Thursday, August 26, 2010

There Is a River


The ancients say there is a river
a river red and made of blood,
a river that flows inside the body
pumped through a cavernous organ
we have come to call the heart ~

This is the Cavern where love lives.
In and out, the great river flows
watering all its tiny capillaries
feeding every speck it finds.

Into tributaries, brooks and streams . . .
the rivulets of life, it rushes,
nourishing the soil of our flesh
our mountains of calcified bone ~
and the sympathetic organs
that kindly keep time
even as we sleep ~ watering, watering
this wondrous clay we are made of.

Joanne Cucinello 2010


Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Sand Castles and Waves


Such a dilemma
for a child who needs to hold on
to the things she'd made.
Six years old on the planet back then
so many toys I'd wished for
had to stay wishes since
even Santa, lectured my parents, . . . was poor!

But there at the beach
all the wet sand was free!
Free to build anything I wanted
and I did!
Castles, caves and secret tunnels
and the deep dreaded hole.

We were told by my parents
that if we kept digging
we could get to the other side of
the world . . . and we'd know we got there
when a Chinaman's head popped up
through the sand.

So we'd dig and stop, my brother and I,
dig and stop, taking turns wondering who
would be the one to see that head of
shiny black hair emerge.
Scared and excited, holding our breath
as we dug to the other side of the earth
reserved for our adventure.

When the afternoon sun began its way home
behind the waves, we'd sit wrapped in towels
waiting for the ripples of ocean's tide
that never failed to come and wash away
our castles, and fill our deep hole with shells
so we could sleep without fear
of that head popping up
from the other side of the world.

Joanne Cucinello 2010

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Torch Songs


Please understand . . .
when I heard that song on the radio
and you saw me get so dark and quiet
it wasn't you . . . it was the music.
I know it's beautiful,
and I know you love it, but
I begin to drown inside
with every chord.

It moves right in and takes me over
like the cold dark ocean
rolling onto shore.
I change . . .
my heart begins to pound
and my fingers freeze.
I feel like a little girl locked in time.

The music of my mother
the love songs, torch songs
the dark nights and muffled sounds
echoes of a broken heart
crumpled in the corner of a room.

It just begins to happen when I hear
the notes curl downward
like that melody she sang
that never ended . . .
that image of my Mother
in her long black nightgown
lying cold on the floor
while the record kept turning
round and round
the needle skipping
in the same scratched spot
~ till they found her.

Joanne Cucinello 2010

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