The Old Woman Dreams

The Old Woman Dreams


She dreams
with slow breath
rising in her chest
white haired and soft eyed.
She sleeps now in the day sometimes
and talks to spirits in the night.

No need for clocks anymore
she says, as she watches the sun
move across the sky, leaving shadows on the porch.
So many friends have crossed already
and she wonders . . .
what keeps her waking each morn.

Eyes close again as the last rays
leave the sky and for a moment
she is young.
A brief dream passes through her mind
and he is there sitting at the table waiting
with a smile. "Oh, my darling" she whispers,
"it's taking too long."

Sighing she stands, awake now,
opening the screen door into the house
but the table is empty and so is his chair
just little Lucy purring and dreaming too.

A cup of soup, a piece of bread . . . food enough tonight.
Slippers shuffle across the room to the closet and her robe.
Nothing much appeals to her these days once the night comes.
All the engines are slowing down inside
and she is making ready
for her last dream
coming soon to take her
to the other side
and he who waits.

Joanne Cucinello ©2008

Trees of My Life

I look out my window and see you standing there, bending to the wind, Great Wise Trees . . . enduring all, protecting all. They tell me, at my birth, my mother laid me in a cradle made of wood. You gave your life for me.
I learned to crawl on wooden floors, my tiny hands and knees frolicking on your body. I grew to sit on a chair and eat from a table, both made of wood. My fingers touched the grooves in your flesh and from early on, I wanted you near me . . comforting and connecting me to earth. At that table I ate berries and fruit that grew on your branches. I ate pancakes too, and poured your golden maple sap . . . learning that you could feed me too. You gave your life for me.
I went to school and there you were . . . all over . . . everywhere. The floors, the walls, and desk I sat at . . . the words I learned to read were printed on the thinnest slivers of your flesh, papers written on with wooden pencils. All the words we humans think in our minds are written on your flesh . . . Dear Trees, you must know our every thought by now.

When winter comes and days are cold and dark, we burn you to warm our bodies and our food and you become an offering. Your smoke fills the air and rises to the heavens, calling out to the Great Spirit who created us both. You give your life for me.
I live inside your walls. You are my shelter from the storms you bear and must endure; my shelter from the sun and its scorching rays. Your leaves of green refresh my heart in spring and cool my brow in summer and your brilliance thrills my soul in autumn.
Now it is winter and your branches are barren.. Even the birds, who call you their home, abandon you for lower bushes and warmer winds. You stand stark and bare and I can see now where you’ve been broken, your limbs that have fallen, and your bark that is torn. Some of you, Great Trees, have fallen, some have given your lives and been chopped down to make once again, some comfort for me and my kind. You give your life for me and I learn from all your changes and forms and seasons . . . about my own life and my own seasons and how that calls for sacrifice too.

Man crossed the waters and the oceans in your body . . . boats and ships and oars. We have come to know our brothers on the other side because of you. You gave your life for us.

I wonder as I look at your branches touching one another in the woods behind my home. . . . Do you feel each other, sending messages, vibrations, stories of the birds you love and the wind that tests you? Do you talk about me and my children? Have you seen the suffering of man and breathed it into your immense compassion, so much so that you agree to die for us?
Even to the point of being buried in the ground with us, cradling us, wrapping us in your arms when our days are over? You are the cradle at our birth and the cradle in our death. And you and I will decompose together in the womb of Mother Earth only to be born again in other forms, in other times, in other lives . . .


Joanne Cucinello © 2002

Are We the Seeds?

Is it “time" ~
or the weight of the world
that pulls the body
downward into earth?

Were we born
on top of the moon
poor descendants of the stars
here to become
familiar
with something more?

And are we soon to recognize
the uncontainable nature
of our spirits
our true identity ~
or must we continue
for another thousand years
believing in war
and separateness?

The Great Spider
continues to weave its vast web
threading bridges of instant passage
connecting minds
across all earthly borders
with just one
click.

But will we survive
when the plug is pulled?
Will we still be connected ~
or will our fate be like that
of our ancient brothers
the Stars above ~
drifting forever silent and separate
in the great unknown?



Joanne Cucinello © 2008

Who Are You?

There are nights
when the wind speaks
chill and eerie
and whistles in the dark
your name.

There are nights
when the moon speaks
low beneath the bend
of the willow tree
and climbs the wall
of the old church
searching
for one
who still believes.

'Who are you?"
the earth asks
from her mouth
in the grey soil
that clings with ease
to the dying foot.

Do you know?

In the light of the sun
shadows disappear
and faith renews,
but it is the night
that comes
with mirrors to the soul.

