Category: Uncategorized

Hooking

I’ve known the streets: Places where the night lingers and the echoes of passing cars feel distant.

My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.

I walked past shuttered windows when the city slept, listening for the familiar footsteps that come and go.

I leaned against the brick walls, my breath clouding in the cold air, and I whispered in low tones, watching headlights sweep across the pavement, and I felt the city thrum with unseen stories.

I’ve known the streets: Quiet, restless streets.

My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.

I’ve lain stretched out, my body bare to the night, where beauty and sorrow mingled in my broken bones.

I’ve forsaken my soul for a walking dead man’s pleasure, trading dignity for a moment’s release.

I wanted to retire, live on the beach in Miami, listen to the waves crash on the shore.

But another car has stopped at the curb, and I must wear that smile that pulls at a lonely man’s groin.

Unfounded Hatred Toward a Young Stranger

The subway station heaves with muffled noise,
The shuffle of countless feet against the grime,
I am aware of unfounded disdain,
Coursing between strangers in the city’s bowels.

The ancient fluorescents blink in yellow strobe,
Casting faint light on self-assuring cries and whispers,
Where breathy sighs of pity mingle with laughter
That hides like vermin in the concrete seams.

The old man’s stare, bitter, unwavering,
Follows the young man with a foreign tongue,
Each syllable grating on his weary ears,
Each word a puncture in his sense of self.

The tracks beneath pulsate with distant rhythm,
An electric hum heralding trains,
And all around, unseen but felt,
Silent inner pleas for the world to be as I see it and want it to be.

The young man’s cap is tilted with casual ease,
His eyes bright, unguarded, full of tomorrow,
While the old man’s grip tightens on his cane,
Knuckles white with a lifetime’s anger.

And then, a sudden scream and rush,
The young man trips, stumbles, and falls,
A quick descent into the void below,
His body meets the rails with a sickening thud.

The old man flinches, a breath caught in his throat,
The echoes of horror ripple through the crowd,
The subway station halts, a silence heavy,
As the train screeches, too late to stop.

The old man’s eyes, now wide with shock,
No longer see the young man’s accent,
Only the lifeless form where he once stood,
The shadowed truth beneath all their words.

The strangers around draw closer,
Their differences momentarily blurred,
In the shared reality of what they’ve witnessed,
A grim reminder of fleeting, fragile life.

The old man turns away, his heart a twisted knot,
The anger replaced with a somber void,
The self-assurance crumbles like brittle stone,

Chasing Secrets

In shadowed halls, I’ve followed the quiet threads of power,  
Charting each muffled cry, its subtle sway in time, 
Silently navigating the veiled histories held in their gaze.  

Indeed, the world is more than a stage for veiled hands,  
And the moon a silent sentinel of their secret rites, 
In hidden rooms, the sacred vow shifts to silent betrayal.  

I turn not to the relics of old secrets worn thin,  
Nor seek the stark truths in ruins of ancient bonds.  
Shadows are draped like promises, speaking of deeper dawns.  

I’ve roamed the archives under the quiet moon’s watch,  
Untangling the snarled webs of alliances that bind.  
Yet, they hold fast.  

Sometimes, I long for the veils to be drawn back completely.  
In the quiet corridors, triumphs speak their tales;  
The secret heart pulses with the rhythms of old truths.  

Antiquarian Echoes: Time-Traveling through an Old Library’s Labyrinth

In shadowed halls, I’ve followed the quiet threads of power,  
Charting each muffled cry, its subtle sway in time, 
Silently navigating the veiled histories held in their gaze.  

Indeed, the world is more than a stage for veiled hands,  
And the moon a silent sentinel of their secret rites, 
In hidden rooms, the sacred vow shifts to silent betrayal.  

I turn not to the relics of old secrets worn thin,  
Nor seek the stark truths in ruins of ancient bonds.  
Shadows are draped like promises, speaking of deeper dawns.  

I’ve roamed the archives under the quiet moon’s watch,  
Untangling the snarled webs of alliances that bind.  
Yet, they hold fast.  

