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

Moonlight Praise

O Beauty
that lights the midnight sky,
how faithfully you wax and wane.
I am but one seed sprouted in time
Caught, like those before me,
in the rays of your glowing splendor.

Your rhythm flows through my veins
and all life responds with heartbeat
to your magnetic pull.
You rule the ebb and flow of ancient waters.
All emotions and cycles, comings and goings,
even our dying and our being born.
these things await your perfect timing.

O Moon,
You have lived in our consciousness
since our first awakening,
Created to be our gift and comfort,
our promise of the morning sun.
Even as Eve first stepped beyond the Gate
that night in lonely silence,
you were there to shine on Adam’s path
and teach the rhythms of your ever-changing face.

They watched the heavens,
awaiting your return each month
and marked the days of your growing brightness
to light the path for the hunt and their returning journeys home

Your cycle echoes that of our own,
from the darkness of our mother’s womb
Into the dawning of our life.
We travel toward the brightness of our days
and in time fade like summer’s bloom,
back to the dust of our beginnings.


O glorious faithful Moon,
who signs our destiny and bows before the Sun,
remind us always of our God,
In all life’s changes,
and in all your dances with the stars . . .
For we, like you . . . are made to shine,
each a spark of that One Eternal Light.


Joanne Cucinello

In Beatrice's Room

For the hauntingly beautiful artist Beatrice Turner (1888-1948)
whose Spirit, I believe, prompted me to write this poetic tale
one night when I stayed in Beatrice's Room at the Cliffside Inn in Newport, R.I.

In Beatrice's Room

Someone long ago, sat at this window,
cushions plumped, pillows strewn.
The morning mist floated
down the road
to the sea.
Newport's Cliff Walk beckoned~
a young man waited.
She could barely see him through the trees
waving, "Come!"

"There is no such thing as walks with beaus
here in this captive house
they will soon paint black.
There is only Father and Mother
the easel and me.

Today, I will not paint
another portrait of myself
and gaze into my mirrors.
Today I will escape on the catwalk
outside my window.
There is a railing, I can do it
. . . and he is waiting!

Just one day~ this day
before they find me
and lock the door forever!
Just one day~ to see myself
my eyes, my face
in the eyes of another~
reflected, smiling, speaking
sweet exchange of beings~ real.

Just this day
before he locks me in
and keeps me from the world,
before I dip the brush
to paint myself a thousand times
~ one thousand portraits
and leave them to burn
with this house.

My Father,
when your day comes
and the hooded shadow
knocks
I will prop you in your chair~
cold and stiff
and you will sit for me . . .
UNTIL I AM FINISHED!
. . . painting
a portrait ~ for your tombstone
like the proper daughter
you will have raised
and honed
in this room
for yourself . . .
while my dearest mother
turned her eyes away.

Joanne Cucinello 2008

Note: Beatrice Turner painted over 1,000 self portaits. Her life is a haunting tale and you can find more about it on the internet.

Blooms Ago

This is lilac time
lavender purple painting
the park each spring.

That sweet perfume rising
reminds me of my childhood
and your smile.

It was your favorite flower . . .
a Mother's Day wish

I remember how you buried
your soft face, nuzzling
in those sweet-scented blooms

Your brown eyes ecstatic
as if I'd handed you jewels
amethysts . . .
those simple purple blossoms

a transport to heaven
with just one sniff!

Joanne Cucinello 2009

To Never Never Land

Keeper of Childhood Memories, come and visit me today.
Bring with you my pillow, where once
I lay my head in slumber, sweet and pure . . .
perhaps that long forgotten toy I held and cherished.

Let me touch them once again with searching fingertips,
recalling childhood comforts buried there.
Whisper in the long forgotten voices of my brothers and sisters,
small like me, so that their sounds might ring
a chime of recollection . . . echoes of our laughter long ago.

Bring me back the scent of home, my bed,
that favorite little chair or corner where I played . . .
my mother’s laughter and her lullabies,
the softness of her fingers on my heated brow.

Just one look at my reflection in my father’s eyes,
the smile upon his face and hands so strong
that lifted me high upon his shoulders,
where I could see the world.

Take me to that place where childhood past is kept,
safe from toil and fear . . .
the place where children’s spirits go to romp and play,
where every word once spoken still lives on
and floats through stars . . .
to Never Never Land.

