Wednesday, January 16, 2008
when I was small
I rolled in sweet grass and picked daisies.
I skipped down the street
without fear of falling and ran up the stairs
to catch my breath.
The Bridge was far away.
I grew to be a young woman
and forgot about the grass and the daisies.
Life was calling me to fall in love
and I did.
A family was born and grew
and I forgot about the bridge
until one day my Father died.
I looked out the window that day and
The Bridge was getting closer.
Then my children’s little ones were born
and our family grew.
Life seemed to be starting all over again
I was so involved with new life everywhere
until one day, one misty day
while fixing my hair in the mirror
a vision floated in the background
a vision of the bridge
with footprints of those who walked across
soft impressions on the dust
And so I try to live each day with “Yes”
on my lips
making memories, making time to love
to pick the daisies that can only smile
and promise not to rush this life away
because I really do
see the Bridge.
Joanne Cucinello 2007
Friday, January 4, 2008
And she told me how she touched the sky
how the spiral widened as she flew towards the sun
and how all at once she tasted God . . . and almost was Him.
In that moment, she was spirit . . . conversing with the moon
looking down upon the earth in all its’ splendor,
no boundaries . . . no fences to keep her in.
The gate now open, led to everywhere it seemed
day and night were one.
And as the spiral whirled . . . she flew . . . and flew
until at last she touched the sun
for one eternal moment
until she fell, as those who fly must do,
broken-winged and shattered.
Now she walks with mortals
hiding feathers in her pockets
finding rocks that hold her to the earth.
They speak to her of ancient wanderers,
souls who might have flown like her in mystic rituals
or daydreams . . . once upon a time.
And we . . . who have never left this earth in flight or fancy
nor felt the rush of wind beneath our wings
try to tie her down with pills and promises
hoping she won't fly away again
to leave us gazing at the sun and wondering
where she’s gone this time
and how . . . with empty pockets.
Joanne Cucinello 2003
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