Sometimes, I long for the veils to be drawn back completely.  
In the quiet corridors, triumphs speak their tales;  
The secret heart pulses with the rhythms of old truths.  

Requiem for a Lonely Woman

In the outskirts, where whispers weave through the wind,
there stands a farmhouse, its timbers groaning with secrets,
a silhouette etched against the horizon’s fading light.

Once, it was alive, pulsing with the beat of day-to-day,
but now, it’s shrouded in a cloak of solitude,
walls lined with the echoes of laughter long gone,
rooms filled with the heavy air of stories untold.

The woman who lived there, a mystery, a shadow,
wandered its halls like a ghost, her presence barely felt
but in the gentle ivory caress of piano keys
that floated through the night, a sorrowful symphony
played to an audience of moon and stars.

Folks in town, they gossiped, cruel jests hidden behind closed doors,
labeling her a recluse, a witch, a specter of the past,
never understanding the weight of loneliness she carried,
a burden that bent her shoulders and dulled her eyes.

She found peace in her music, notes rising and falling,
like the breaths she drew, deep and resonant,
a language only she and the night could comprehend.

The farmhouse, with its peeling paint and creaking floors,
stood as a testament to her existence,
its decay mirroring the abandonment she felt,
doors no longer opening to welcome guests,
windows looking out with a yearning for the world.

Inside, the piano waited, its keys now silent,
dust gathering like a blanket, a comfort in the stillness,
each particle a memory, a moment frozen in time.

And so, the house remains, a relic of loneliness,
a monument to the misunderstood,
its story floating with the wind, carried through the fields,
a melody played on the strings of time,
eternal, echoing, alone.

Solar-Lunar Wonder

Solar-Lunar Wonder Under the broad sweep of endless sky,
In that rare and hallowed moment
When the moon, in audacious stealth,
Edges before the sun,
A quietude descends, profound and deep.

The air, thick with anticipation,
Holds its breath;
The earth, in its tireless orbit,
Pauses—in reverence
To the grandeur to which we all belong.

This spectacle, this dance of light and shadow,
Where the day is night and the sun is dark,
Unveils the universe’s unfathomable mystery,
A reminder of our fleeting passage
In the boundless march of time.

As the corona flares,
A crown of light, ethereal and untouchable,
Encircles the shadowed moon—
A garnered glimpse into the sun’s hidden majesty.
In this moment, we are but specks,
Yet infinitely connected to the cosmic ballet.

This eclipse, eagerly awaited, a miracle witnessed,
Serves not just as a meeting of celestial bodies,
But as a bridge across the void,
Linking heart to heart, soul to soul,
To the very essence of existence itself.

In awe, we stand,
Observers of the universe’s embrace,
Witnesses to the endless dance
Of light and shadow,
Of time and space,
And the quiet, enduring marvel
That is life, in its myriad forms and fleeting beauty.

An Elegy for a Fallen Bridge: Baltimore’s Night of Tragedy

An Elegy for a Fallen Bridge: Baltimore’s Night of Tragedy As night draped its cloak over Baltimore’s sleeping form,
A cargo ship, the MV Dali, sailed to greet the dawn.
From the bustling harbor shores it had slipped away,
Bearing goods for far-off lands, under the sky’s dark sway.

Two pilots steered the lumbering vessel, ‘cross the tranquil bay,
But fate, in ever sly and cunning ways, had its plans to prey.
At the early hour of 1:24 AM, darkness claimed the skies,
And in its thick, velvety folds, brought forth a bitter surprise.

The ship, a giant of Herculean steel, veered off its path,
Toward the towering bridge ahead, sparking disaster’s wrath.
“Mayday, mayday,” the speakers cried, a disparate plea,
But for those on the bridge and ship, a dire prophecy.

Tragedy loomed in the wink of an eye caught sleeping,
Words never uttered, not knowing secrets silence was keeping,
Lights flickered on the Dali’s deck, a fleeting dance in the night,
Then suddenly, darkness sucked away every bit of its light.

The anchors plunged, a desperate bid, to halt the grim advance,
Yet destiny would not be swayed, nor give a second chance.
With a thunderous roar, Francis Scott Key succumbed to fate,
A goliath of steel and concrete, now bowed beneath its weight.

