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
Moonbeams,
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

Here Comes the Rain

It's getting ready to thunder outside
dark clouds moving in off the shore.
There's no controlling them
they do as they please
just to spite the sun
that moments ago
was shining and
flashing its
golden teeth.

Pity the poor sun, dying just a little
every day, trying so hard to make
sense of its duty to the earth
and wondering when, like
the thunder, it could
just let loose and
rumble wildly
unpredictable
as sin.

Joanne Cucinello 2008

The Man In the Moon

On the dark side of the moon, he lives,
where seeds of time now slumber
And there he roams its canyons deep
in search of motherless souls.

You think it strange...a man in the moon
But ah! .... you know him well.
Since childhood days, you gazed at his face
aglow in eerie silence.

Peering through moonlit curtains
as if he'd called your name to look
And find him smiling there ....or crying
Reflecting all your fears and wonder.

The great globe of light in the midnight sky,
mysterious...yet so familiar
And that face of the man ......turned silver blue
. . . our moonlight contemplation.

Strange perhaps, in these enlightened times,
when moon reflects the feminine,
That I should say.... a man lives in the moon,
but you know.....he does.



Joanne Cucinello

Witness

Death
lying blank
against the pavement
unannounced
it came to fetch her . . .
this now
her deathbed in the leaves
where she lay
silent and still.
Poor old woman
no one knew her name
but she was waiting moments past
impatient for the school bus
and her grandson's happy smile.
The two year old had toddled
up the path beside her
one hand holding lollipops for his brother
the other, Grandma's soft black skirt.
Now he looks with giant eyes
as life departing frees his hand
and slumps like crumpled cloth
upon the ground.
Grandma! Grey and cloudy
like this day of no goodbyes.

And her spirit moved among the leaves
in sorrow great for these, the little ones
in her charge . . . in her love.
"Weep for me, my little one.
Weep your brother too,
who only hears the bus wheels
rounding corners, humming home tunes
unaware the days of holding hands are done.
Hide me, someone, from his searching glance
as round the bend that yellow transport glides
floating full of children's laughter.
Flag a detour . . . someone kind!
Don't let my deathbed be a spectacle
announcing his arrival
painting pictures
black and fearful in his heart.
Enough this little one, my witness.
Enough . . . this bus stop.


Joanne Cucinello 2007

Rickety Rack . . . Rainy Day Blues

I feel as if I’m someone else these days,
someone out of place.
Sometimes I think I’ve gone already
nowhere to be found.
Every morning a strange face
greets me in the mirror asking who I am.
I have to close my eyes to answer.

Is this the way it’s going to be from now on?
I'm trying so hard to remain in this unfamiliar shell,
a teapot losing its steam
and every day another piece of this body aches
tapping me to listen . . .
pay attention to the changing tide
reminding me of things much greater than I.
Perhaps it’s just the loneliness
I feel when I don’t want to talk to myself anymore.
Thoughts go out and return at odd times
of the night to wake me.

I sigh a lot more these days
feeling helplessness surround me
often overwhelmed
with disappointing expectations of my aging self.
And what was once so effortless
becomes a burden now.
I long to feel light and full of grace again.

Flesh and bones . . . you hold me down!
Oh, where is that wind that used to catch my sails?

I’m depressed today. Can you tell?

Joanne Cucinello 2007