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

I Shot An Arrow

A love poem remembered,
a psalm in time of need
that worn page so often turned to
words of life that
burst through barren soil
like arrows plucked from their quiver.

They emerge in time
from the sacred well
drawn from memories deep
and quench the thirsty soul.

Some hit their mark
and sting the flesh with honesty
while others barely brush
in passing.

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 words that move us
turn us inward to search
beyond the common door
to find a reason to go on
a reason for this unrelenting quest.

Joanne Cucinello