All Things Together

Quiet now, Heart of My Soul . . .
listen to the music of the molecules
floating
rising . . . falling
like my chest,
deep in silent sleep

This body mine
beginning its descent
following the curve of time
across the bridge
remembering, recalling
so much now . . . the little things
the tremulous moments of ecstasy
the broken wings of disappointment

Look softly, my mind’s eye
and do not judge too harshly
but instead . . . remember
all the loving
and the gifts you poured
the ones you rocked to sleep and
those whose fears you calmed.

Refresh your soul
with recollection of the good you tried to do
that good, which lives in fog and mist,
while all mistakes stand, waving flags
atop the hill.

Oh, be kind to your little soul
one of many, many of the One
You were carved with God’s own hand
and he will close his palm around you
with love . . . and take you home one day.
Only then will you understand
all things together . . . all things are One.

Joanne Cucinello 2007

The Fence

Our city street is all lit up tonight.
Fireworks are booming in the sky.
Tiny chips of broken glass
sparkle in the sidewalks
with each burst of streaming light.
Neighbors celebrate with loud voices
and sit on stoops laughing and waving
across to one another.
Most live in five story railroad flats
jammed with over flowing children
and one tiny bathroom.

Tonight, no breezes flow.
The old women cool themselves
with paper fans and watch the men
turn into kids, lighting firecrackers
drinking beers.

It's a hot, hot summer night in 1951
and I am eight . . .
the 4th of July and there is no stopping it.

A black picket fence curves around the stoop
where a little boy climbs up to see
Uncle Charlie's bright red rocket
bursting high up in the air
filling the sky with streaming glitter.

His small body slips instead onto a long
black spiral that stands erect on the iron fence
guarding the building from thieves.
Everyone's talking, eating . . . laughing
No one takes notice of the little boy
hanging, speechless, breathless . . . suspended
on the picket fence
open-mouthed, grey faced . . . silent.

My little sister sees him!
"Help!!" she cries.
"Look at him! Look at David!

Screams leap high above the laughter.
His mother comes. She's running with the baby
on her hip . . . "David! Oh, God! David . . . Don't move!"
"Call an ambulance . . . Somebody please!"
Silence intervenes and whispers all around
"Don't lift him."
Blood is trickling down on the pavement.
"Don't lift him!"

His mother is pasty white.
Her eyes latched onto David's pain
"I'm here. Don't be afraid."
She strokes his head . . . "Don't move"
The silence . . . hands cover mouths
The fence . . . now a black iron spiral stuck in his lung
The laughter . . . nowhere, only sobs
Sirens . . . flashing down the street.
and Uncle Charlie's bright red rocket has landed
burnt and black
while the boy and his mother wait
for the arms that will lift him
the white coats ready to take him away
from one city street on the 4th of July.


Joanne Cucinello 2009

Note: The child survived after weeks in the hospital
and no one ever tried to climb that fence again.

Little Nest

I had watched those squirrels
last spring
leaping across from tree to tree
twigs and sprigs
of new green leaves tugged along
between their teeth
amazing furry tailed acrobats searching
for the perfect spot
to build their nest secure and safe

high up and away they scampered
back and forth, up and down
tireless, energetic and often comical with
their squirrel chatter

Hurry, hurry, no time to waste
babies coming
make it strong, tie it tight, guard it from
the winter winds
bound to come and test it

Way up high where two trees met and mingled
they found their spot
fragile looking branches tied together or so it seemed
with a twisted creeping vine
turned benevolent and useful for such occasions

I wondered as I looked~ why not closer to the
big strong trunk
or the sturdy bough they pounced on
through the day?
but there it stays defying winter winds
and driven snows
this little nest held high and tangled fast
and smiled on by the winter Moon.

Joanne Cucinello 2010

Long Before

Before I came to be ~
You loved me.
Unadorned in my mother's womb
I was already yours ~
and you were mine.

Love had claimed us ~
long before
we found each other.
Even as we danced as spirits
in the great beyond ~
you were mine.

And in every lifetime
we have found our souls
abiding in that sacred space
tomorrow holds for just a few
bound together for eternity.

Before I came to be ~
You loved me.

Joanne Cucinello © 2008

I Shot An Arrow (revised)

It could be a Love Poem remembered,
or a Psalm in time of need, perhaps
that worn page so often turned to,
that becomes the gifting "word of life"
bursting through barren soil
like an arrow set to fly.

They come to us in whispers,
these words, and even in our dreams,
emerging from the sacred Well of Memory
a bucket filled to quench our thirsty souls.