Cars lay still, abandoned quickly, as time itself took flight,
The bridge, once a noble span, befallen by this disastrous plight.
A silent knell for the crumbled structure, for lives disrupted, dreams unmet,
A once proud path now lay broken, in a night the stars will never forget.

A crash so violent, the city startled awake, to the bridge’s final sigh,
And heroes clad in courage’s hue, under the somber smoke-filled sky,
Rushed forth daring the treacherous depths, to challenge death’s cold hand,
To find the lost, the helpless, the waiting, hopefully bring them back to land.

The divers dove, a unity in purpose and in hope,
While above them the Coast Guard kept its vigil, with broadened scope.
A search not just for flesh and bone, but for the spirit’s flame,
A relentless quest, in the heart of night, for those they vowed to claim.

In the hush that followed, silence reigned, a solemn, eerie guest,
Bearing witness to the tragedy, where the bridge had failed its test.
Now a monument to human reach, and the fallibility of our plans,
It stands a somber guardian of the night when time slipped through our hands.

Amidst the whispers of the night and the Pleiades’ silent gaze,
The brave and the free, once united on this span, now part ways.
As the star-spangled banner, in solemn darkness, does yet wave,
Over the land of the free, home of the brave, and a bridge’s grave.

Lone Dandelion

In a verdant meadow expanse,
A lone dandelion stands,
Trading golden crown
For a halo of fragile wisps.
Sun’s affection now distant,
Yet in its fragile state,
An ethereal beauty emerges,
An elder amidst fleeting youth.
Holding a thousand dreams,
Awaiting the gust’s embrace,
Whispered tales ready to be shared,
With an ever-changing world.
Silent beacon it remains,
Testament to resilience and phases,
Embracing life’s ebb and flow,
In the dance of time and change.

A Tribute to Poets

In lands where words like rivers flow, beneath the moon’s serene, soft glow,
A scribe with pen in steady grasp, captures life’s essence, breath in clasp.
Each line breathes life, each word a beat, where hearts and artistry meet,
Within this dance, where lines converge, syllables and dreams emerge.

Upon the page, a dream’s soft march, where truth and fancy blend and arch,
A world from deepest musings drawn, where words and wisdom dawn.
Here, poetry unlocks the soul, freeing minds, making broken whole,
In every line, a universe, in syllables, life converses.

So raise our cups, filled with the ink, to poets who dare to think,
Whose words can heal, can tear, can bind, echoing through the mind.
In every verse, a life, a tale, in poetic seas we sail,
Where lines hold sway, in night or day, guiding us on our way.

Surviving in the Post-Truth World

Surviving in the Post-Truth World In the realm of post-truth and misinformation,
We find ourselves adrift on a turbulent sea,
Deceit’s waves rise, falsehoods obscure the sun,
Facts, like elusive phantoms, fade from view.

This treacherous current, a serpent coiled,
Around the pillars of reason, constricts our grasp,
Threatening to engulf our collective thought,
As we navigate murky waters of manipulation.

The lighthouse of objective reality stands,
Obscured by the fog of deceit, doubt’s embrace,
Sirens of disinformation sing beguiling songs,
In this distorted reflection of truth, we dwell.

We, the sailors of the digital age, must wield,
The compass of critical thought to chart,
A course toward distant shores of clarity,
Across this tempestuous sea of ambiguity.

Silent but Deadly


In the heart of the nursing home where old folks stay,
Lived Erasmus, a man twinkling in twilight’s array.
With a glimmer that danced in his mischievous eyes,
He concocted a plan to bring great surprise.

Not a prankster by trade, but a jester at heart,
He perfected an art that set him apart.
With a silent approach, undetected, unseen,
He’d let loose a cloud, where he once had been.

The residents gathered, unknowing, at ease,
Till the air filled with a curious breeze.
A stench so strong, it could wilt a rose,
They clutched at their noses and squinted their toes.

