Saturday, May 16, 2009

We Were Very Good

We stood at a window . . .
cousins, you and I
while our parents talked
about the everyday things
parents talk about.

We weren't listening
just looking for fairies
to spring up in the grass
expectant, waiting
for we had been told

if we were very good
and very still
with squinted eyes
we'd see them.

A small leaf rustled
in the ivy
one and then another
and we burst into giggles
as children do . . . when they see fairies.

Joanne Cucinello

Friday, May 15, 2009


There is a sinister energy
roaming the earth . . .
Its one intent:
the destruction of your heart.
It has no real preference
its victims are faceless . . .

Its grave design is
to convince you
that you are powerless . . .
that you are worth nothing.

Do not believe it!

The target is your heart . . .
your heart that believes in freedom
and that we are all created equal.

Those who have hope,
those who encourage the thought
of a free people, who value human life
and the pursuit of happiness ~
are threatening its survival.

So hold fast to freedom
for this evil will try in vain
to squeeze out every hope
and crush your hearts with despair.

It will even attempt to convince you
that there is another god
unknown to you . . .
who will reward those who kill you.

Do not believe it!

There is only One
who loves you and gave you life . . .

Believe the whispers . . . freedom is rising!

Joanne Cucinello

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Moonlight Praise


O Beauty
that lights the midnight sky,
how faithfully you wax and wane.
I am but one seed sprouted in time
Caught, like those before me,
in the rays of your glowing splendor.

Your rhythm flows through my veins
and all life responds with heartbeat
to your magnetic pull.
You rule the ebb and flow of ancient waters.
All emotions and cycles, comings and goings,
even our dying and our being born.
these things await your perfect timing.

O Moon,
You have lived in our consciousness
since our first awakening,
Created to be our gift and comfort,
our promise of the morning sun.
Even as Eve first stepped beyond the Gate
that night in lonely silence,
you were there to shine on Adam’s path
and teach the rhythms of your ever-changing face.

They watched the heavens,
awaiting your return each month
and marked the days of your growing brightness
to light the path for the hunt and their returning journeys home

Your cycle echoes that of our own,
from the darkness of our mother’s womb
Into the dawning of our life.
We travel toward the brightness of our days
and in time fade like summer’s bloom,
back to the dust of our beginnings.

O glorious faithful Moon,
who signs our destiny and bows before the Sun,
remind us always of our God,
In all life’s changes,
and in all your dances with the stars . . .
For we, like you . . . are made to shine,
each a spark of that One Eternal Light.

Joanne Cucinello

Thursday, May 7, 2009

In Beatrice's Room

Beatrice Turner, artist

For the hauntingly beautiful artist Beatrice Turner (1888-1948)
whose Spirit, I believe, prompted me to write this poetic tale
one night when I stayed in Beatrice's Room at the Cliffside Inn in Newport, R.I.

In Beatrice's Room

Someone long ago, sat at this window,
cushions plumped, pillows strewn.
The morning mist floated
down the road
to the sea.
Newport's Cliff Walk beckoned~
a young man waited.
She could barely see him through the trees
waving, "Come!"

"There is no such thing as walks with beaus
here in this captive house
they will soon paint black.
There is only Father and Mother
the easel and me.

Today, I will not paint
another portrait of myself
and gaze into my mirrors.
Today I will escape on the catwalk
outside my window.
There is a railing, I can do it
. . . and he is waiting!

Just one day~ this day
before they find me
and lock the door forever!
Just one day~ to see myself
my eyes, my face
in the eyes of another~
reflected, smiling, speaking
sweet exchange of beings~ real.

Just this day
before he locks me in
and keeps me from the world,
before I dip the brush
to paint myself a thousand times
~ one thousand portraits
and leave them to burn
with this house.

My Father,
when your day comes
and the hooded shadow
I will prop you in your chair~
cold and stiff
and you will sit for me . . .
. . . painting
a portrait ~ for your tombstone
like the proper daughter
you will have raised
and honed
in this room
for yourself . . .
while my dearest mother
turned her eyes away.

Joanne Cucinello 2008

Note: Beatrice Turner painted over 1,000 self portaits. Her life is a haunting tale and you can find more about it on the internet.

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