It Was Amy

She turns around
now and then
to look, to gaze
behind her
at something eternally
familiar...
the beating heart
the stillborn image
floating free...
catching up in time
to touch her soul
reminding her
that
once she had a child
named Amy.

That quiet giggle
passing sometimes
in a breeze
across the lawn
scented with her
sunlit hair . . . dancing

could have been a butterfly
perhaps, but no.

And then that young man
who returns each year
the day in May
when she was born

to find her spirit
playful
at the water's edge
around the cove
where she stands again
with pebbles shining
in her hands . . . Amy.

Joanne Cucinello

Even In the Rain

My Love
some nights
in my dreams
I am all alone
searching
down lonely streets
in the rain.
I hear your voice
far in the distance
and even though
I shiver with cold
your voice
keeps calling me
begging me
not to be afraid . . .
You are there
waiting
your warm blanket
of love
an umbrella
your arms and lips
my home.

Joanne Cucinello 2009

May I Never Forget

Lord . . . what can I say to you?
How can I look through the doors
of heaven and still be standing?
You wrapped me in a blanket of comfort
and hid me from the shadow of darkness.
You lifted me, surrounded me
with angel's wings.

What could have been my ending
the last thought in my head
the last tear from my eye
became a pillow filled
with gladness and my heart
a blooming rose.

Lord . . . you thought of me
remembered me
said that my body was not
to walk among the dead
but to walk hand in hand with the living.
You knew I had more to give
and stayed the hand of the Reaper.

May I never forget this day
and the mercy poured upon me
the feathers of the angels
white and pure
and the faces of those
who wept with smiles for me.


Joanne Cucinello

He's Gone

The sun
now ending its long walk
across the sky
peeks again through the willow.
It’s quiet now.
She sits by the window
looking at the garden
and this aging man
who once she knew
as lover mate . . .
now more like a child
a lost one at that
but still a man in form
the man she loved
for all these years
who calls her Sally now,
Sally . . . some girl he knew
when he was young.
Sally doesn’t live here
and this is not his home
in West Virginia.

He keeps looking for his dog
long dead . . . calling out
“Scotty! Come here, boy.”
And she sits and watches
as he clips the branches
of the small bush
that sits alone at the back
of the yard.
She’s thinking how like branches
his mind
is being clipped away each day.

Soon
he’ll come through the door
yelling and asking why
she’s sitting in his house
. . . . and where’s Sally?
And the wedding pictures
on the bureau
stare back at him
like strangers
toasting ghosts.

She sits by the window
holding screams
beneath her breath
of frozen tears
and weeps silent
even as the fireflies
begin their dance.

He’s lost
the man she loved
locked in some forbidden space
within his mind
growing deeper and deeper away
lost to all who called him friend
and father and . . . Darling.

“ I can’t find Scotty” he mumbles
teary-eyed through the door
and she cups his face in her tender hands
trying to find him . . . somewhere.
Night begins its close around them
as he smiles and pats her hair
and plants his small kiss upon her cheek
. . . “ I love you, Sally.”


Joanne Cucinello 2007

~ "He's Gone" received the Award of Excellence in the Winter 2007 Poet’s Sanctuary Excellence Award Competition and has been published in “Splash of Verse 2007”~

I Want To Live!

I want to fly tonight
leave this body
and fly!

I want to hold
my breath
and swim with whales!

I want to follow
the mountain goats
to Everest

and find an eagle's
feather there.

I want to lie in
the den of the Great
Black Bear and
nuzzle with her cubs.

I want to find
that place of promise
where my name is
carved in stone.

I want to never
forget that
I was here.

I want to live!

Joanne Cucinello

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