“Who could it be?” they wondered, looking around,
Silent but Deadly Erasmus made not a sound.
Except for a giggle, suppressed and discreet,
Erasmus, now hiding, pretending to be sweet.

The ladies, most prim, with their hankies out,
Fluttered and fussed an occasional shout,
“It’s Erasmus again!” with a laugh and a tease,
Pointing at him, the one cutting the cheese.

Though the air was quite foul, the laughter was sweet,
As they chased down the halls on their slippered feet.
For in every life, a little fun must be had,
Even if it’s a bit smelly, a bit bold, a tad mad.

So remember dear Erasmus, with his silent decree,
Who taught us to laugh, letting spirits run free.
For in the end, it’s the joy that we spread,
That lights up our days, ’til we’re finally in bed.

And so, in this home where the old folks stay,
The legend of Erasmus lingers to this day.
A reminder to all, that life’s for the living,
With each silent gift that keeps on giving.

The Endless Cycle

Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Nature’s endless march.
Each a cherished visitor.
With grace and determination,
one by one each takes its turn on stage.

Seeds, long buried, know their time
to release next generations
of flowers, grasses, trees, all else.
Each a phoenix in repose.
Deeply programmed to unfold.

Blossoming young sprouts—
break free from earth’s clutches,
under ever-changing skies.
Suddenly, a grand symphony erupts.
Rapturous melodies released.

The meadow basks in warm sunlight,
where perky wildflowers seduce the bees.
Luring them deep into their folds.
With life’s nectar on their feet,
they fly off, sharing their fertile riches.

Summer’s end, a clarion’s call to autumn.
No need for mourning—
the leaves set themselves free.
Unabashedly beautiful,
they tumble ceremoniously to the ground.

Frost arrives, a masterful artist,
draping a shimmering veil over land and wood,
under the cool whisper of winter’s breath.
Nights grow longer,
while days slumber in long-awaited rest.

Behind the closed curtain,
silent dormancy arrives,
as life withdraws into hidden chambers–
Till once again,
they hear thaw’s gentle call to awaken.

Ascent of a Church Mouse

In a church where hymns soar high and free,
A mouse embarked on a daring spree,
Up the stockinged leg, it did dare,
Past the congregation’s wide-eyed stare.

The preacher’s wife felt a tickle, then a squirm,
Her face turned red, as it rounded a turn,
She jiggled and wiggled trying not to shout,
As the mouse explored, in and out, and about.

“Dear Lord,” she prayed, “keep my composure tight,”
While the mouse ascended in silent flight,
A sermon on chastity, unintended yet wise,
Unfolds with a mouse, in disguise.

The congregation gasped, chuckled, then roared,
As the mouse’s adventure became church folklore,
A tale of a climb, so bold and so high,
A mouse and a lady, under God’s watchful eye.

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 seek to 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 karmic wheel,
around and around,
until at last,
its work with us is done.

Autumn’s Clarion Call

Autumn’s Clarion Call
By Don Iannone

In October’s chill embrace,
Latter years bring wisdom’s grace,
A season of change, a time to face
The memories that we hold in place.

The trees, they don their golden hue,
A fiery blaze that fills the view,
The breeze carries scents of harvest and decay,
As nature’s cycle starts to sway.

The days grow shorter, nights grow long,
The stars appear, a twinkling throng,
The moon, a silver crescent smile,
A beacon in the autumn mile.

The air is crisp, the winds do howl,
A chill that bites, a story to be told,
Of seasons passed, of memories made,
In October’s chill, our hearts are playedThe leaves, they fall, a rustling sea,
A carpet of gold, a sight to see,
The trees, they stand, a test of time,
A reminder of nature’s rhyme.

Morning Waltz with Amelia

In the hush of dawn, the world awakes
Upon Amelia’s shores, a wonder takes shape
As restless waves greet the shimmering sky
I walk the beach, where land and sea comply.

The salty air enwraps my weary frame
As footsteps mark the sand, leaving a humble claim
Each grain beneath my toes, a story untold
Whispering secrets the ocean has bestowed.

The sun, a gentle conqueror, ascends with grace
Painting hues of gold upon the water’s face
Muted pinks and purples, a soft embrace
Guiding my steps, as time and worries erase.

