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

Here Comes the Rain

It's getting ready to thunder outside
dark clouds moving in off the shore.
There's no controlling them
they do as they please
just to spite the sun
that moments ago
was shining and
flashing its
golden teeth.

Pity the poor sun, dying just a little
every day, trying so hard to make
sense of its duty to the earth
and wondering when, like
the thunder, it could
just let loose and
rumble wildly
unpredictable
as sin.

Joanne Cucinello 2008

The Man In the Moon

On the dark side of the moon, he lives,
where seeds of time now slumber
And there he roams its canyons deep
in search of motherless souls.

You think it strange...a man in the moon
But ah! .... you know him well.
Since childhood days, you gazed at his face
aglow in eerie silence.

Peering through moonlit curtains
as if he'd called your name to look
And find him smiling there ....or crying
Reflecting all your fears and wonder.

The great globe of light in the midnight sky,
mysterious...yet so familiar
And that face of the man ......turned silver blue
. . . our moonlight contemplation.

Strange perhaps, in these enlightened times,
when moon reflects the feminine,
That I should say.... a man lives in the moon,
but you know.....he does.



Joanne Cucinello

Witness

Death
lying blank
against the pavement
unannounced
it came to fetch her . . .
this now
her deathbed in the leaves
where she lay
silent and still.
Poor old woman
no one knew her name
but she was waiting moments past
impatient for the school bus
and her grandson's happy smile.
The two year old had toddled
up the path beside her
one hand holding lollipops for his brother
the other, Grandma's soft black skirt.
Now he looks with giant eyes
as life departing frees his hand
and slumps like crumpled cloth
upon the ground.
Grandma! Grey and cloudy
like this day of no goodbyes.

And her spirit moved among the leaves
in sorrow great for these, the little ones
in her charge . . . in her love.
"Weep for me, my little one.
Weep your brother too,
who only hears the bus wheels
rounding corners, humming home tunes
unaware the days of holding hands are done.
Hide me, someone, from his searching glance
as round the bend that yellow transport glides
floating full of children's laughter.
Flag a detour . . . someone kind!
Don't let my deathbed be a spectacle
announcing his arrival
painting pictures
black and fearful in his heart.
Enough this little one, my witness.
Enough . . . this bus stop.


Joanne Cucinello 2007

Rickety Rack . . . Rainy Day Blues

I feel as if I’m someone else these days,
someone out of place.
Sometimes I think I’ve gone already
nowhere to be found.
Every morning a strange face
greets me in the mirror asking who I am.
I have to close my eyes to answer.

Is this the way it’s going to be from now on?
I'm trying so hard to remain in this unfamiliar shell,
a teapot losing its steam
and every day another piece of this body aches
tapping me to listen . . .
pay attention to the changing tide
reminding me of things much greater than I.
Perhaps it’s just the loneliness
I feel when I don’t want to talk to myself anymore.
Thoughts go out and return at odd times
of the night to wake me.

I sigh a lot more these days
feeling helplessness surround me
often overwhelmed
with disappointing expectations of my aging self.
And what was once so effortless
becomes a burden now.
I long to feel light and full of grace again.

Flesh and bones . . . you hold me down!
Oh, where is that wind that used to catch my sails?

I’m depressed today. Can you tell?

Joanne Cucinello 2007

Early Riser

When I sit in my room
of many windows
especially at early morn
gratefulness fills me.
As the sun pokes through
the trees, there are
silken strings
hanging, shimmering
fine threads of the Master
who was weaving
while I slept.

I wonder
on this particular sunrise
as I watch them sway
caught in passing
by a trembled breeze . . .
how light of sun
can play upon them
fragile chords of morning song,
silent beads of glistening dew
ascending . . . descending
stretched across each silver filament
coloring hints of rainbow . . .

visible only in this brief encounter
spared with grace for early risers.

Joanne Cucinello 2008

Father of My Heart

Father of My Heart


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
those dark-remembered days
when Mama blew the roof
off of our house
and let the demons in?

