Crown Coffee Shop

Crown Coffee Shop

It's been many years since our first date

and the small Crown Coffee Shop

we walked to on that snowy night

cold and chilled to the bone

no gloves or scarves, just acting cool

the way teenagers tried to do back then.

You said you went there often

and the owner wouldn't mind if we sat

drinking coffee all night. . . just staying warm.

Now it wasn't fancy, you warned me in advance

but it was cozy, and Tina, the waitress served

the best damn coffee this side of the Brooklyn Bridge!

There it was, just ahead, Crown Coffee Shop

the blinking neon sign, like Morse code,

saying "Come on in, you would-be lovers !"

When you opened the door

and I got a whiff of that fresh ground coffee

floating toward my cold pink nose . . . I knew somehow

we'd be sipping coffee together

for the rest of our lives . . . first thing

in the morning, tap, tap tapping out . . . that same Morse code.

Joanne Cucinello

I wrote this Story Poem in 2008, but for those of you, who were not following my blog back then . . . hope you enjoy reading it on this blustery winter's day . . . .

Muse on the Red Wall

I stood before the fresco

a Muse on a long forgotten red wall.

I had heard the stories

of this ancient beauty rare.

In daylight, it was said

should seekers come

to gaze upon her face

she captures visions

of their hearts and draws them in

with sapphire glance

 and beckonings

of distant flute and lyre .

When darkness falls

she dances, lithe grace

under candle glow

and moonlight.

  So unannounced . . . 

I did return that night

and sat beneath the willow

bent to see.

And there before me

as the moon passed

soft across the evening cloud

she stepped upon the grass

the red wall watching

and began her ancient dance.

It was then

I heard her voice so pure

like Celtic lilt adrift among the trees

a song to tear my heart forever more.

She sang as if for me to hear:

In my eyes are a thousand faces

 Dancing the dance of a thousand years. . .

the music and chants of all the children

dance my dance and cry my tears.

You and I . . . the face in the mirror

You and I . . . the footprints in sand

Born of a rhythm that rides on

Moonbeams,

born with the earth in the palm

of our hands.

Hear the music

that travels the centuries

Find your heartbeat

and hold on fast

You and I . . . just the face

in the mirror

The Song, the Song . . .

is all that will last.

Joanne Cucinello  

© 2004

No Regrets

The years

are filled with stories

stories woven

with a gilded thread

to make a heart.

Silver hairs are falling

soft upon this loom

like feathers ~

pillows touching

slept on through the years

finding comfort  ~

gazing some nights

across the sheets

to that place

where heaven rests

Oh . . . these have been

the best days

the best choice

ever, ever made!

Joanne

A Poet's Prayer

I'm re-posting my poem this time with my photo "Lilies of the Field". . . hoping that together they might be an inspiration for some of you to pick up a pen . . . and write your own!

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

Foggy Day

How do people get along

in places where the sun

hides almost every day?

I can't imagine it

since I'm evaporating slowly

into this fog myself.

The sun's given up on us

it seems . . .

angry about something or other

as if it didn't know

what was coming when it got the job!

I'm sure there was a sad comment or two

from the angels

about this situation called "humanity"

and all the screw ups we'd be making

down the line

but hiding so long only makes things worse

pills and booze and ropes come out of the closets

a "goodbye letter" gets scribbled on a nice white napkin

and someone starts smashing mirrors

down the street . . . I heard it myself, yesterday.

Come on out, Sun!  I can't take much more of this.

Ugh! The DRAMA!!!

Joanne Cucinello  2013

See How He Waits

 

He sits on that long wire, stark and solitary,

a dark hyphen in the gloomy backdrop

of the winter's sky

a Blackbird, perched there for weeks now

the way my grandfather sat on that chair in the kitchen

staring at the teapot, waiting for the whistle to blow,

waiting for someone to tell him his wife wasn't dead.

Even in the snow, that lonely bird keeps

chirping with his mouth wide open

like a hatchling hoping to be fed or

waiting for the flutter of his mate's wide wings.

I wonder if she's lost or dead like Grandma

or maybe waiting for him somewhere

with a broken wing, unable to fly

but she hasn't returned and I don't think she will.

Grandma didn't, no matter how long that old man waited.

He wanted to die too, so he went in the bathtub

and never came out.

Blackbird's losing his feathers . . . it won't be long now.

Joanne Cucinello  2012

When the Weather Breaks

I wonder sometimes,

if less crime is committed

in the dead of winter?

Do thieves and murderers

choose to stay inside

where it's warm

and wait for the weather to break?

If that is so

then I will move to Siberia

but then,

men are angry there too

because they have no food

and icicles cling to their beards

so that won't work

I should just forget about

the angry people

and maybe . . .

they'll forget about me.

Joanne Cucinello  2012

Father of My Heart

Remembering my Dad who left this world
December 1, 1994 . . . always remembered.
always loved.

You visit me in dreams

sometimes . . . silent always . . .

often in disguise,

my father, who was seldom silent

has no tongue to speak now

in that world of spirits.

The passing years

attempting to erase

the sound of your voice

the way you spoke my name

 . . . that smile

the one I memorized

that kept you just for me

 . . . my father.

Death came for you

swift and unexpected

on that rainy night

in a drunken car that raced

to claim you for its own.

We who loved you still

were set to cheer

and celebrate your life

of eighty years . . .

in just a few short days

but that was not to be

 . . .was it?