Sea oats sway in rhythm, dancing with the breeze
Palm trees wave, offering solace and ease
Seagulls serenade, their cries echoing free
Nature’s symphony weaving harmony.

With every stride, I inhale serenity’s potion
The world, for this moment, in perfect notion
The rising sun ignites a fire within
A sense of wonder, where dreams begin.

Footprints, like echoes, fade behind me
As if erasing the past, setting my spirit free
With untamed thoughts carried on the tide
I walk the beach, in search of what resides.

For in the pristine morning, nature bestows
Gifts of reflection and solace, it shows
A gentle reminder of life’s grand design
The beauty in simplicity, timeless and divine.

So let the sunrise walk upon this shore
Guide you to treasures you’ve yet to explore
As Amelia beckons, in whispers and delight
Embrace the dawn, and let your soul take flight.

Brave from a Distance

In realms of turmoil, where chaos takes its flight,
Where shadows dance, and darkness claims its might,
It is easy to be brave from a safe distance,
To observe the battles fought without resistance.

From lofty towers, from behind walls high,
One can taste the thrill, untouched by battle nigh,
For in the glow of comfort and tranquil air,
Fear finds no passage; courage finds no snare.

Yet, oh, how real the struggle for those on the ground,
Who face the tempest’s wrath, where courage is found,
In the heart’s crucible, where doubts come to test,
Amidst the storms of life, where fear is not suppressed.

From afar, heroes appear adorned in glory’s haze,
But truth unraveled reveals their mortal malaise,
For true valor blooms amidst the thunder’s roars,
Where souls are forged resilient, amidst life’s wars.

In the embrace of danger’s fateful lure,
True bravery, unyielding, takes its form pure,
It is then we see the valor that lies within,
When fear is confronted, courage shall begin.

So let us not judge the brave from afar,
For their scars bear witness to what they truly are,
From safe havens, we may pass judgments untrue,
Without knowing the battles they valiantly go through.

May empathy guide us to seek the deeper essence,
To walk beside the brave, dismissing our own pretense,
For in understanding their struggles and plight,
Our hearts may ignite, illuminated by their light.

For it is easy to be brave from a safe distance,
But true valor lies in facing life’s existence,
Let us embrace empathy, and courage to explore,
With hearts united, seeking truth evermore.

A Tribute to Autumn

Crunch of leaves beneath our feet, as we ran through the forest happily.
The smell of cider and cinnamon, lingering in the air was so heavenly.
The sun sets sooner and the nights grow longer, as the seasons change again.
But memories of autumn’s beauty remain, as we embrace the chill and refrain.


The harvest moon shines bright, casting a golden glow on the fields below.
The pumpkins are ripe and ready, for carving and decorating in a festive show.
The chill in the air is invigorating, reminding us of the coming winter snow.
But for now, we bask in the glow of autumn’s radiance, letting our spirits grow.


As the days pass by, and the leaves fall from the trees so grand.
We cherish the moments of autumn, as they slip away like grains of sand.
The colors of fall fade into the distance, as winter takes its hold.
But memories of autumn linger on, eternally cherished and forever bold.

Autumn Leaves

In the heart of autumn’s gentle grace,
Where nature dons its fiery embrace,
The leaves of red and gold take flight,
A swirling dance in the fading light.

They tremble, quiver, and gently fall,
In the whispering breeze, they heed the call,
Their journey to earth, a graceful ballet,
As they carpet the ground in a vivid display.

Each leaf a masterpiece, a work of art,
With veins of life and a beating heart,
They rustle and sigh in the crisp, cool air,
A testament to a season so rare.

In the canopy, they once held sway,
Now on the ground, they find their way,
A symphony of colors, a vibrant array,
As they bid farewell to the sun’s warm ray.

Beneath the trees, we stroll and ponder,
As autumn’s magic pulls us under,
The rustling leaves, a lullaby’s song,
A reminder that nature’s beauty is never long.

So let us embrace this fleeting time,
As the leaves descend in their prime,
For in their descent, they teach us well,
The beauty of letting go, as we too must farewell.

