Enter Now . . . the Prophesy

A Renaissance is brewing.
There are Weavers . . . great Artists
in the wings
playing harps of discontent
waiting . . .
waiting . . .
for the fine strings to unravel.
Crystal clarity envelops them
but the path they seek to ride
is cluttered with confusion and debris.

Old thought must die now
all that can survive
must come from spirit minds
cloned with highest
visions for mankind.
The noise that rises from the earth
is deafening to gentle stars
adrift in velvet darkness.
They are praying . . .
praying for us
to remember
who we are. . .
to remember the great and
valiant call . . .
the echoes of the great chiefs
and saints and humble spirits
whose sobs reverberate
stirring the dark black hole
that leads to our redemption.

How will we continue?
This quest is not political
no partisans are welcome here
when our humanity is at stake.


Look! . . . They approach now!
There! In the sky . . . a great omen.

There . . . see! They come . . .glorious
Three stallions . . . riding on the clouds with wild
and furious manes unfurled
they charge with giant hooves of sapphire.

The first is midnight black
the smoke of all lost tribes
surging through his raging nostrils.
“Why?” he asks, in voice of thunder.
“Why . . . have you not listened?”

And now another sound
of great wind howling through the skies
advancing wild and raptured
an ancient Appaloosa upon whose back
the horseman rides.
“When . . . When?” he cries with loud
uproarious voice.
“We are waiting!!”

And then a sudden stillness parts the skies
No sound escapes the silence . . . silence
and in the distance
a red-hued sun begins to rise,
the firmament
encased with brilliance.
And then . . .
Oh Glory!
Oh Majesty!
He comes,
He comes!
The great White Spirit Horse
with eyes of fire and legs of alabaster
his silver mane aloft, alive
with lightening flashing through
the heavens
and on his back . . . the Holy One
the Ageless One . . . but see
He wears no plate of armor
no sword is reeled
yet He is shining . . . shining
brighter than the sun . . .
the God-Child comes
and in his hands
red glowing embers
of his flaming heart.
“Who will carry this?”
“Who will take my burden?”

And from his heart
Red glowing tears . . . embers
shooting stars
Falling . . . falling
to the earth like manna
come to rest on those with
outstretched hands
and the burden of the God-Child
was received,
the burden of the earth and all
its creatures
and mankind wept
tears of gold . . .
as the ancient ones departed and
the winds ceased to roar
the sheath of heaven closed
to find a renaissance beginning

and see . . . the earth is turning green again.

Joanne Cucinello 2007

The Visit

“I saved these just for you” she said.
“I knew you’d come one day to find them.”
Bending to her bureau drawer,
the moonlight swept across her face
and there ‘neath tattered wings I saw
a form familiar.

She picked up bits of ivory
with her musing fingertips
worn now from the years.
A smile, soft and lovely,
graced her frail and shallow face
and flash-backs
just like shreds of lightening . . .
flooded me.

“It was you, wasn’t it?" I gasped.
“All the while it was you . . .
tiptoeing past my bed
like a thief who’d stolen jewels.
I thought that I was dreaming . . .
swore I saw those wings . . .
yes, and that fairy scent you always wore.
You lived with us back then, Grandma,
and all the while . . .
I thought that thief was Mom!”

She bid me, “Close your eyes
and open up your hand”,
as if I were standing small again
and I anxiously obeyed.
Then she dropped them,
my tiny ivory tooth buds
saved since childhood
toppled in the center of my palm,
"treasures, jewels" she said
. . . her memories.

And there we lay that evening
recalling heart-soaked lullabies
rocking in the dark
till all the breath of
all the years
dissolved into my arms
and the long cord of Grandma's love
~ wrapped my heart with gold.


Joanne Cucinello 2007

Nest

In the warm dark waters
of my mother's womb
I swam alive and innocent
unaware that in my universe
of darkness, simple cells
were multiplying and I
would soon be filled with light.

Moment by moment
I blossomed into being
caught in the current
of pulse and rhythm
my mother's blood
pumping through tributaries
gushing and swirling like
one great river and I,
safe inside my burrowed
nest of softness.

Joanne Cucinello