Our Place

There is this place
I begin and end in every day—
My daily launch pad into life
Special only to me
As yours is to you

When I was five
Growing up in Martins Ferry
I knew nothing of James Wright
His poetry, or that we all have our place
That goes far beyond geography

Now, I feel my limits
Like a vise grip, applied to unspeakable places
Places we all know
Places where we begin
And eventually end, placelessly

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On a Gray Sunday Morning in Solemn Gratitude We Wait

Gray Sunday morning
Sparse raindrops, not yet a shower
No birds, yet the feeders stand filled
Only the sound of the wind
Rustling the turning leaves
Who know their time comes soon to change

Something inside me hopes for sunshine
Warming light, setting butterflies afloat
Toasting late September leaves soft yellows, reds, oranges and golds
No sun, no shadows, just bare white and gray—
In between colors, neither here nor there
Until then, we wait in solemn gratitude

Roadside Reincarnation

Parts of us—
That old blue-gray Plymouth
Sittin’ along a quiet country road
A road less traveled everyday
‘cept for the drag racin’ hooligans
Livin’ over in Partsmith
And the old farmer
Who drives by every Tuesday and Friday
His collie hangin’ out the window
Takin’ last breaths of air

Slowly rustin’ away, bit by bit
Awaitin’ our day of reckoning
Total release from all holdin’ us here
That right moment—
When we disappear
Cease to be the old Plymouth
Then come back again
This time, a ruby red Porsche 911

Inspired by this.

In a Dream, Finding Lost Parts of Myself

Last night, in a dream
I discovered lost parts of myself
Fragments, bits and pieces, slivers of my life
Found all together
Stacked in a pile
On the bottom of an empty trash dumpster

Such intense joy
Finding in one place
All that I’d lost, thrown away, forgotten
Tears filled my eyes
Knowing these parts of me still existed
As tattered pictures, drawings, letters
Old wristwatch bands, key chains
Even a chain given me by my Dad

Those close to me were there—
My wife, mother, father, others
But they couldn’t help directly
The discovery was mine alone to unearth
To grasp with my own hands
At the very bottom of the psychic dumpster

Not all dreams are the same
Though there is but one dreamer for each of us
Some would say this one—a BIG dream
Significant to healing parts of my soul
I had discarded, mislaid, just plain forgotten

I felt Dad’s presence
Even as he lay dying
In a bed in Tupelo
Dreaming his own dreams—
Last dreams in his dreamer’s final sleep
He told me the chain was once his, now mine
A gift given long ago

This chain—more than a material object
Something deeper, holding us together
Connecting us through our dreams, and more
This chain—the great chain of being
Larger than that connecting a father and son
This chain—linking us to ourselves
To the deepest parts of our soul we can imagine

What was lost, now is found
Resting in full view on a nearby shelf
Awaiting my hand
When I’m ready
To touch, open, bring back to life
What I thought dead and gone

All Eventually Comes Undone

I look around
The world seems to be falling apart
Maybe it’s just me, I think
So, I ask others
To see what they think

They tell me about their pain
How the scales have tipped
And how they feel exposed
Rubbed raw, abandoned
Forgotten for who they really are

They talk about the economy
How it’s tanked, not getting better
Life supports they say
Won’t prevent the inevitable—
The eventual fall of what can no longer stand

I have my ideas—about the economy, our spiritual condition
And everything else
Not to be morbid, or fatalistic
But much of what we’ve been holding onto is over
Gone, giving way to something new

What’s old must die
Not that it’s willed, but there’s no pretending
What we’re used to will change
Surely as today’s sun will set
And tomorrow’s will rise unremembered

There must be something we can do, I think
After all, doing is what we do best
Then I remember—
All that is comes undone
By what is constantly unfolding

Hello Readers

Hello Readers:

It’s interesting that an average of 900 to 1,000 people visit this blog every day, yet only 3-5 people leave comments.

I would like to get to know my readers better. If you enjoy my poetry, please leave me a comment and let me know. I am also open to your constructive criticism on how to improve my poetry. Finally, please tell me a little bit about yourself, whether you are a longstanding visitor or a newcomer.

Consider this an invitation to get better acquainted.

Thanks so much.

Don Iannone
The Poetic Alchemist

PS: This is sticky post (sticks to the top of my blog like chewing gum under your 3rd grade desk. There are poems below it. Enjoy!

Those Who Watch But Cannot See

They love it—the voyeurs
Those who live by watching
Vicariously they live, feeding on others
Unable to see themselves
Even when they look in the mirror

The sun sets, suddenly, without warning
A glorious sight, but they missed it
Ever so subtle orange-yellow colors
Like those in first grade
When our crayons defied all lines
And when we cared only about life’s true colors

Yes, they missed the sunset
As their own heartbeat escapes them
Lurkers, mesmerized by others’ stirrings
Life for them—a spectator sport
To be watched, not lived

Tempted as we are—
We shouldn’t watch the watchers
That makes us just like them—
Blind, lifeless, empty
I say live!
Fill yourself with life
No need then for watching