Who are you?



Joanne Cucinello 2008

Thoughts at the Vernal Equinox

The trees are still
upside down
waving their
root-like branches
at the sky
naked and unashamed
asking for blessings
and ripe new buds.

Once they were
seeds
in the dark soil
of earth
now
they, like we ~
reach up
to the heavens
for grace

to endure
another season
another flood
another drought
another reason
to keep growing ~

releasing their gifts
of shelter and peace
awaiting
the Sun God's return
welcoming golden rays
light-filled blossoms
and children's smiles

willing to die again
come autumn's blaze
and so ~
life continues.

Joanne Cucinello

The Steps of Avalon

Come walk with me.
I’ve found a place
where stones speak
and whispers of forever
move the trees.

A path winds
rambling through the thicket
and every season’s palate
paints the woods
with strokes of sweet nostalgia.
So come with me and wander
till we find those cherished
“Steps”
that take us there.

They are waiting
just around the bend of brush,
coaxing us to come along
and climb the rise . . . to find
the magic hollow,
where seekers come to listen
and sometimes hear the stones speak.

At the landing, in circled swirl,
lies a graceful Labyrinth
made of stone
linking all who walk it to ages past
and visions of the deepest heart.
And in the background,
standing huge . . . the carved rocks,
etched with loving words . . .
the memories of a son lost long ago,
a life remembered.

Joanne Cucinello 2002

Eagles Wings

Eagles Wings

In this world where eagles fly
and falcons soar
I, too, with wings unfurled
reach for unfamiliar heights
And in the reveries of my evening song
taste the voyage
of my soul.

In dreams, I wander
searching for my home
Looking for the child
I left behind,
Floating down the empty streets
of times past,
Uneasy corridors
that lead to nowhere.

Voices once familiar
echo in some distant doorway.
Faces long forgotten
turn in recognition of my soul.

This strange land of my enigma
vanishing with light of dawn,
No peace this restless wanderer can find
in flight nor slumber.

Were I only to remember
in my waking hours
That once obscured memento
of my childhood grace

I would surely fly with eagles,
climb the mountain tops
And find that winding path
that leads to home.


Joanne Cucinello

Here To Stay (for Cherylyn)

Here To Stay
. . . for Cherylyn

The doctor said,
as he listened
through the wall of my mother’s womb,
“ I hear a heartbeat. Want to listen?”
and he raised the scope to her ears.
That’s when she heard me
floating in the dark warm waters of her yearning
like a new born star deep in the heavens
and her heart caught my rhythm
and began to beat with mine.
Then she sang for the very first time
a new song . . . that rang sweet and true
like a pure silver bell
and its ring went on and on and on . . . this time.

Joanne 2007

Give Eve a Break Already!

Give Eve A Break Already!


It’s been a really long time to bear the burden
of bringing DEATH into the world,
don’t you think?
How many centuries still have to pass
until I’m exonerated?
The story reads . . .
that everything was just fine and dandy
and going along real great,
till “Curvy” went and popped the apple on the scene.
Adam didn’t have to lift a finger back then.
Everything just bloomed all year round.
No need to hunt or fish,
no need for football games,
no expense accounts, money or bills.
Just chill out!
Everything was free and at our fingertips.
We were going to live forever . . .
never get old or wrinkled,
never have to work for a living,
never get sick,
never need Prozac . . .
just live happily ever after.
And then . . .
I blew the whole thing with an apple
and I’ll never, never, never hear the end of it,
not me
not any of my daughters . . .
till the end of time!

I guess one of us had to take the blame . . .
and since Adam
was the one
with
THE MUSCLES!
. . . .

Like a Rose

Her life was like a rose
a flower’s fragrance
delicate and sensual
a bud tight and hidden
‘neath the thorn bush
but only for awhile.

The Age of Innocence
was her time
and innocent she was
no plumes waving in the wind
no reeds rising past the dunes

No . . .
not this flower
She was a flower of a different kind
and aren’t we all
buds at the start
some hidden by the brush
some . . . facing towards the sun
waiting for the good rain
all of us?
Waiting for the bits of pollen
blowing and riding
on the wind
to give us life
and color and oh, such
sweet delights.

She was one
who opened to the sunshine
pushing though the thorns
greeting all that came her way
with love and petals soft.

She was ours . . .
and we loved her so
even as the petals fell
even as the old thorns tore her flesh
gentle still was she
her last drops
perfumed blessings
in the garden we remember . . . .

I See the Bridge

Long ago
when I was small
I rolled in sweet grass and picked daisies.
I skipped down the street
without fear of falling and ran up the stairs
never stopping
to catch my breath.

