The Song

The girl child

grew like a vine

attaching herself

to any strong oak

in the forest

while the boy child

ran wild and tall

foraging and digging

for nuggets of gold.

One day

they found each other

by a silver stream that

bubbled and sang

of a strange new song

they had yet to hear.

Suddenly

their eyes opened wide

and caught sight

of their fingertips touching

and softness grew

up their arms

and into their hearts.

This was the beginning

of yearning . . .

and this became the Song.

Joanne Cucinello  © 2013

Dream Walk

Tell me

did I walk

into that dream

last night . . .

or did

that dream walk

into me?

Like hard rain it pounded

at my window glass

ready to shatter all

that I believe my life to be.

I fight

trying to hold onto

my cells and my skin

even though these bones

are beginning to wane

and settle into a soft

comfortable clump.

What will become of me

when I can no longer see

beyond this shell I knew

so well as Me?

What will become of

those dreams I thought

were mine?

Joanne Cucinello  ©  2013

Nose Dives

I keep trying to understand

how and when the process of human

transformation begins to take a nose dive

for some.

How does a human being turn into a Monster?

When does that sweet quiet child suddenly

begin hurting animals, just like that?

Is it really possible to go unnoticed,

or is no one paying attention?

We hear about it every day.

The News reports another psychopath

has tortured his victim and we hear the interviews

of family and neighbors

citing he was just a quiet guy, who kept to himself.

It makes me wonder . . .

Is no one paying attention?

Is there some point in that downward spiral

when time can be suspended long enough

for an antidote to be given?

Could unconditional love be that antidote?

Is there love enough to erase the darkness

and stains of the past, or must the Monster stay

locked and chained in his Cave forever?

Joanne Cucinello  

I

Will You find Me?

Oh Lord, my soul is thirsty!

How do I live in this world?

How can I slice through fog so dense

and find that kernel of light and

truth you've promised?

I have sifted the sand around my feet

a thousand times, but it is hot and dry

and nowhere can I find that

drop of gold that floated in

my Mother's womb beside me.

Sometimes in my dreams

I can almost touch it

in a baby's smile or in a song

that has always stirred my soul

and then I wake, no longer in that grace.

What shall I do, while in my heart

there lives such fire?

Will I burn away to ashes and spend

eternity in some forgotten urn

or will you find my drop of gold,

through all this chaos and bring me home?

Joanne Cucinello    ©  2013

Necessary

I am waiting

like the small acorn

left behind and buried

in the barren earth of winter

waiting for

the warm rays of

springtime's sun to

open up my heart again with light

do we all

not close that

inner door when

daylight's scarce and night is long

how necessary then this test

to pause and stay within the heart's

perimeter and muddle through the aches

of our decisions past, that walk us through the labyrinth

there is no undoing

yet the years leave memories

with faded watermarks, blurring truth

sometimes, as the mind grows weary in the dark.

so come sweet light

add your colors softly painted

to this waiting canvas of my thirsty soul

and I will, like the acorn, part this earth and bloom again.

Joanne Cucinello      2013

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