Instead we gathered,

the five of us, around your

wooden overcoat

to cry and weep remembering

how in childhood

we made you promise

not to die.

You would have danced with me

that night and with my sisters

the way you always did

when the old songs played

shuffling

those limber feet

across the floor with ease

shaming men much younger

but that was not to be

 . . . was it?.

No, sweet Father . . .

that delight was saved for heaven.

Daddy  . . . was your name,

since that first day I could utter it

and crawl upon your lap

since the first day you looked into my eyes

with your great soft love.

Daddy . . . you were always mine.

I remember how you walked inside my life

carrying me on your shoulders

so many times

telling me how I was always wanted

always loved . . .

coming to my rescue

through all those teenage fears and blunders.

Daddy . . . you had such a special heart

strange to some who'd scoff

at your devotion

but what would we have done

we five little stars

without your steadfast love

that dark-remembered day

when Mama blew the roof

off of our house

and let the demons in?

Joanne Cucinello

She Sheds Her Clothes Again

 
Green leaves begin their dying now

a few last bursts of summer's fling

before the chill nights ring the bell

and usher in the fall.

This night, the moon will rise 

a full and a luscious orange globe

above the tree tops you can see her

ablaze like Aztec gold.

The Hunter's Moon, they call her

at the Autumn's Equinox

heralding earth's proclivity

to shed her clothes.

The leaves will grow heavy

when the rains come

and they will come hard they say this year

and merciless for awhile until

the Sun decides to shine again and bring

the great north winds along to whistle.

Together they will spin their palette

splashing magic colors twirling

floating feathered leaves to cover

grass and moss and once again

the earth renews.

Joanne Cucinello 2012

Starlight Symphony

Song of man

lilt of woman's voice

the laughter of a child

like molecules of stardust

See! . . they float out

towards the heavens

even as they leave our lips.

Do not fear

that they are lost or vanished

for this can never be

not if these were born of love.

Love lives on eternal

every speck of it

every drop of goodness

that fills the  golden cup.

Our words, our songs

and all the sounds of life

once uttered

stay forever sacred

and though not composed of matter

they have life  . . . that time can never touch

for they transform into the

echoes, timbre chimes and bells,

the woodwinds of the Milky Way

the strings and timpani of comets

soaring by . . .

they continue their concertos

in the dark and fertile silence

of the cosmos

where the Earth spins

her glorious symphony for the stars.

Joanne Cucinello    2010

Prodigal

Back then
when I was born again
the Church reached out to me
its prodigal daughter, who years ago
had spit upon the marble steps I once
toddled with folded hands and eyes upturned
a green wreathed halo resting on my little head.

Now I was
to be forgiven
taken back into the fold
Alleluia . . . Praise the Lord!
I thought so much had changed
I didn't have to prove myself a Catholic,
not this time in these new grass roots.

Open arms
reached out to me
at every turn and called me
their beloved, as tears of joy began
their daily flood upon my happy holy cheeks
I belonged again and this time I would never ever
leave, for now I was loved and accepted, sins and all.

This time
I could shout "Amen!"
wave my arms and roll my eyes
ecstasy was just around the corner with
the laying on of hands and the humming babble
of tongues . . . this new sweet grass, this new Church
where all God's children were prophets, healers and saints.

Sounds amazing, huh?

But as time went on
and they'd scrubbed my joy and talents
clean down to the bone with their holy wire brush
the new sweet grass began to wilt and die once more
and my sweet Jesus turned and climbed back up . . . upon his Cross.

Joanne Cucinello © 2011

The Christ Tree Twists

I love how the dogwood
bends~
following its own lead
turning to the whispers
of the laurel, oak and ivy
as they mingle in the woods.

Outside my window
a great white lady
readies herself to bloom
sap rising
ripening her tight buds ~
the warm spring sun
seducing her to burst forth
in lacy splendor.

Christ's blossoms,
cross shaped petals
tinged as though with sacred blood
they say ~
and in each center
there his crown.

I do not think
sweet Jesus hung
upon a dogwood
yet we yearn for mystic symbols
connections ~
wherever they might be
organic matter
to fertilize our faith.

Even in a tree ~ poor tree ~
just wanting to twist and turn
and share its beauty
with the sun
while all it asks of us
is the deep breath ~
the aah!
and silent yes
acknowledging its gift
so simple ~ so magnificent.

Joanne Cucinello ©2008

Cinderella Lost

(This is a new version of my poem from 2009)

They've stopped looking.
It's been twelve years now.
We searched for her
in every town
even miles from here.
She was gone . . . just like that.
We posted her picture everywhere
and all the leads were just dead ends.

She was young and pretty, my sister,
just a kid when she left, funny too . . .
We used to dream together
hiding under the bed with flashlights
pretending we were going to the ball
to meet the Prince, pretending we had
slippers made of glass.

She whispered in my ear one night
just before we fell asleep . . ."I've found the Prince!"
and I rolled over and sighed, "Such a hopeless Cinderella!"
Two nights later, she disappeared
and the rain blew in from her open window.

Yesterday I found a letter stuck between the doorsill
and this picture . . . Here, look!
All it said was "Do you know me"?

She was just a kid but
I'd know those eyes anywhere.
Look at her . . . think hard!
Have you seen her?
Can't you see . . . it's Cinderella?

Joanne Cucinello