Category: Don Iannone

Sunny Sunday

Bright sunshine bounds all about
Flowers dance, even shout
True to its name Sunday
This day, happiness comes my way

The birds were up, just before five
Not far behind, the sun arrives
Wind chimes dance, a gentle breeze
Their echo lingers in the trees

Coffee’s brewing, calling my name
In bed I lay, what a shame
This day’s a beauty
Get out of bed, it’s my duty

All the work to be done
Today’s for living, having fun
I tell myself save your guilt
Get some sun, or you’ll wilt

This sunny Sunday, the start of June
This day, this month, I attune
My soul, its garden, flowers bright
This day I’ll live without a fight

Overcast Friday

Overcast spring day
Clouds overhead
Blocking the sun
No telling how long they’ll stay

Clouds hovering inside
Those we wish to hide
Hoping for a breeze
To blow them all away

Suddenly a gust of wind
No budging the clouds
Rain soon on its way
Clouds and tears today

No sadness
Just a longing
Short passing feeling
Gray Friday, what can I say

Your Place

there is a region–
a place, you tend to live
dwell daily
where you find yourself
when the phone rings unexpectedly

even between heartbeats
you live there
because that’s all you know
that’s all you are
so long as you’re there

you don’t have to find your place
it finds you
when you least suspect it
when you don’t try
it knows you better than you know yourself

you slip into it
like a foot into a shoe
like a restless thought
passing through your mind
like a camera lens capturing a picture

you assume it’s reality–
this place where you live
it assumes nothing
because it knows you
better than you know yourself

Lingering Dream

I’ve seen too much
Things eyes shouldn’t see
Let alone gaze upon
Too late to erase memories
That never can be undone

No looking back
Hoping it was a mirage
An illusion
That will fade
And disappear

Now every other thing I see
Reminds me of it
That lingering dream
That I can ever be separate
From all else

Tufted Titmouse

small, gray, spiked hairdo
overflowing with song
sweet as candy cane
prominent black eyes
lumps of anthracite coal

no flocks for this chickadee
always in pairs, or alone
fussy scolding voice
when perturbed by a mate
otherwise chipper and cheerful

this morning a pair pecks
nibbles seed in the back feeder
selective in their tastes
given it’s spring
most likely babies in the nest