Where Tiger Lily Blooms

 

I tiptoed into the forest
looking for something
other than green

and I found such happiness
blooming, sprouting
lovely orange kisses

tiger lilies . . .
shouting up to the treetops
"Look at us . . . we're alive!"

Joanne Cucinello

Enter Now . . . the Prophesy

A Renaissance is brewing.
There are Weavers . . . great Artists
in the wings
playing harps of discontent
waiting . . .
waiting . . .
for the fine strings to unravel.
Crystal clarity envelops them
but the path they seek to ride
is cluttered with confusion and debris.

Old thought must die now
all that can survive
must come from spirit minds
cloned with highest
visions for mankind.
The noise that rises from the earth
is deafening to gentle stars
adrift in velvet darkness.
They are praying . . .
praying for us
to remember
who we are. . .
to remember the great and
valiant call . . .
the echoes of the great chiefs
and saints and humble spirits
whose sobs reverberate
stirring the dark black hole
that leads to our redemption.

How will we continue?
This quest is not political
no partisans are welcome here
when our humanity is at stake.


Look! . . . They approach now!
There! In the sky . . . a great omen.

There . . . see! They come . . .glorious
Three stallions . . . riding on the clouds with wild
and furious manes unfurled
they charge with giant hooves of sapphire.

The first is midnight black
the smoke of all lost tribes
surging through his raging nostrils.
“Why?” he asks, in voice of thunder.
“Why . . . have you not listened?”

And now another sound
of great wind howling through the skies
advancing wild and raptured
an ancient Appaloosa upon whose back
the horseman rides.
“When . . . When?” he cries with loud
uproarious voice.
“We are waiting!!”

And then a sudden stillness parts the skies
No sound escapes the silence . . . silence
and in the distance
a red-hued sun begins to rise,
the firmament
encased with brilliance.
And then . . .
Oh Glory!
Oh Majesty!
He comes,
He comes!
The great White Spirit Horse
with eyes of fire and legs of alabaster
his silver mane aloft, alive
with lightening flashing through
the heavens
and on his back . . . the Holy One
the Ageless One . . . but see
He wears no plate of armor
no sword is reeled
yet He is shining . . . shining
brighter than the sun . . .
the God-Child comes
and in his hands
red glowing embers
of his flaming heart.
“Who will carry this?”
“Who will take my burden?”

And from his heart
Red glowing tears . . . embers
shooting stars
Falling . . . falling
to the earth like manna
come to rest on those with
outstretched hands
and the burden of the God-Child
was received,
the burden of the earth and all
its creatures
and mankind wept
tears of gold . . .
as the ancient ones departed and
the winds ceased to roar
the sheath of heaven closed
to find a renaissance beginning

and see . . . the earth is turning green again.

Joanne Cucinello 2007

The Visit

“I saved these just for you” she said.
“I knew you’d come one day to find them.”
Bending to her bureau drawer,
the moonlight swept across her face
and there ‘neath tattered wings I saw
a form familiar.

She picked up bits of ivory
with her musing fingertips
worn now from the years.
A smile, soft and lovely,
graced her frail and shallow face
and flash-backs
just like shreds of lightening . . .
flooded me.

“It was you, wasn’t it?" I gasped.
“All the while it was you . . .
tiptoeing past my bed
like a thief who’d stolen jewels.
I thought that I was dreaming . . .
swore I saw those wings . . .
yes, and that fairy scent you always wore.
You lived with us back then, Grandma,
and all the while . . .
I thought that thief was Mom!”

She bid me, “Close your eyes
and open up your hand”,
as if I were standing small again
and I anxiously obeyed.
Then she dropped them,
my tiny ivory tooth buds
saved since childhood
toppled in the center of my palm,
"treasures, jewels" she said
. . . her memories.

And there we lay that evening
recalling heart-soaked lullabies
rocking in the dark
till all the breath of
all the years
dissolved into my arms
and the long cord of Grandma's love
~ wrapped my heart with gold.


Joanne Cucinello 2007

Nest

In the warm dark waters
of my mother's womb
I swam alive and innocent
unaware that in my universe
of darkness, simple cells
were multiplying and I
would soon be filled with light.

Moment by moment
I blossomed into being
caught in the current
of pulse and rhythm
my mother's blood
pumping through tributaries
gushing and swirling like
one great river and I,
safe inside my burrowed
nest of softness.

Joanne Cucinello

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

Target

There is a sinister energy
roaming the earth . . .
Terrorism.
Its one intent:
the destruction of your heart.
It has no real preference
its victims are faceless . . .

Its grave design is
to convince you
that you are powerless . . .
that you are worth nothing.

Do not believe it!

The target is your heart . . .
your heart that believes in freedom
and that we are all created equal.

Those who have hope,
those who encourage the thought
of a free people, who value human life
and the pursuit of happiness ~
are threatening its survival.

So hold fast to freedom
for this evil will try in vain
to squeeze out every hope
and crush your hearts with despair.

It will even attempt to convince you
that there is another god
unknown to you . . .
who will reward those who kill you.

Do not believe it!

There is only One
who loves you and gave you life . . .

Believe the whispers . . . freedom is rising!

Joanne Cucinello

Moonlight Praise

O Beauty
that lights the midnight sky,
how faithfully you wax and wane.
I am but one seed sprouted in time
Caught, like those before me,
in the rays of your glowing splendor.

