Sand Castles and Waves

Such a dilemma
for a child who needs to hold on
to the things she'd made.
Six years old on the planet back then
so many toys I'd wished for
had to stay wishes since
even Santa, lectured my parents, . . . was poor!

But there at the beach
all the wet sand was free!
Free to build anything I wanted
and I did!
Castles, caves and secret tunnels
and the deep dreaded hole.

We were told by my parents
that if we kept digging
we could get to the other side of
the world . . . and we'd know we got there
when a Chinaman's head popped up
through the sand.

So we'd dig and stop, my brother and I,
dig and stop, taking turns wondering who
would be the one to see that head of
shiny black hair emerge.
Scared and excited, holding our breath
as we dug to the other side of the earth
reserved for our adventure.

When the afternoon sun began its way home
behind the waves, we'd sit wrapped in towels
waiting for the ripples of ocean's tide
that never failed to come and wash away
our castles, and fill our deep hole with shells
so we could sleep without fear
of that head popping up
from the other side of the world.

Joanne Cucinello 2010

The City of Angels

In the City of Angels
there are no homes
nor clocks
to tell of time.
In the City of Angels
no one speaks
in words familiar.

There is a lake
in its center
filled with tears
rescued
from the hearts
of those who lost
their young.

This lake of tears
overflows at times
when many
suffer loss together
then tears
pour forth
to feed the trees
with crystals

Images of life on earth
hang draping
homage on the trees
some like flowers
some like vines
and even some
like thorns.

There are three moons
floating always
in a mist of
faintest melody
catching echoes
from the earth
and songs ~
of mothers.

The Beings
winged and fair
who light upon the
treetops
bring the souls
of little ones
and hold them close
beneath
their wings
until the tears subside
and broken hearts
can let them go.

For only then
will heaven part
as angels guide them
through the light
to all who went before
awaiting them
with open arms
and tears no more.



Joanne Cucinello 2007

The Fence

Our city street is all lit up tonight.
Fireworks are booming in the sky.
Tiny chips of broken glass
sparkle in the sidewalks
with each burst of streaming light.
Neighbors celebrate with loud voices
and sit on stoops laughing and waving
across to one another.
Most live in five story railroad flats
jammed with over flowing children
and one tiny bathroom.

Tonight, no breezes flow.
The old women cool themselves
with paper fans and watch the men
turn into kids, lighting firecrackers
drinking beers.

It's a hot, hot summer night in 1951
and I am eight . . .
the 4th of July and there is no stopping it.

A black picket fence curves around the stoop
where a little boy climbs up to see
Uncle Charlie's bright red rocket
bursting high up in the air
filling the sky with streaming glitter.

His small body slips instead onto a long
black spiral that stands erect on the iron fence
guarding the building from thieves.
Everyone's talking, eating . . . laughing
No one takes notice of the little boy
hanging, speechless, breathless . . . suspended
on the picket fence
open-mouthed, grey faced . . . silent.

My little sister sees him!
"Help!!" she cries.
"Look at him! Look at David!

Screams leap high above the laughter.
His mother comes. She's running with the baby
on her hip . . . "David! Oh, God! David . . . Don't move!"
"Call an ambulance . . . Somebody please!"
Silence intervenes and whispers all around
"Don't lift him."
Blood is trickling down on the pavement.
"Don't lift him!"

His mother is pasty white.
Her eyes latched onto David's pain
"I'm here. Don't be afraid."
She strokes his head . . . "Don't move"
The silence . . . hands cover mouths
The fence . . . now a black iron spiral stuck in his lung
The laughter . . . nowhere, only sobs
Sirens . . . flashing down the street.
and Uncle Charlie's bright red rocket has landed
burnt and black
while the boy and his mother wait
for the arms that will lift him
the white coats ready to take him away
from one city street on the 4th of July.


Joanne Cucinello 2009

Note: The child survived after weeks in the hospital
and no one ever tried to climb that fence again.

We Were Very Good

We stood at a window . . .
cousins, you and I
while our parents talked
about the everyday things
parents talk about.

We weren't listening
just looking for fairies
to spring up in the grass
expectant, waiting
for we had been told

if we were very good
and very still
with squinted eyes
we'd see them.

A small leaf rustled
in the ivy
one and then another
and we burst into giggles
as children do . . . when they see fairies.


Joanne Cucinello