Sunday, February 17, 2013


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I am waiting
like the small acorn
left behind and buried
in the barren earth of winter

waiting for
the warm rays of
springtime's sun to
open up my heart again with light

do we all
not close that
inner door when
daylight's scarce and night is long

how necessary then this test
to pause and stay within the heart's
perimeter and muddle through the aches
of our decisions past, that walk us through the labyrinth

there is no undoing
yet the years leave memories
with faded watermarks, blurring truth
sometimes, as the mind grows weary in the dark.

so come sweet light
add your colors softly painted
to this waiting canvas of my thirsty soul
and I will, like the acorn, part this earth and bloom again.

Joanne Cucinello      2013

Crown Coffee Shop

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Crown Coffee Shop

It's been many years since our first date
and the small Crown Coffee Shop
we walked to on that snowy night

cold and chilled to the bone
no gloves or scarves, just acting cool
the way teenagers tried to do back then.

You said you went there often
and the owner wouldn't mind if we sat
drinking coffee all night. . . just staying warm.

Now it wasn't fancy, you warned me in advance
but it was cozy, and Tina, the waitress served
the best damn coffee this side of the Brooklyn Bridge!

There it was, just ahead, Crown Coffee Shop
the blinking neon sign, like Morse code,
saying "Come on in, you would-be lovers !"

When you opened the door
and I got a whiff of that fresh ground coffee
floating toward my cold pink nose . . . I knew somehow

we'd be sipping coffee together
for the rest of our lives . . . first thing
in the morning, tap, tap tapping out . . . that same Morse code.

Joanne Cucinello

Friday, February 8, 2013

I wrote this Story Poem in 2008, but for those of you, who were not following my blog back then . . . hope you enjoy reading it on this blustery winter's day . . . .

Muse on the Red Wall photo Celticwoman.jpg

Muse on the Red Wall

I stood before the fresco
a Muse on a long forgotten red wall.
I had heard the stories
of this ancient beauty rare.
In daylight, it was said
should seekers come
to gaze upon her face
she captures visions
of their hearts and draws them in
with sapphire glance
 and beckonings
of distant flute and lyre .
When darkness falls
she dances, lithe grace
under candle glow
and moonlight.

  So unannounced . . . 
I did return that night
and sat beneath the willow
bent to see.
And there before me
as the moon passed
soft across the evening cloud
she stepped upon the grass
the red wall watching
and began her ancient dance.
It was then
I heard her voice so pure
like Celtic lilt adrift among the trees
a song to tear my heart forever more.
She sang as if for me to hear:

In my eyes are a thousand faces
 Dancing the dance of a thousand years. . .
the music and chants of all the children
dance my dance and cry my tears.

You and I . . . the face in the mirror
You and I . . . the footprints in sand
Born of a rhythm that rides on
born with the earth in the palm
of our hands.
Hear the music
that travels the centuries
Find your heartbeat
and hold on fast
You and I . . . just the face
in the mirror
The Song, the Song . . .
is all that will last.

Joanne Cucinello  
© 2004

Monday, February 4, 2013

No Regrets

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The years
are filled with stories

stories woven
with a gilded thread
to make a heart.

Silver hairs are falling
soft upon this loom
like feathers ~

pillows touching
slept on through the years
finding comfort  ~

gazing some nights
across the sheets
to that place
where heaven rests

Oh . . . these have been
the best days
the best choice
ever, ever made!


Friday, February 1, 2013

A Poet's Prayer

I'm re-posting my poem this time with my photo "Lilies of the Field". . . hoping that together they might be an inspiration for some of you to pick up a pen . . . and write your own!

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A Poet's Prayer

Thank you for words, Lord
their eloquence and simplicity
the many forms of speech and language
known to man ~

Thank you for the gift of voice
and its expression ~
sounds that pass through teeth
and tongue and settle on the lips
that form them.

Words emerging
from the mind and heart
dripped with honey
or sharp as steel . . .
words worth remembering.

And so my gratitude
emerges in this hand and pen
with urgency to capture
all the bits and pieces
before they float away.

To write Lord!
To give flesh
to the spoken word
to make it real
to pass it on
for generations yet to come
remembrance to reflect upon
with laughter or with tears.

We . . . who can dream
and speak of the stars
must record the sacred truth ~
that once mankind was here.

Joanne Cucinello   2008

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