Your rhythm flows through my veins
and all life responds with heartbeat
to your magnetic pull.
You rule the ebb and flow of ancient waters.
All emotions and cycles, comings and goings,
even our dying and our being born.
these things await your perfect timing.

O Moon,
You have lived in our consciousness
since our first awakening,
Created to be our gift and comfort,
our promise of the morning sun.
Even as Eve first stepped beyond the Gate
that night in lonely silence,
you were there to shine on Adam’s path
and teach the rhythms of your ever-changing face.

They watched the heavens,
awaiting your return each month
and marked the days of your growing brightness
to light the path for the hunt and their returning journeys home

Your cycle echoes that of our own,
from the darkness of our mother’s womb
Into the dawning of our life.
We travel toward the brightness of our days
and in time fade like summer’s bloom,
back to the dust of our beginnings.


O glorious faithful Moon,
who signs our destiny and bows before the Sun,
remind us always of our God,
In all life’s changes,
and in all your dances with the stars . . .
For we, like you . . . are made to shine,
each a spark of that One Eternal Light.


Joanne Cucinello

In Beatrice's Room

For the hauntingly beautiful artist Beatrice Turner (1888-1948)
whose Spirit, I believe, prompted me to write this poetic tale
one night when I stayed in Beatrice's Room at the Cliffside Inn in Newport, R.I.

In Beatrice's Room

Someone long ago, sat at this window,
cushions plumped, pillows strewn.
The morning mist floated
down the road
to the sea.
Newport's Cliff Walk beckoned~
a young man waited.
She could barely see him through the trees
waving, "Come!"

"There is no such thing as walks with beaus
here in this captive house
they will soon paint black.
There is only Father and Mother
the easel and me.

Today, I will not paint
another portrait of myself
and gaze into my mirrors.
Today I will escape on the catwalk
outside my window.
There is a railing, I can do it
. . . and he is waiting!

Just one day~ this day
before they find me
and lock the door forever!
Just one day~ to see myself
my eyes, my face
in the eyes of another~
reflected, smiling, speaking
sweet exchange of beings~ real.

Just this day
before he locks me in
and keeps me from the world,
before I dip the brush
to paint myself a thousand times
~ one thousand portraits
and leave them to burn
with this house.

My Father,
when your day comes
and the hooded shadow
knocks
I will prop you in your chair~
cold and stiff
and you will sit for me . . .
UNTIL I AM FINISHED!
. . . painting
a portrait ~ for your tombstone
like the proper daughter
you will have raised
and honed
in this room
for yourself . . .
while my dearest mother
turned her eyes away.

Joanne Cucinello 2008

Note: Beatrice Turner painted over 1,000 self portaits. Her life is a haunting tale and you can find more about it on the internet.

Blooms Ago

This is lilac time
lavender purple painting
the park each spring.

That sweet perfume rising
reminds me of my childhood
and your smile.

It was your favorite flower . . .
a Mother's Day wish

I remember how you buried
your soft face, nuzzling
in those sweet-scented blooms

Your brown eyes ecstatic
as if I'd handed you jewels
amethysts . . .
those simple purple blossoms

a transport to heaven
with just one sniff!

Joanne Cucinello 2009

To Never Never Land

Keeper of Childhood Memories, come and visit me today.
Bring with you my pillow, where once
I lay my head in slumber, sweet and pure . . .
perhaps that long forgotten toy I held and cherished.

Let me touch them once again with searching fingertips,
recalling childhood comforts buried there.
Whisper in the long forgotten voices of my brothers and sisters,
small like me, so that their sounds might ring
a chime of recollection . . . echoes of our laughter long ago.

Bring me back the scent of home, my bed,
that favorite little chair or corner where I played . . .
my mother’s laughter and her lullabies,
the softness of her fingers on my heated brow.

Just one look at my reflection in my father’s eyes,
the smile upon his face and hands so strong
that lifted me high upon his shoulders,
where I could see the world.

Take me to that place where childhood past is kept,
safe from toil and fear . . .
the place where children’s spirits go to romp and play,
where every word once spoken still lives on
and floats through stars . . .
to Never Never Land.

Joanne Cucinello 1998

Must I Answer?

There are moments
in the early still dark
morning
when saints and sinners
come to call . . .
voices floating
in the misty fog
of twilight.

"Who are you"they ask,
with ears extended.
"What is it you've
come to accomplish
here with your
feet dug into the ground?"

"Nothing" I say.
"Nothing?" they ask.
"Nothing" I say again.
"I just want to sleep!"

Joanne Cucinello 2009

Sandbox

So what do I say?
Does it even matter now that
all the sand is gone?
I never played there anyway.

So what . . .
if I heard things I wasn't supposed to?
So what . . .
if I knew the world was going to end
when I was only seven?

How do you carry the sins of your mother
and one day say no more
and one day say . . . go away
and don't come back!?

What do you say to God?
Where were you???
I know . . . I know . . . but I really don't know
even though I was supposed to
even though I thought all children were forgiven.


Joanne Cucinello 2008

On That Day

There was a day
when I was young
just a flash in time
a moment . . . stirring like the wind
to take my breath away
and it was You.

I walked into a room of people
but only you were there.
A sun tanned face turned to me
wide eyed and chiseled . . . a strong
face full of questions so intense
and then . . . that smile
that absolutely perfect smile . . .
sunshine and heartache all in one.

Stranger . . .
you brushed against me
in my dreams a thousand times
but on that day your flesh was real.
Little did I know
you would still be here
in my bed today.

Joanne Cucinello 2009