Pencil

Pencil a pencil, slender and sleek,
whispers secrets on the page,
its graphite tip, a dancer’s toe,
tracing lines of thought, unencumbered.

it dances across the paper’s stage,
twirling and swirling in graceful arcs,
a silent symphony of words and shapes,
unfolding the mysteries of the mind.

its lead, a conductor’s baton,
conducting the orchestra of ideas,
scribbling melodies of inspiration,
in the language of graphite and wood.

oh, pencil, humble and unassuming,
you hold the power to create,
to give life to thoughts and dreams,
with each stroke, a world takes shape.

so let us cherish this simple tool,
this wand of possibility and expression,
for in its simplicity, it holds the key,
to unlock the wonders of imagination.

Life and Death: Two Sides of the Same Quantum Coin

Life and death–
Two sides of the same quantum coin.
Heads you win, tails you lose.
Call the flip.
Tails you win, heads you lose.
Call it again.

Life–
What our consciousness manifests
when we flip the coin.
Death–
What our consciousness manifests
when we flip the coin.

Life and death–
Two sides of the same quantum coin.

Chasing Cosmic Butterflies

Chasing Cosmic Butterflies The chase begins the moment we enter this world,
and it continues till our last breath.
Toltec wisdom says life is a dream, and
we are all walking mirrors—
Everything we think and feel is reflected back to us
through the great dream mirror of life.

Some dreams are bigger than others, and
our biggest dream is who we think we are,
which contains all our other dreams,
we chase through life.
The chase is born into us, and
so are the cosmic butterflies we chase.

The ego is a giant volcano, spewing millions of cosmic butterflies,
filling our lives and giving us more things to chase, and
making us believe we are getting somewhere, and
that we are becoming somebody.
But it’s all one big dream mirror playing tricks on us—
Making us believe that the cosmic butterflies are real.

Some break out of the dream,
but not without breaking the mirror.
Most continue to chase their cosmic butterflies—
Even the special butterfly that chases away all the other butterflies,
making us believe he is the only real butterfly we need to chase.
The only way out is to break the mirror.

Watching a Farm Awaken in Early Spring

I love to watch a farm awaken in the early spring,
Especially as the birds in the forest happily sing,
The farm knows how to be itself, profound and true,
Like the faded red barn, quietly beholding the view.

In this moment, the farm finds its serenity,
Between sips of morning coffee, so heavenly,
Tempting songs of cardinals, a melodious cheer,
Chips and whistles carried by the breezy air.

Who wouldn’t be captivated by this wondrous sight,
As darkness surrenders to the emerging light,
The old barn stands, with no complaints or pleas,
No need for a fresh coat of red, at ease it sees.

The morning fog, a gentle, subtle trace,
In the fields unplowed, it finds its place,
Soon, corn will grow in rows so neat,
And crows will gather for a sumptuous treat.

Gently I inhale the farm’s awakening charm,
Especially in the early spring’s tranquil arm,
Where the soul knows no bounds, it’s free,
Across an undefined horizon, a painting, you see.

Quiet repose, a vastness, the soul’s delight,
A pretty picture as the new day takes flight,
The farm awakens with beauty untold,
In the early spring, where dreams unfold.

Wheeling Christmases in the Fifties

Trips to Downtown Wheeling at Christmas
to gawk, shop, cackle, and dream,
Back then we weren’t afraid
to laugh, shriek, and be amazed,
Storefront windows overstuffed
with dolls, dollhouses, train sets, and toy soldiers,
How could we not believe in magic–
things we can’t explain, and yet love,
Best at night when all was aglow,
but Saturday mornings were quite alright,
Stone and Thomas, LS Good, Cooey-Benz,
Stifel and Taylor, Reichart’s, and so many more,
We were there, saw it with our own believing eyes,
and best of all felt it deep in our hearts,
Santa reminds us it’s okay to dream,
look back, remember where we came from,
and what gave our hearts delight,
May this Christmas be filled
with our cherished childhood dreams.
4ba1722f6439535d670fe4bb2f57f8b0.jpg