On That Day

There was a day
when I was young
just a flash in time
a moment . . . stirring like the wind
to take my breath away
and it was You.

I walked into a room of people
but only you were there.
A sun tanned face turned to me
wide eyed and chiseled . . . a strong
face full of questions so intense
and then . . . that smile
that absolutely perfect smile . . .
sunshine and heartache all in one.

Stranger . . .
you brushed against me
in my dreams a thousand times
but on that day your flesh was real.
Little did I know
you would still be here
in my bed today.

Joanne Cucinello 2009

They Do Not Lie

See how they move
when someone speaks or sits to listen?
Hands ~ they tell the stories.
Fingers with their length and flexibility
or rigid tightness ~ tell of life spent living.
Some flow freely with expression
some close tight in solid fists . . . hiding.

The worker, the poet,
the mother in her tenderness,
the clumsy, the delicate
~ the fierce,
I watch them all
moving ~
while everything else is
motionless and still ~
gestures from the soul
that speak, despite the silence.

Tonight ~
will they comfort someone
in the dark?
Tomorrow ~
will they feed the poor?
Or are they planning

to destroy and tear to shreds
some dark illusion that I'll read about
tomorrow when I wake?


Joanne Cucinello 2008