And You Are the Man I Love

Warm and tender, you look into my eyes
speaking your truth to my soul.
You speak it, because you love me
and want nothing less of our lives together.
Patient and waiting, you give me time
to come around and miss you.
And miss you, I do so often
when we live our separate days.

You are home to me
your voice, your smile, your being.
You are my ground . . .
my reason to stop and think of why
I want to live.

So many times, we've run the race
your hand in mine
one heart cheering for the other.
So many times, we've licked the wounds
and kissed the remnants
of our war torn fleeting triumphs.

Aren't we the lucky ones to have
found the piece that fits?
Aren't we the blessed ones,
entwined like vines around an old oak tree,
dying and being born again so many times together?

Oh, how I love you, Lord of My Heart!
You are my husband, my brother, my dearest friend.
There has been no greater gift in my life.
You were the beginning of all good things to come,
the mating of our spirits
that brought new life, new shining Beings
into this world, our Children
so fragile, so strong, so beautiful . . .
like you, my Precious Love.

Joanne Cucinello

Must I Stay A Human?

I’m wondering where that cat went.
All day she was prowling around my yard.
First swatting at beetles
then prodding the earth for that pink worm’s head.

Cats are so oblivious to anything
but their own whims and desires
they fascinate with twitches . . .
They are the lovers of pounce!

Someday, I might like to return as one
soft pawed and green eyed
filled with lusty desire to discover
all things . . . moveable and flittering

I might like to ogle at goldfish
in the neighbors pond
and dream of cleaning bones with my raspy tongue
swallowing their last bits of salty flesh.

Yes, I would like to be a cat
full of purrs and curled up limbs
bewitching glances and arched back tilting
towards the one who fluffs my bed on the windowsill.

God, make me a cat!
I promise I’ll be kind to little finches in the bush
just a feather or two for old times sake
just a small devilish twist in air to remind me

. . . I’m a cat!

Joanne Cucinello 2007

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

Listen

"Live!" . . . said the Moon on her perch
in the black sea of heaven.
"Fully ". . . she whispered
to the children of the earth
who were making love and waging war
eating and starving, dying and being born.

Live!! . . . she shouted, as they stumbled
and fell, trying over and over to walk
in their shoes of immortality.
Live!! . . . she cried, as they pulled their hair
in disbelief that they could in fact . . . live forever.
"Nothing lives forever" . . . they sobbed
"all things surely must die!"

"All things but You" . . . she whispered now
alone in her heaven, without the Sun,
who rises when she falls, who shines when she is dark.
"All things but You!" . . . echoed the Stars,
and they wept for the Moon in her loneliness.
"You are not like us, set adrift to light the heavens
exalted in your poetry, fading into darkness at the end.

Listen and truly live . . . Mankind
before the Sun and Moon have run their course.
Learn that it is YOU who are immortal,
You, the beings who can dream and yearn and love
and You who will shine long after our light is gone.
There is more to Man than flesh and bone.
You are the children of God, and though you inhabit
the Earth, you are Spirit.
Listen! . . . it is You . . . who will live forever."

Joanne Cucinello

Lullaby for the Hunter's Son

Close your eyes, My little Son
rest now calm
against my breast.
Winter is coming
and the great bear
goes back to her den
with her young.
The elk
will forage in the deep woods
where your father’s
arrow flies to find its mark.

Our people
will harvest what is left
of the corn and wild berries
the squash, the pumpkin
and the brown nuts
the trees bring forth.
Wakan Tanka, Great Spirit
watches over our people
this night
and all will be well.

Do not cry, my Son.
The fire will warm us
and you and I will sit
with the others as the smoke rises
and the soft drum begins its call.
Your father will speak this night
for it is the night of the Hunter’s Moon.
He will stand in the circle
and tell of his dreams.
He has seen the white buffalo
and the herds grazing on the plains
far north.
They will listen and I will be proud.

Soon you will grow strong
and leave my arms.
You will follow your father
and become a man.
I will not see you for many moons
when the hunt is long
but for tonight under these stars
you are mine
and my heart beats with mother’s love.
I will kiss your tiny hands
and stroke your raven hair.
I will blow my spirit through your heart
as yours has blown through mine
and you will know of love
that never dies.
for tonight, my little Son
. . . you are mine.

Joanne Cucinello 2007

Feather In the Wind

You ride the winds of time my child, like a feather
preened from eagles wings, gentle and protected.

But the time will come, after many harvest moons
have shed their light upon your face,
that the northern winds will howl and call your name.
They will sweep across the plains and tame your flight.
They will lead you to your spirit.

Listen for the heartbeat of
the Ancient One whose voice whispers
from beyond the sun . . .
You will no longer be a child and you will understand.

I will know when you are ready and I will
call you to my side and tell you:
"It has come, Little Feather, the time
to sing the song I gave your heart
when you were born.
Your time of flight is over, and all
that you have learned will serve you well.

Now comes the shining truth,
the blessings from your Father's heart.
You will wear the Hunter's Feather now
and ride with me to the North where
the White Buffalo hides, as he did in my dream.
It is you, who will find him . . . you,
who will lead your Father
You . . . whose time has come."


Joanne Cucinello © 2007

Purple Quilt

She bought a purple quilt
satin soft and welcoming
a purple river flowing on their bed.
We little ones would run our hands
across it when we walked into that room.
It felt like love.

And sometimes, if a thunder storm was near
she'd bundle us together by the window
and open it wide to see and feel it all
the green and orange awnings flapping wildly
in the wind. Then like a banshee she'd grab
that quilt and slide it off the bed
dancing and twirling till she snatched
us up in it safe and warm
and cuddled us like little birds beneath
her wings . . . and suddenly we were brave.
There we could feel the raindrops
spray as they hit the sidewalk
listen close to rolling thunder in the heavens
and see the lightening flash across the sky.
She'd stand right in the middle telling of the angels
up there bowling strikes with every clash
and there we were . . . a purple quilted bundle,
leaning on the window sill, giggling and squealing
till every fear was gone beneath
that purple quilt and my mother's
arms as if they both were one . . .

Now I wonder, as I'm growing old
if she kept it on that bed to hide
not us . . . but her
and did she see her life untangling
evolving strange and different
moving far away from Dad and us
far away from what was coming
hiding from those demons
who began to dance their madness
in her head and pull her screaming through the door.

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