Joanne Cucinello 2008

Far Beyond One Lifetime

Far Beyond One Lifetime


Mother Dearest....I think of you in these nights of silence,
trying to remember your face and your flesh.
I've grown so far from childhood's gaze
and yet . . . the scent of yesterday remains.

You were once the earth beneath my feet,
the comfort of a stroking hand upon my brow,
a woman filled with daydreams and surprise.
I was enchanted by your creativity,
that spark of life so vibrant in your eyes.

Too young to recognize the pain,
it sprang upon me in a moment.
There was your life.....ebbing away unnoticed,
but I couldn't hear the melody.
The songs you used to sing had all come true.

You were darkness and light those days.
The way my fingers flicked a switch
is how you passed from day to night
with just a song....a melody or two,
that stirred some old familiar longing.

I have traced your face so many times,
with searching fingertips,
the face that once I knew as well as mine.
But your voice is lost in yesterday,
like the rumble of a subway train I used to ride.


I strain to listen now in dim recall,
yet there are only silent picture frames
that speak to me in muted words,
a painted bubble here and there,
that rises in my mind to call me ...Child.

Will I take you to my grave, as you have taken me to yours?
Mother.....the cord that binds us holds me fast
and tries my soul, stretching far beyond one lifetime.

And after all these years have blown
their changing winds upon my soul
it stays so poignant still....
the memory of your warm skin close to me,
my Mother....and the shadow of your arms.


Joanne Cucinello 1997

Communion

There is a place
within the human heart
where Spirit spins its woven net
to house the precious Soul.
The journey to this place
may take a lifetime . . .
for it is not an easy one.

Roadblocks and detours:
Suffering and Humility
wind their way along the path to
Wisdom's door.
Pride and Arrogance
undermine the human journey
. . . yet sweet Compassion
holds the key.


When we arrive at that opened door
all doubt will fall away
our truth illuminated
and at rest
in that house of Communion
where body and soul are one.



Joanne Cucinello ©2008

Once Upon A Time On Mulberry Street

Once Upon a Time On Mulberry Street


He was a bitter man
cynical
suspicious
even of children.
He came from Italy
a ship stow-away
who earned the keep
for his family
pushing fruit in a cart
down Mulberry Street.
“Niza ripa peach e banana
Two poundza pa quarta”
Typhoid and dysentery
took his little son
and wife when the
coal was scarce
in the winter of 1914 . . .
On the streets
of Lower Manhattan
he screamed for mercy
almost lost his mind.
Nothing was good anymore.
There was no God
on the East Side
and every day
that river called to him
promising peace.
Five more winters passed
before he met Maria
and that was the first day
he saw the sun.
Can you imagine it?
He saw the sun!
How long does sorrow
keep the heart imprisoned
and the mind sealed shut
without due consolation?
And when is it elected
that the heavens should open up again
and pour forth
sweet healing balm
in the form of another soul?
This was Maria
brown-eyed beauty with hands of silk
and bosom full and tender
She came to draw the curtains back
and let the sunshine in
to touch the walls with laughter
to fill his bed with long lost love
and to give him back his heart.
Years passed
and on that day he died
a house on Mulberry Street
began to cry
and all who knew him
in his blossomed life
stood in the small stairway
filled with flowers
singing songs with Maria . . .
songs of a man they’d come to love.

Joanne Cucinello 2007

The Enormity of One

So many parts, dear Lord
so many fragments and pieces
of life are we made of!
How can a being
define himself solitary
when just a shoulder's glance
will show his trail of life stamped
deep with footprints of a whole ensemble ?

Moments, hours, days and years
were then and will be again
cluttered and filled
with snapshots and film clips
memories and songs
stories and etchings
of me ~ you ~
them ~ those ~
others ~
objects . . . places . . .
dreams.

