I Shot An Arrow (revised)

It could be a Love Poem remembered,
or a Psalm in time of need, perhaps
that worn page so often turned to,
that becomes the gifting "word of life"
bursting through barren soil
like an arrow set to fly.

They come to us in whispers,
these words, and even in our dreams,
emerging from the sacred Well of Memory
a bucket filled to quench our thirsty souls.

Some sting the flesh with honesty, like
an unexpected mirror turned to grab the heart
and then, some come tender like
a long forgotten kiss upon the brow
or a smile just in time, from a passing stranger.

Who can tame the flight of words
that spring from tongue or pen?
Who presumes to see their port of call?
No one, not even the Wind

Yet, there are those words
that linger on past dawn,
words that move us
turning inward, searching yet
beyond the common door to find
a reason to believe
a reason to keep loving
a reason . . . to forgive.

Joanne Cucinello

Brothers

"Brothers" are not born
they are made
from the old vine that
grew wild in the first
primordial desert,
searching for water
as it scoured the earth.

"Brothers" carve their names
on each others' wrists
and mingle blood,
an ancient boyhood ritual
bonding the lives of two
who grew in different wombs.

"Brothers" would sooner
sink to the ocean's bottom
than betray one another.
They will go into the abyss
hand in hand and come up shining.

For all eternity . . . the word, "Brother"
avows a sacred trust, bonded in the heart,
a crown to shine on manhood
and may it always be.

Joanne Cucinello

What Will We Do?

What will we do
to save our children
from the monsters that hide
not under beds
nor in the shadows on the wall
but prowl the streets
and wait for the yellow bus
and that one last lingering child
who dillydallies
jumping over puddles
skipping down the road
singing silly songs
she only learned today?

What will we do
to hold back mothers and fathers
from taking the law into their hands
when we ourselves have decided
to join them?

How do we turn this world
upside down and inside out again
and will it ever, ever end . . .
the sacrifices of the innocents among us?

What will we do
when the seas dry up
and there is no more salt
left for tears?
What will we do
when poets are no longer needed?

Joanne Cucinello 2009

Harvest Moon

Harvest Moon
shine upon the fields tonight
and give the farmers
longer light
to pull the crops
to thresh the grain
to shear the sheep
for wool again.

The good grape
is plump and ripe
awaiting oaken cask
and dance begins
the stomping feet
stained purple with the task.

Skirts like fans
with blushing knees
wave the frenzies higher
turning grape to ruby wine
they wait the harvest fire

Crackling corn and roasting pig
turn this night to feast
and earth is blessed
with bounty full . . .
the plows can rest in peace.


Joanne Cucinello 2007

We Long To Be

All life springs
from its center
a core stretching
darting out
coaxing the sun
to be benign
and grant its blessings

Fragrant as the morning dew
are we all . . . in our innocence
in our longing just to be.

Joanne Cucinello