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

A Poet's Prayer

A Poet's Prayer

Thank you for words, Lord
their eloquence and simplicity
the many forms of speech and language
known to man ~

Thank you for the gift of voice
and its expression ~
sounds that pass through teeth
and tongue and settle on the lips
that form them.

Words emerging
from the mind and heart
dripped with honey
or sharp as steel . . .
words worth remembering.

And so my gratitude
emerges in this hand and pen
with urgency to capture
all the bits and pieces
before they float away.

To write Lord!
To give flesh
to the spoken word
to make it real
to pass it on
for generations yet to come
remembrance to reflect upon
with laughter or with tears.

We . . . who can dream
and speak of the stars
must record the sacred truth ~
that once mankind was here.

Joanne Cucinello 2008