days on weekends?

Thanks to GE former-CEO Jack Welch
there is a business concept called a stretch goal
which refers to performance expectations
exceeding resources available to reach them

Am I a victim of too many stretch goals?
Have I mistaken myself for a fish
with the ability to breathe underwater?
Gee, maybe I’m in over my head!

Starlight Twinkle

Starlight twinkle
Long early November night
Memories linger ever deeper
Beyond where daylight penetrates

Times before tomorrow
Lost forever midnight
Loose thoughts
lie among the pieces

Willful smiles
Way beyond the ages
Leave us, without answers
Words, but no delight

I will forever wonder
What is done is right
In shadows, lie the answer
Amidst the dawn, early moonlight

Note: A feeling type poem.

Hot Shots

They’re everywhere
Not just in Hollywood, Congress
strutting their stuff on Fifth Avenue
playing left field for the Boston Red Sox, or
serving on City Council in Small Town U.S.A.

You also find them
singing in the church choir
attending to the needs of the sick
spouting off at Al’s barbershop, and
even teaching poetry at the local college

Everyone has one–
that is an ego, and
everyone, from time to time
gets lost in themself
failing to see the bigger picture

Why just the other day
I listened to a man talk
on servant leadership, and
in 28 very long minutes
he referred to himself 47 times
But who’s counting?

Self-important buffoons
Men and women of God
Smarty pants intellectuals
Control freaks of all sorts
All, intolerable hot shots!

Aiden Steven

Some of us don’t need long
to fulfill our life purpose
Nine months, four days
A very short life, indeed
That’s all Aiden Steven needed
before God called him back home

Obituaries are hard
especially those for young children
Aiden, a Gaelic name
meaning fire, and also
a name referring to Saint Aidan
a very old monastery in Ireland

I didn’t know Aiden Steven
My wife read his obituary in the paper
and tears filled her eyes
as she saw his angelic face
Her tears moved me, but
all I could do was write this poem

Purgatory

To some, an in-between place
for the soul’s cleansing
before its final transcripts are submitted
for admission to Heaven

Like one final car wash
getting off ALL the dirt
before you turn in the keys
and stop driving forever

Like stopping in Cleveland
to re-fuel, or repair landing gear
before continuing your flight
from New York to Chicago

Like in football, getting stopped
on fourth down, at the fifty yard line
on a last second drive
to the goal line

Here’s to hoping
your overall GPA is high enough
for immediate admission to Heaven
without re-taking any life courses

Cardinals

Cardinals
Earliest feeders
at morning’s first light
Latest feeders
at evening’s last light

Always an order to their feeding
Males, brilliant red
always dine first, but
females, tan with a tinge of red
are not far behind

Hear their sharp calls back and forth:
“chip, chip, chip”
Once a mate is spotted
we hear their distinctive song:
“Cheer, cheer, cheer, what, what, what, what.”

On this quiet frosty November morn
their voices carry, like gunshots
telling us it’s time
to get out of bed
and be about our day

Santa Claus

Santa Claus
Mythical hero extraordinaire
Innocent enough, on the surface
Deeper down?
He is far more

Santa, a symbolic source of fulfillment
for our child-like psychic wanting
Our insatiable longing
for more than offered us
by any given moment

I’m not sorry I believed
in Santa Claus
He’s one of the reasons
I made more of my life
than I might have otherwise

As a child, I believed
magic could work for me
Know what? I still do, and
I’m not sorry
I still believe in magic

My only regret about Santa
is that he was a night owl
I’m a morning person
Guess that’s why
I still want things in life

What Draws Us Back

Combing the years for answers
Something, helping me find
what I thought was lost
that turned out never to exist
in the first place

This backward-looking
Far more than nostalgia
Closer, perhaps, to an obsession
Clinging to old feelings
still looking for a home

Deep down, I know
there is no going back, yet
even deeper down I know
I want to go back
just to come back around again

What haunts me, drives me–
back to events, people and places
more imagined than real, and
even more ineffable today
than what I thought was real back then

My obsession, an equal longing
for what is deeply simple, within grasp
and what is inaccessible and totally illusive
like the light from a distant star
taking years to reach us

Yet, it is this light
keeping me awake nights
It is this light
coming from so very far
stirring me back in time

Partial Awakening

fast asleep
the world turns
at a moment’s notice
in unforeseen directions
like those carrying us, back
to our adolescent years

awakening, slowly
still filled with dreams
leftover night promises
then, morning comes
washing away
what was never there

only then, cleansed
we glimpse something beyond
self-deception, misperception
something, we ourselves
must wear inside us–a curtain
hiding us from ourselves

In Search of God They Murder

Many over 10,000 pounds
standing 10 to 12 feet tall
Among God’s most grand creatures
Hunted, brutally slaughtered for their tusks
Senselessly stripped of life

And for what?
Just to feed a mindless fetish
for ivory pendants and trinkets
designed to ward off evil
and move souls closer to God

Wouldn’t this journey to God
be much shorter
without such evil, and simply
following the elephants’ footsteps
into the summer sunset?