We are infused with life itself
absorbing its molecules
with every breath
as yours becomes mine
and mine becomes yours
sharing microbes
in our habitat.
A handshake, a kiss on the cheek
a solemn gaze
all return to dreams each night
and float away to stars.

Ancient stars
ordained to keep a record
of our dreams and words . . .
and even deeds.
No, not for Judgements sake
but for Compassion's.
And so, they stay their watch
perhaps in hopes
that man will find his way
back to the beginning
when their was no need
. . . there just was.

Joanne Cucinello © 2008

The Old Woman Dreams

The Old Woman Dreams


She dreams
with slow breath
rising in her chest
white haired and soft eyed.
She sleeps now in the day sometimes
and talks to spirits in the night.

No need for clocks anymore
she says, as she watches the sun
move across the sky, leaving shadows on the porch.
So many friends have crossed already
and she wonders . . .
what keeps her waking each morn.

Eyes close again as the last rays
leave the sky and for a moment
she is young.
A brief dream passes through her mind
and he is there sitting at the table waiting
with a smile. "Oh, my darling" she whispers,
"it's taking too long."

Sighing she stands, awake now,
opening the screen door into the house
but the table is empty and so is his chair
just little Lucy purring and dreaming too.

A cup of soup, a piece of bread . . . food enough tonight.
Slippers shuffle across the room to the closet and her robe.
Nothing much appeals to her these days once the night comes.
All the engines are slowing down inside
and she is making ready
for her last dream
coming soon to take her
to the other side
and he who waits.

Joanne Cucinello ©2008

Trees of My Life

I look out my window and see you standing there, bending to the wind, Great Wise Trees . . . enduring all, protecting all. They tell me, at my birth, my mother laid me in a cradle made of wood. You gave your life for me.
I learned to crawl on wooden floors, my tiny hands and knees frolicking on your body. I grew to sit on a chair and eat from a table, both made of wood. My fingers touched the grooves in your flesh and from early on, I wanted you near me . . comforting and connecting me to earth. At that table I ate berries and fruit that grew on your branches. I ate pancakes too, and poured your golden maple sap . . . learning that you could feed me too. You gave your life for me.
I went to school and there you were . . . all over . . . everywhere. The floors, the walls, and desk I sat at . . . the words I learned to read were printed on the thinnest slivers of your flesh, papers written on with wooden pencils. All the words we humans think in our minds are written on your flesh . . . Dear Trees, you must know our every thought by now.

When winter comes and days are cold and dark, we burn you to warm our bodies and our food and you become an offering. Your smoke fills the air and rises to the heavens, calling out to the Great Spirit who created us both. You give your life for me.
I live inside your walls. You are my shelter from the storms you bear and must endure; my shelter from the sun and its scorching rays. Your leaves of green refresh my heart in spring and cool my brow in summer and your brilliance thrills my soul in autumn.
Now it is winter and your branches are barren.. Even the birds, who call you their home, abandon you for lower bushes and warmer winds. You stand stark and bare and I can see now where you’ve been broken, your limbs that have fallen, and your bark that is torn. Some of you, Great Trees, have fallen, some have given your lives and been chopped down to make once again, some comfort for me and my kind. You give your life for me and I learn from all your changes and forms and seasons . . . about my own life and my own seasons and how that calls for sacrifice too.

Man crossed the waters and the oceans in your body . . . boats and ships and oars. We have come to know our brothers on the other side because of you. You gave your life for us.

I wonder as I look at your branches touching one another in the woods behind my home. . . . Do you feel each other, sending messages, vibrations, stories of the birds you love and the wind that tests you? Do you talk about me and my children? Have you seen the suffering of man and breathed it into your immense compassion, so much so that you agree to die for us?
Even to the point of being buried in the ground with us, cradling us, wrapping us in your arms when our days are over? You are the cradle at our birth and the cradle in our death. And you and I will decompose together in the womb of Mother Earth only to be born again in other forms, in other times, in other lives . . .


Joanne Cucinello © 2002