Some sting the flesh with honesty, like
an unexpected mirror turned to grab the heart
and then, some come tender like
a long forgotten kiss upon the brow
or a smile just in time, from a passing stranger.

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 those words
that linger on past dawn,
words that move us
turning inward, searching yet
beyond the common door to find
a reason to believe
a reason to keep loving
a reason . . . to forgive.

Joanne Cucinello

Brothers

"Brothers" are not born
they are made
from the old vine that
grew wild in the first
primordial desert,
searching for water
as it scoured the earth.

"Brothers" carve their names
on each others' wrists
and mingle blood,
an ancient boyhood ritual
bonding the lives of two
who grew in different wombs.

"Brothers" would sooner
sink to the ocean's bottom
than betray one another.
They will go into the abyss
hand in hand and come up shining.

For all eternity . . . the word, "Brother"
avows a sacred trust, bonded in the heart,
a crown to shine on manhood
and may it always be.

Joanne Cucinello

What Will We Do?

What will we do
to save our children
from the monsters that hide
not under beds
nor in the shadows on the wall
but prowl the streets
and wait for the yellow bus
and that one last lingering child
who dillydallies
jumping over puddles
skipping down the road
singing silly songs
she only learned today?

What will we do
to hold back mothers and fathers
from taking the law into their hands
when we ourselves have decided
to join them?

How do we turn this world
upside down and inside out again
and will it ever, ever end . . .
the sacrifices of the innocents among us?

What will we do
when the seas dry up
and there is no more salt
left for tears?
What will we do
when poets are no longer needed?

Joanne Cucinello 2009

Harvest Moon

Harvest Moon
shine upon the fields tonight
and give the farmers
longer light
to pull the crops
to thresh the grain
to shear the sheep
for wool again.

The good grape
is plump and ripe
awaiting oaken cask
and dance begins
the stomping feet
stained purple with the task.

Skirts like fans
with blushing knees
wave the frenzies higher
turning grape to ruby wine
they wait the harvest fire

Crackling corn and roasting pig
turn this night to feast
and earth is blessed
with bounty full . . .
the plows can rest in peace.


Joanne Cucinello 2007

We Long To Be

All life springs
from its center
a core stretching
darting out
coaxing the sun
to be benign
and grant its blessings

Fragrant as the morning dew
are we all . . . in our innocence
in our longing just to be.

Joanne Cucinello

Cinderella Lost

Has anyone seen her
my sister
with the tattered skirt?

She was passing through
just a moment ago
with little ones in her arms
and a sack around her hip.

We used to dream together
hiding under the bed with
flashlights
pretending we were
going to the ball
to meet the Prince.

We said we would share
our slippers made of glass
and take turns baking
bread for him

but he turned out
to be an ordinary man.
Knew nothing of glass slippers,
Can you believe it?!

Joanne Cucinello

No Season for Peace

In every time, in every
season
wherever there is
breath
the same wars continue . . .

Young men fight to protect~
old men wave their fists
Women cry to heaven "Why?!!"
Missing limbs lay
scattered on the
bloody fields
crying . . .
"Don't leave me!"

Medals turn to rust
in dusty closets
undisturbed small tokens
of remembrance for the brave
who wake at night
in terror still.

Few have pity
when the gun points
and so the Earthly Mother,
rocks her orphans
one more time . . . one more time.

Mercy . . . Mercy
cry the stars!

Joanne Cucinello 2009

Tsunami

I wrote this in 2004 after the Tsunami struck Sri Lanka
but sadly I am re-posting it in memory of those
lost this week in the Samoan Islands.


Death came this morning
even as the Sun was shining on little children,
even as their tiny hands sifted sand at the ocean’s shore.
Death came
like the Beast that was promised
from ages past,
up from the deep,
cracking the shell of the ocean floor
reaching its fierce tentacles out . . . out
over land,
over houses,
crashing steel and wood and glass,
raging salted terror and devastation
like a holocaust called forth
from the bowels of the earth.
Bodies are floating like dead trees
washing up on the shore
and above the waves . . . the sound of wailing mothers.

Where are you, my father?
Where is the house that you built with your hands?
Where are you, my sweet baby,
torn from my arms by the hungry devil sea?
I cannot find you,
your small body to lay in the ground
that I’ve covered with flowers.
I want to remember the life I once knew,
but instead I will dream forever
of the raging ocean wall
that rose and tore you from my arms.
I could not hold you, little one,
the waves, so strong, took you away
and I am alone now without my heart
without even a smile for the Sun
who lied that morning saying, “All is well.”

Joanne Cucinello 12/26/2004

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