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Best Poems Written by Don Iannone

Below are the all-time best Don Iannone poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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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.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

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.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

The Rain of Self-Forgiveness

Under the storm clouds  
the rain starts to  
wash away

Creating streams  
that carve through earth  
and broken stone.

Sometimes everything  
has to be  
eroded and  
worn away

so you can find  
the solid ground  
that was there  
all along.

Sometimes it takes  
a heavy downpour  
to reveal that  

small, clear  
and steady  
spring of peace  
within your heart.

Sometimes with  
the splintered remains  
of the old bridge  
you've crossed before,

someone has crafted  
something new  
from the weathered wood  
of your own story.

You are not drowning  
you are learning to swim.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

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.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

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.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

Empathetically Rapping

A man knows nothing till he’s walked in another man’s shoes,
Through streets paved with struggles, past choices, win or lose.
In the heart of the city where dreams are both made and bruised,
He learns the songs of others, in tones he never used.

It’s a journey through stories, in steps worn and wise,
Where the echoes of others’ lives meet under shared skies.
He sees through eyes that have witnessed, beyond his own views,
The weight of silent battles, the depth of hidden hues.

With every mile, he understands, not just with his mind but his heart,
That every soul sings a different tune, right from the start.
In the rhythm of footsteps, in paths both old and new,
He finds the truth in the saying, as his perspective grew.

It’s not just about the walking, or the miles that he’s trod,
But the listening, the learning, from the ground, his feet have flawed.
For empathy is the melody, in this journey, he chooses to use,
To understand another’s life, to step into their shoes.

So let him walk, let him discover, let him see and let him feel,
The mosaic of human experience, complex, raw, and real.
For only in walking this path, in the dance of another’s blues,
He truly understands the depth of what he thought he knew.

And when he returns, with stories etched in every step of his shoes,
He’ll know the world a little better, with perspectives broad and hues.
For in the end, it’s about the journey, the stories, the paths we choose,
A man knows nothing, truly nothing, till he’s walked in another’s shoes.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

Peace in Solitude

To embrace solitude is to find peace.
Solitude, everybody feels it.
Even when we are young,
we sense it sometimes, and look away
when a friend drifts apart.
Then we laugh for years in the bustling
crowd, carefree and fulfilled. But a friendship,
that started with joy, dissolves
into whispers at a party,
and a sibling from youth fades
slowly without a word.
If a close bond sustains us
through tough times, our dearest ally will leave
at their warmest and most genuine.
New acquaintances come and go. All go.
The friendly neighbor who mentions
that he's not staying
is fleeting. The closest friend,
busy with his own life,
withdraws under stress he cannot manage.
Another colleague of decades turns distant
with a comment that fractures ten years.
Let us walk in the forest at twilight
and accept that it is calming
and gentle to find peace in solitude.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

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.

Details | Don Iannone Poem

Puerility

Childlike wonder fades, 
In the mirror, time's soft theft. 
Hearts once light, now weigh, 
Dreams of youth, a distant breath, 
Wisdom's price, the joy it left.

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As We Grow Older

Growing older is a carousel  
of highs and lows, each spin a memory, each turn a change.  
It’s the morning ache in places you never thought could hurt,  
the pizza you once devoured now a restless night’s companion.

Your vision softens, sounds blur,  
and the quiet hum of life’s smaller details becomes elusive.  
Doctors' visits and pill bottles mark the passing months,  
while hair thins, and skin loosens where once strength resided.

Nights grow lighter, dreams grow heavier  
with visions of a younger self, running through the past.  
The faces of friends and family fade, some taken too soon,  
others by the slow hand of time, all leaving empty chairs.

Yet gratitude remains a quiet current,  
a whispered song beneath the noise of change.  
For the laughter still brightens days, the tear still falls,  
reminding us of what remains, what we hold close.