About Don Iannone

Don Iannone is a poet, writer, teacher and photographer who lives in the Greater Cleveland area. He has worked in the economic development field for over 35 years. Don is the author of three poetry books and five photography books. He is working on a short book of photographs and poems about human trafficking. This work was exhibited at six venues in Ohio. Don holds an M.A. degree in Art and Consciousness Studies from the University of Philosophical Research in Los Angeles, where he teaches writing. His educational background also includes studies in Anthropology, Photography, Organizational Behavior, and Economic Development. Don’s website: http://www.donaldiannone.com Wisdom Work Press: https://wisdomworkpress.wordpress.com

In Praise of the Easter Lily

By Don Iannone
April 11, 2004

Dearest trumpet-shaped flower.
Virtuous mother of rebirth.
You remind us, ever so well,
of early springs, when
we were much younger.
Should we never forget you are the
white-robed apostle of hope.
Gracing all about you.
Your sweet scent lingers
far after you’re gone,
In you, we resurrect
our faith in something larger.
Something eternal.
Something magical.
Something infinite
that lives on inside all of us.

Christmas Lights on a Snowy December Eve

Our apartment looks out
on the parking lot of Montefiore–
that place people go
in their final days.
Most days people come and go
all hours of the day and night
to visit their loved ones–
those they fear may not last another night.
Tonight it is unusually quiet at Montefiore
at two o’clock AM
on this eleventh day of December,
just two weeks before Christmas
I watched the snowflakes helplessly fall
in the light of the parking lot lamp posts.
They glided and swirled in unpredictable circles,
like tiny determined ballet dancers.
With delight
my eyes caught sight
of a single string of colorful Christmas lights
in a resident’s second floor window.
My mind raced back to a similarly cold December eve
more than fifty years ago
when I hung a single string of Christmas lights
around my grandmother’s bedroom window.
Oh how she loved looking at the lights, and
watching snowflakes dance outside her window,
while humming her favorite Christmas carols
as I sat quietly and held her soft warm hand.
I knew in that fleeting instant
just how special that string of lights must be
to the resident in that second floor room
just across the parking lot.

Remembering Childhood Memorial Days

I remember as a young boy loving Memorial Day
because of the small parade in our town Martins Ferry
honoring those who died serving our country, and
the family picnic when family members usually at war with each other came together, and
how the holiday symbolized school would soon be out for the summer, and
how the sun lingered and dallied much longer
allowing us to play early and late in the day, and
how we felt eternal like childhood was forever

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 other dreams, visions, fantasies,
and life goals we chase through life
I believe 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
that fill our lives, giving us more and more things to chase
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

From my new poetry book entitled Chasing Cosmic Butterflies. Check out a copy here.

Life Slips By


One hot and humid July morning in ‘69
Army green duffle bag in tow
I said goodbye at the Wheeling bus station
to Mom, Dad, and Saint Clairsville, O-hi-o

Two days later
courtesy of a forty-nine-dollar, one-way Greyhound bus ticket
I found myself standing in the scorching Arizona sun, wondering who I am
Didn’t take long for my hair to grow long—
Something like Carlos Santana’s black frizzy ‘fro
For a spell, time stood still—
the desert sunsets and Sabino Canyon stole my heart away

Joe Cocker, Buffalo Springfield, the Beatle’s Abbey Road streamed live
from every open dorm room door at Yavapai Hall
Missed the Doors at Hi Corbett Field, but
I was there inhaling the Canned Heat and more that fall
Life slips by—
just like the stealthful Greyhound did
during my fifty-hour trip from Wheeling to Tucson

People appear and disappear—
just like the Beatles’ lonely people
Tucson, now a memory, lingering
alongside past loves, empty beer bottles, and faded sunsets
Makes me wonder what is next