Always in Good Taste

Gaudy, Mother Nature is not
Never does she show poor taste
how she displays herself
Can you think of a time?

We may disagree with the clouds
she hangs overhead, and
the rain they dump on our parade
But hardly gaudy, you would agree

Yet, as we look in the cosmic mirror
it often seems we, as one
of her more able creatures
fail to live up to her high standards

Why else would we paint over
her beautiful forests and streams
with all our houses, roads and utility lines?
Someone please take away the brush!

Slowly it seems, we are catching on
It’s high time, we show better taste
in how we live our lives
Don’t you think?

Rant: Sometimes I wonder what the heck
we are doing to our world. We build beyond
what we need. Less is more. Don’t you think?

People of the Lie

Liars await around every corner
Coming in all shapes and sizes
Peddling deceit
Twisting truth
Dodging what truth demands

Rather than give in to reality
they cling to ego’s shadows
hiding under layer upon layer of lies
Though they pray for light
only darkness comes

The liar jeopardizes our integrity
befalls our character
sucks out our dignity
rubs away our goodness, and
ultimately robs us of who we are

There is hope
You can fight back
against the people of the lie
Not by changing them, but
by honoring the truth inside yourself

Note: M. Scott Peck, M.D., a psychiatrist, Christian
theologian and well-known author, wrote a disturbing,
but tremendously insightful book called People of the Lie:
Hope for Healing Human Evil in 1983. Peck was perhaps
best known for his 1978 book The Road Less Traveled.
I heard Peck talk in the Cleveland area about both books
in 1984. M. Scott Peck died in 2005.

Watching My Name is Earl

Made a serious mistake
Watched My Name is Earl last night on TV
Suffered permanent brain damage
from the experience

Know the show?
Hopefully not
It’s a solid hour of sheer lunacy
Craziness beyond description

Not one of the show’s characters
has an IQ above 75
Nothing against Earl, or hillbillies
After all, I grew up in Appalachia

Some experiences require no repeat
Watching My Name is Earl is one of them
Hopefully my brain cells will regenerate
If not, my poetry life may be over

Halloween

On our doorstep
goblins, witches, angels,
Bart Simpson, transformers,
Elvis, vampires, and
perhaps a crossdresser
Oh God, I hope not, but
that was some homely woman

Halloween, come and gone
Tossing October aside, and
hurling us into November
Leaving us breathless,
thinking Thanksgiving turkey
Donning winter coats, now
we dream of a white Christmas

Where does time go?
One moment, it’s May
the next, Halloween
Time flies…
fast as trick or treaters
on and off
our pumpkin-filled front porch

Truth Within Our Midst

Flirt with truth
You may find more than bargained for
Reach inside, beyond where questions go
Answers arise from deepest confusion

Yield to the moment’s beckoning
Speculation subsides
leaving the here and now
to tell it’s own story

Challenge your deepest weakness
There you find your bottom
reaching to the ocean’s floor
where time starts over

Then, before everything begins again
let your heart dwell
just beyond all surface awareness
There, give time a chance to return

Awaiting Morning’s Light

Throughout the night
moonlight swept through long dark trees
standing deathly still
waiting for morning’s quiet return

Near the creek
high above the forest bed
a familiar barred owl calls out
claiming stray moonbeams his prey

Ghost-like, shadows hover
between trees and beyond
to places figured lost
save their fortuitous lingering

Somewhere, in the spaces between
what’s known and what can never be found
the night slips into my soul, and
so shall I also wait for morning’s light

Doing What You’re Here to Do

As your life happens
in deep unexpected ways
give in, to the light
shining magestically through
all standing between you, and
that shining through
like sparkling diamonds
in the black satin night sky

Surrender, best you can
to what you’ve always been
from the first moment
your soul breathed
inhaling life’s eternal beauty
exhaling what only you can provide
in this incantation
and this incarnation

And when you know
what can be known only by you
about this life
its purpose and position
rest assured, you have achieved
what you must
so all else, inside and outside
can continue forward

Autumn Changes in Our Lives

The air turned suddenly cold last night
Not bitter and biting, like lifetime anger
festering in the soul
but cold enough
freezing helpless leaves
making them wince in pain

