Under the Summer Sky

Little bugs have found a home on my blanket here
the sweet green grass pokes through its shabby holes.

I have found a bit of peace this summer in the country
listening . . . watching . . . pondering
the way the clouds pass over the sun to cool me
the business of bugs doing their jobs so well
hoping as they run off with my crumbs
that I won't spy them . . . little thieves!

I have a feeling that they have ceased speaking
to their relatives . . . the roaches, who insist on
reading and nibbling your class papers
when night falls in that city school room.

A brook nearby, babbling its cool delicious bubbles
is tempting me to chuck these sneakers
and find a bit of ecstasy on the slippery rocks
maybe even get my ass a little wet
and squat . . . like a child who doesn't care
about green stained britches.

You must come here one day and listen
even the grass has something to say . . .

Joanne Cucinello

Summer Road

Lush and spacious
heady leaves of green
bend to arch and
shade the road we drive on.

It’s summer on Long Island.
Farmers selling berries, roasted corn
and apple pies in roadside stands
along the way.

And on my left
peeking through the bursts of sunlight
Children . . . splashing in the waters
of the calm blue bay.

Around the bend some
strawberry pickers
congregate on sunny fields . . .
their humming
fills the air like bees,

And there an old abandoned tractor
sleeps away its day of rest
as corn grows high and magpies flutter.

A farm house sits way back on open land
and the farmer’s wife
on her white post porch,
sips lemonade and waves
a cool wet hand at me
as if I know her . . .
perhaps I do.
I know everyone today.
It’s summer on Long Island . . . and I’m home.


Joanne Cucinello