Yes, You Are Mine

I called you out of the darkness
a soul who became my child.
I don't recall the moment in time
or sleep or daydreams . . .
but I know deep down I did
and now you are here
a soul in body tangible
with cells and genes much
like my own.

I did not know the form
you would take
or how I would feel when I
looked into your shining eyes
that first moment
and all the moments to come
in our lives together
but I want you to know
today and forever
that your life was not a mistake
nor a wanton windblown excuse

You are all I asked for
you have shown me who I am
so many times and helped me face
my truth, my strengths, my weakness,
my sorrows and my joys.

You have grown through
all your pains and asked me
"Why was I born ?"
as you struggled
for your human heart.
But I know . . . yes, I know.

You are my promise, my blessing.
You were born to be my Child
and I was born to love you.

Joanne Cucinello 2010

Then I Knew

I thought
when I first saw you
that perhaps you'd be the one

but then
I remembered thinking that way
once before and I was wrong

once before
so wrapped up in my loneliness
I just took a chance with someone new

just needing
that someone to fill the empty space
I guarded with my heart

but that space
stayed empty even when he held me
even when we kissed . . . I heard no bells

even though
we smiled and walked together
it was nothing more than passing time

That's why
I had to taste your kiss
bold as I was, I did it, kissed your lips

I couldn't wait
for you to steal the chance
that night, I had to know if it was true

Your lips, so soft, so warm
made stars came out behind the moon
that kiss . . . made all the world stand still
, , , and then I knew.

Joanne Cucinello 2010

The Well of Grief

She has fallen, yes.
We see her lying there, down deep
at the bottom,
but she struggles not.

“Grab the ropes!” we shout.
“Someone . . . anyone
go down there and bring her up!”

We call to her, we shout
“Hang on . . . help is coming!”
But we listen and we look . . .
she struggles not.

We stop . . . we listen . . . hear an echo
She is singing soft, a lullaby.
We stop . . . we look now deeper.
A shadow . . . of another form
is lying there beside her
and she stokes his soft unknowing hair.

“You are my beloved”
we hear her whisper, but the form lies
still and cold beside her.
“Hang on . . . help is coming!” we shout again
and drop the rope.
“Help is coming!” but she struggles not.

“Move away” a young shining stranger says,
“I am going down.”
And as he makes his long descent
light surrounds him,
glowing embers flutter down upon her face.




“Lift your eyes, Mother. Lift your arms.
Come with me . . . grab the rope..
I will carry you . . . as once you carried me.
Come Mother,
you cannot wake my shadow
for I live in light now. . .
You will not find me here.”

“Mother, I am always with you.
Like the branches of one tree,
you and me.
When you sing . . . I sing.
When you cry . . . I cry.
With your happiness . . . I shine and dance with glee!”

“Mother, set me free.
Let go my shadow and you will hear my voice again
Your heart will see me dance . . .
and you will know that I am
just a breath away.


Joanne Cucinell0 © 2006

Taurus

Venus Child, earth-bound spirit of form and beauty....
Toil as you will this Earth,
which rouses your unbending passion to make real.
Take this clay and mold for us the vision of our life gift
as you unfold the hidden treasures of our finite world.

Teach us to value all that is good and beautiful
and to use the riches of the earth with reverence.
We walk on the dust of our beginnings,
yet our path is a journey to the stars.

© Joanne Cucinello 2004

*** this is a poem from my book
"Constellations . . . a Collection of Heavenly Poetry"

The City of Angels

In the City of Angels
there are no homes
nor clocks
to tell of time.
In the City of Angels
no one speaks
in words familiar.

There is a lake
in its center
filled with tears
rescued
from the hearts
of those who lost
their young.

This lake of tears
overflows at times
when many
suffer loss together
then tears
pour forth
to feed the trees
with crystals

Images of life on earth
hang draping
homage on the trees
some like flowers
some like vines
and even some
like thorns.

There are three moons
floating always
in a mist of
faintest melody
catching echoes
from the earth
and songs ~
of mothers.

The Beings
winged and fair
who light upon the
treetops
bring the souls
of little ones
and hold them close
beneath
their wings
until the tears subside
and broken hearts
can let them go.

For only then
will heaven part
as angels guide them
through the light
to all who went before
awaiting them
with open arms
and tears no more.



Joanne Cucinello 2007

My Totem . . . Elephant Child

Once in a dream
you played with me,
once very long ago.

You were small and white
flapping ears of pink
a little Prince
tumbling fresh
leaving the water
where your family played.

And I, in my long summer skirt
walking along the shore
picking shells and pebbles
from the salted sand
until . . . I heard you splash.

There I stood
caught between my dream and waking
delighting in your merry gestures
as you pranced and wobbled
your little trunk reaching
for the tip of my skirt
in playfulness, tugging at my heartstrings.

You came to me, Elephant Child,
in twilight's sleep
telling me of things to come
and not to fear, but just imagine
what my world could be
if dreams came true.


Joanne Cucinello

Sharing Happy News

To all my Readers:
Something wonderful to share with you!

Three of my poems were published this month in the
Mused-Bella Online Literary Review/Spring Equinox Issue
http://www.bellaonline.com/review/issues/spring2010/

and my blog "I See the Bridge" has been noted in the list
of "100 Best Poetry Blogs"
http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2010/100-best-poetry-blogs/

Thanks to all of you!!

Must

We must find joy in our lives
even though
the news suggests otherwise.

We must be able to laugh
even though
sorrow has draped the neighbor's door.

We must be able to smile
even though
women lose their breasts every day.

We must eat and give thanks
even though
people are starving across the sea.

We must hug and kiss our babies
even though
there are orphans everywhere.

We must do what we can do
even though
it is not enough.


Joanne Cucinello 2010

Another Sunrise

The sun has returned once again
rising at dawn, as it did that day
when I emerged, wet and pink
from my Mother's womb.

I imagine that moment,
her soft breath returning then
the painful swells of agony subsiding.
I feel her clenched fists opening
to soft palms holding
as her long night's labor
found its end ~ in me.

When I celebrate my birthday
I celebrate that moment
shared in time
for there cannot be one
without the other
and I follow the long cord back
to that early March sunrise
on the day when I was born.


Joanne Cucinello 2010

Sons of Their Fathers

The young boys
have no thoughts
other than conquest.
They will search the woods
behind the barn
for varmints and creepy things
that have no eyes.

The young boys
learn early that life
is made for the fittest
and the brave.
It will not wait
for the faint of heart.
They expect the world
to put them to the test
and it will.

The young boys
also learn to hold their tears
in wells behind their lids
saved only for the
dark and the pillow
or a dog named "Spot".

But all is not lost.
I hear there are some
young boys
who haven't learned
about the test.

Joanne Cucinello 2009

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