The Bridge was far away.

I grew to be a young woman
and forgot about the grass and the daisies.
Life was calling me to fall in love
and I did.

A family was born and grew
and I forgot about the bridge
until one day my Father died.
I looked out the window that day and
realized

The Bridge was getting closer.

Then my children’s little ones were born
and our family grew.
Life seemed to be starting all over again
I was so involved with new life everywhere
until one day, one misty day
while fixing my hair in the mirror
a vision floated in the background
a vision of the bridge
with footprints of those who walked across
soft impressions on the dust
reminding me.

And so I try to live each day with “Yes”
on my lips
making memories, making time to love
to pick the daisies that can only smile
so briefly
and promise not to rush this life away
because I really do
see the Bridge.

Joanne Cucinello 2007

Empty Pockets

And she told me how she touched the sky
how the spiral widened as she flew towards the sun
and how all at once she tasted God . . . and almost was Him.
In that moment, she was spirit . . . conversing with the moon
looking down upon the earth in all its’ splendor,
no boundaries . . . no fences to keep her in.
The gate now open, led to everywhere it seemed
day and night were one.

And as the spiral whirled . . . she flew . . . and flew
until at last she touched the sun
for one eternal moment
until she fell, as those who fly must do,
broken-winged and shattered.
Now she walks with mortals
hiding feathers in her pockets
finding rocks that hold her to the earth.
They speak to her of ancient wanderers,
souls who might have flown like her in mystic rituals
or daydreams . . . once upon a time.

And we . . . who have never left this earth in flight or fancy
nor felt the rush of wind beneath our wings
try to tie her down with pills and promises
hoping she won't fly away again
to leave us gazing at the sun and wondering
where she’s gone this time
and how . . . with empty pockets.

Joanne Cucinello 2003

Happiness Was a Picnic ( A Memoir)

Happiness Was a Picnic ( A Memoir)

When I was five, the world was green and anything was possible. The spark of imagination ignited my dreams and life was magic. She, who pumped the air into my balloon, was my very own mother and I embraced the wildness in her. Marian was a pyromaniac of sorts, striking match to stone, calling wind through my brain to push the flames higher. She loved my silliness and my laughter and I found that I had power to change her moods from grey to sunny, at least then, when I was a child. Even though the day would come when I had to stand against her ~ that was not here on Linden Street where Marian’s magic bloomed. That was not today, when I was five and the world was green.

Concrete sidewalks do not fare well for children. Scrapes and bruises and bits of old yellow glass find their way into tiny knees. How I longed for soft green grass! My mother, who always knew my fragile heart, obliged my dreams with a plan to ease that longing, and gave me a gift that day. Three young maple trees stood in a row, donning our city street in Brooklyn. Each one in its own empty sidewalk square filled with soft earth, trees planted perhaps to watch over me . . . or so I thought back then. They were the faithful signs of changing seasons I grew to understand.

In the spring, I watched each day, as green grass grew around their roots and filled each patch of earth with life. It was there that my dream of the country came alive and it was there that I took my little sister on our imaginary picnic. Mom had packed a small wicker basket with peanut butter triangle sandwiches, bunches of grapes, chocolate milk and cookies. Then she draped a checkered cloth across my arm and bade me “Go on now. Take your sister on a picnic . . . the grass is waiting for you.”

The tree nearest our building was the safest. There I could still look back and see our first floor windows, their striped awnings and my mother’s waving hand. That day I claimed for my own and began a lifetime of loving trees. Not a soul could tell me that this shady maple wasn’t mine and no one could convince me that the grass hadn't grown beneath it just for this, our perfect picnic. I spread out the red and white cloth and there we sat silly, smiling from ear to ear, ready to feast on our basket of goodies.

The bark of the tree felt alive and the new green grass a cool silky comfort to my knees. Tiny inchworms and furry caterpillars stumbled along its gnarly roots as we watched, so removed it seemed, from the concrete of our world. Munching on cookies and sitting like little Indians, we looked up with bent necks, viewing the spring canopy of sunlit leaves that covered us that afternoon. I was five and I was happy, safe without a care except to be a child pretending.

Neighbors passed, coming and going, smiling and saying “Having fun, girls?” or whispering “They must be Marian’s kids.” But I paid no mind to their shuffling feet and their squeaky carts . . . or their whispers. I just thought that nobody's Mom was as special as mine!
The world stood still for us that long afternoon and it remains one of my fondest childhood memories, reminding me always that I was loved.

Joanne Cucinello 2007