Joanne Cucinello 1998

Must I Answer?

There are moments
in the early still dark
morning
when saints and sinners
come to call . . .
voices floating
in the misty fog
of twilight.

"Who are you"they ask,
with ears extended.
"What is it you've
come to accomplish
here with your
feet dug into the ground?"

"Nothing" I say.
"Nothing?" they ask.
"Nothing" I say again.
"I just want to sleep!"

Joanne Cucinello 2009

Sandbox

So what do I say?
Does it even matter now that
all the sand is gone?
I never played there anyway.

So what . . .
if I heard things I wasn't supposed to?
So what . . .
if I knew the world was going to end
when I was only seven?

How do you carry the sins of your mother
and one day say no more
and one day say . . . go away
and don't come back!?

What do you say to God?
Where were you???
I know . . . I know . . . but I really don't know
even though I was supposed to
even though I thought all children were forgiven.


Joanne Cucinello 2008

On That Day

There was a day
when I was young
just a flash in time
a moment . . . stirring like the wind
to take my breath away
and it was You.

I walked into a room of people
but only you were there.
A sun tanned face turned to me
wide eyed and chiseled . . . a strong
face full of questions so intense
and then . . . that smile
that absolutely perfect smile . . .
sunshine and heartache all in one.

Stranger . . .
you brushed against me
in my dreams a thousand times
but on that day your flesh was real.
Little did I know
you would still be here
in my bed today.

Joanne Cucinello 2009

They Do Not Lie

See how they move
when someone speaks or sits to listen?
Hands ~ they tell the stories.
Fingers with their length and flexibility
or rigid tightness ~ tell of life spent living.
Some flow freely with expression
some close tight in solid fists . . . hiding.

The worker, the poet,
the mother in her tenderness,
the clumsy, the delicate
~ the fierce,
I watch them all
moving ~
while everything else is
motionless and still ~
gestures from the soul
that speak, despite the silence.

Tonight ~
will they comfort someone
in the dark?
Tomorrow ~
will they feed the poor?
Or are they planning

to destroy and tear to shreds
some dark illusion that I'll read about
tomorrow when I wake?


Joanne Cucinello 2008

We the People

Must we look in the mirror of time once again
to see the struggles of mankind?
Shall we look in crystal balls to see our future?

Does history not show us
that ours is a journey
fraught with obstacles
and illusions?

Have we not learned the lessons
of this rugged earth we walk,
its crust of mountains and valleys?

We are still carving paths through rock and forest
looking for a way home.

Do not believe such folly
that dictates we have found it.
Many before believed they
held the key.

"The longest journey is the journey inward"
once a wise man said.
And here is where our future lies . . .
in the deep dark caverns of the soul.

This is the journey that will prove our mettle.
This alone transcends all others.
Leaders will come and go and some may follow
but the solitary man must rise or fall
in the light of his own heart
~
or the darkness of his own soul.

Joanne Cucinello
2009

Behind Closed Doors

As we mourn for Caylee Anthony . . .



Out in the street
chalk lines, half-erased,
echo a child's brief laughter.

A rag doll
once her bedtime friend
lies faceless in an empty lot
waterlogged by endless rain.

Behind closed doors
a mother plays a deadly game
full of smiles and flashing eyes.
Two years of baby hugs quite enough now
~ for the young and beautiful.

Behind closed doors
the muffled cries that no one heard
cries that no one listened for
except the toys ~ who were her only witness.

Pictures on the evening news
flash across the screen tonight. . .
A precious package found. . .
broken, torn and dirty
food for animals,
strewn like treats among debris
pieces of a stranger's child
we knew not ~

~ Yet we mourn together
this little life
as if she were our own.


Joanne Cucinello
2009

No . . . Not Ever

Where does a mother's soul begin and end?
Where does that long cord wind
from deep within . . . out to the heavens?
Does her heart find its beat and rhythm
in the eyes of her child?

I don't know, except that
I have felt such love immortal
and tender
so soft as a tiny sparrow
come to rest in my palm
and then sometimes that strange
and quiet sadness
that would tear my heart wide open.

My child
once a sweet tenant
in my womb . . .
once a part of my every breath,
the presence, the knowing
that I was not alone.

Can a mother forget
that first scent of life born free?
No . . . not ever
till the earth becomes her blanket
in the snow one day
not ever . . .

Joanne Cucinello 2008