River

Wading ankle deep in the river of my life,
I watch the bubbles float around my toes whispering
to capture my attention...
I've been spending more time on the shallow side
pretending I can stay here indefinitely.
But I know the tide will rise again . . . it always does.

One can't avoid the waters of the deep,
the strong pull of undertow.
Tides rise for all of us, the moon makes sure of that.
And monsters with their tentacles, return again
with memories of lonely Neptune nights
where fingers search through fluid walls for things unknown.

Let me walk on sandy shores a little longer
and smell the salt that licks my skin.
My dreams are here above Medusa's cave.
Let her sleep a little longer
while I roll my toes in sweet escape,
before the Hydra wakens once again
and notices I've lost my shoes.


Joanne Cucinello 1998

Summer Road

Lush and spacious
heady leaves of green
bend to arch and
shade the road we drive on.

It’s summer on Long Island.
Farmers selling berries, roasted corn
and apple pies in roadside stands
along the way.

And on my left
peeking through the bursts of sunlight
Children . . . splashing in the waters
of the calm blue bay.

Around the bend some
strawberry pickers
congregate on sunny fields . . .
their humming
fills the air like bees,

And there an old abandoned tractor
sleeps away its day of rest
as corn grows high and magpies flutter.

A farm house sits way back on open land
and the farmer’s wife
on her white post porch,
sips lemonade and waves
a cool wet hand at me
as if I know her . . .
perhaps I do.
I know everyone today.
It’s summer on Long Island . . . and I’m home.


Joanne Cucinello

A Poet's Prayer

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