Taking her orders straight from the top
Autumn brings down and colors up
what eventually passes
Giving way to Old Man Winter
his long thick white beard
and deep frosty breath

Perhaps a good night for a fire, warming us
to impending changes in the weather and ourselves
Not a mandate for winter coats yet
but certainly an occasion for donning
that heavy wool sweater smiling at us
from the dresser’s bottom drawer

All this said and done
Autumn readies us, for what is to come…
transformational change, like that brought on
by the marriage of death and rebirth
Like that touching us
in our final working years, just before retirement

Autumn in All Her Glory

Walking, painted forest all about
Reds, yellows, golds, oranges,
Nature’s magical extravaganza
coaxing us deeper within

Autumn, screaming vibrant color
Her sweet voice, ringing in our ears
With gentle fingers, plucking harp strings
enticing leaves to turn their final corner

Migrating blackbirds overhead
waving last goodbyes
tip southward, then disappear
into streaming white sunlight

Tempted into submission
we give her all we have
Refilled, there is no containing
what she gives back

Strangers to Life’s Inevitable Suddenness

You forget the golden sunrise, letting
the shifting sands of time, slip
through your fingers, like
life falls off the bones
of subtle lonely strangers

Knowing nothing of the waiting
shadows linger deep
just out of reach of tomorrow, where
hearts ready in quiet desperation
haunt us, then let us go

And then, just before surrender
to what beckons
you rewind, and
in your own unique suddenness
the inevitable happens

Do not go gentle into that good night

By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Cat and Mouse Games

Cat and mouse–
one game I try not to play, but
one playing its way
through my life and yours

Watch and you’ll see
There is no pretending, or
disinterested play, for
every move is life or death

For the cat, it’s all in the hunt
As for the mouse, it’s about slipping away
evading capture, and
living to tell tales of the mythical adventure

Don’t fear its reality, cat or mouse
but enter dog, and cat becomes hunt’s object
mouse slips free, and
the cycle continues

Like so many things in life
Cat and mouse become part
of something larger–
something even the hunt cannot contain

Beyond What’s Apparent

Think of the odds
unthinkable as they are
Imagine something, beyond
where imagination usually leads

Find yourself, midstream
between what’s known and anything other
searching for the crack, expanding
across the cosmic egg you call your life

Hatch the truth–
not at all perfect, often missed
accessible though, if you linger
just beyond your denial

In all this
go beyond what you know
Find what nobody knows you have
What you don’t know you have

There, you’ll find your way–
the way you lost
whose end wants
just one last beginning

When a Factory’s Life Ends

Foul gray smoke once belched
from tall red brick stacks
A bittersweet sign of life–
the old factory was still working

The smoke has now ended
along with the noisy metal-banging
that kept men busy
from sun up till sun down

The iron gates are chained shut
Never again, will they greet the dark faces
of hardened men with stale breath
from strong black coffee and cigarettes

Too easy to blame, too many strikes
for the factory’s foreboding silence
but hungry workers elsewhere, willing
to work for much less
and customers needing less metal
are just as much the reason
why the dark faces have grown much darker

The mill is history–
a cold, lifeless archeological ruin
So are the paychecks that paid the bills
giving small consolation to the two thousand men
laughing at each other’s lame jokes
dreaming of days
they wouldn’t have to work so hard

Now that day has come, and
their dreams and jokes both have ended.

When Autumn Came

By Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Translated by Naomi Lazard

This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
left their ebony bodies naked.
It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves,
scattered them over the ground.
Anyone could trample them out of shape
undisturbed by a single moan of protest.

The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn out of its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.

Oh, God of May have mercy.
Bless these withered bodies
with the passion of your resurrection;
make their dead veins flow with blood again.

Give some tree the gift of green again.
Let one bird sing.

The Slow Economic Bleeding Takes Its Toll

So many small towns
Desperate
Down on their luck
Fallen, and
unable to get back up
No way to revive opportunity

I’ve seen their faces…
all those workers, young and old
losing it all, including their dreams
More than they ever imagined–
gone, like a vanishing ghost
leaving them cold and empty

Times have been tougher
like the Great Depression
but the slow economic bleeding
is taking its toll everywhere
Hope is still out there, but
wrapped in unfamiliar clothes

Who Am I?

Who am I…
when I stop being afraid
stop pretending
give up trying to be somebody, and
finally give in to being me?

I’m not…
the person I thought I was
wanted to be
was to please someone else, or
imagined one night all alone

The easiest thing, and
the hardest thing in the world
is being who you are
without trying, and
without being anyone or anything

All of us stray from ourselves, and
forget who we are
Next time you lose yourself, just remember
you are the subject, searching
for what you aleady are