Quiet Hiding Place
and other Selected
Dante A Cinelli
Copyright 2023 by Dante A. Cinelli
Image by David
Schwarzenberg from Pixabay
have. a secret hiding place as I know do you.
somewhere near between earth’s great green and
depth of azure blue,
near earth's equator, perhaps beneath
is it in a High Sierra’s view where colossal clouds
difficult to remember where my lonely footsteps
wherever it is, it’s a quiet chamber, perhaps
a roiling sea,
my memories, like buried treasure, can be dug
by wrinkled arms
and weakened knee.
as quiet as a graveyard in desolate, moonless isles
visit to find gold memories extolled from family’s smiles.
don’t stay long to garner memories, maybe two
four, …..or eight:
ethereal glance, a touch, ……a waft…….. of
,,,,,,,…..blossoms……arrayed by garden gate.
gentle flash of Nona,……Papa,
but they too
……all but one,…..of laughing children
swimming in the creek's green glade.
leave by a sudden AWAKE,……albeit diminishing
there are so many memories for which my heart
Eyes Have Seen
friends, come with me to a great tangled forest of coruscating
some fading quickly into oblivion forever.
venue, my memories; the driving force, the bitter-sweet taste of
with passion and wonderment.
have stood high on a hilltop beneath a voluminous blue canopy with
orange billows of gray edged clouds.
stood transfixed, motionless like a victim of the once-beautiful
my ancient spine begged for relief.
gained ease by sitting atop a boulder until the sunset
me in glorious orange and flame streaks.
friends, my eyes have looked down the bow of a fast
ship in convoy slicing
through a vast Pacific, cutting a green glowing swath of algae and
felt the presence of God looking at a million stars in the darkening
indigo night, the
Cross above my brow, forcing my spirit to cower in this scenario.
needed no syllogisms, no great words to lift me, but to remind me at
night to be on my
in reverence, no higher than the lowest beggar in a
praying to the same God but by a different name.
have stood at attention, saluting flag-draped coffins of companions
on duty after WWII was over, and a Korean truce in effect.
stood atop a silent Mount Suribachi where valiant enemies gave
lives fighting for their countries. I stood where the second
flag was ordered to be posted.
stood where the then-Lieutenant Schrier commanding the
raising squad, later in life to be my Commanding Officer.
perhaps, this little four year old immigrant boy and his
brother, Emilio, paid a small payment on that
day in 1936 when my father, a simple, but proud man
his family to America by sacrificing his life, his comfort,
living a normal life by saving nickels and dimes, working
two jobs and running a cobbler’s shop, sleeping in
hoveled back of the store to save rent, to bring us
to America’s shore. This was no mean laborious
but the sacrifice of a human life for the sake of
a family in the land of Oz. And it continued on
decades; with the help of our mother, we stood
their shoulders as they lifted us up in this glorious
We slowly through the years began to understand
meaning of the word “sacrifice”, but never the full
until they passed from this life, too late to
too late to kneel before them in humility.
I must say my older brother morphed much sooner
me, dear reader, about twenty five years after
War II was over, Emil had fought in the south Pacific
a an army medical assistant in combat, attending
soldiers and Marines on Okinawa, being bayoneted
in the side of his torso, surviving, and killing his
with a knife. Luckily his wound was minimal
missed his intestinal tract. I saw the scar myself.
in the vortex of war, in the complexities of
in the need for water and sleep which is more
than platinum, he never received nor put in for,
Purple Heart. This might be hard to believe, my friends,
it’s true. You would have had to have known, my brother,
“turk” if there ever was one. When he passed on, I drove
a New Jersey flea market just to buy a Purple Heart for
and place it with him. It would have been an impossible
monumental task to have it awarded to him.
the fact that he never sought one.
back to the scene, in upstate New York, twenty-five years later.
the front lawn, someone from my now married sister’s
threatened to hit the cobbler’s head
I’ll name him Gepetto for now,…my father)…….
the barrel of a .22 rifle in the presence
Emil, the turk. It took three or
grown men to try to restrain him in reaching
way I heard it( for I was not present), bodies were
aside, legs and knees
from scraping giant slate slabs on the walk,
aggressor, my brother-in-law, had
into his car and disappeared, while three men
the turk down.
had called the State police, but no arrests were made.
I come down from the mountain, where I took my two
nephews to shoot 22 rifles safely in an enclosed ravine.
was the milieu which ignited the argument on a warm sunny
in the Catskill mountains.
poor, poor bastard was lucky to escape with
life, but wait, there is more, much more….but
another time, another place,….the same
in-law, …….but a different turk, ………………..me.
I, like Sherharazade, will tell a new tale of my family,
my family which aspires to know some of their roots,
of their tendencies, some of their foibles,
maybe two of their weaknesses, but mostly,
pray, to be aware of their genes of goodness and
for the downtrodden.
we sailed by a beautiful, silent French Lady,
with green copper sulfate,
a torch, we didn’t know what was in our
then, what laughter, smiles,
and tears were awaiting along
paths we were to take……who was the hero
for us on the dock?;his heart beating
his chest, waiting to embrace his wife, his
year old daughter, his fifteen year old
and I, four years old. He never saw
before. I never saw him before either,
he grabbed my hand gently.
remember I told him that I hadn’t seen my
and white rocking horse.
chuckled and laughed while he
“ I think it swam back to Italy.”
must have thought, “Oh, well!…….but who is this
what these eyes have seen.
walked this life for many years, laughed in the path I trod
laughed and danced in the trek of life for many years,
smiles, by family, friends, but too, a lake of tears.
yes, proverbial, wine, and women and raucous song,
do I belong?
picked a few fruit, so tender, so sweet,
without bitter pits, did a voracious palette greet.
lived by Humankind’s rule, and they taught me how to kill or be killed
God in His infinite mercy, deemed this was not to be fulfilled.
walk continued under boardwalks where weak sunlight sometimes
harsh laws, and so complex, turned a weary
traveler’s sojourn from
bright to darkened blue.
zigged, I’ve zagged, I’ve leapt high o’er
forbidden border lines, sometimes caught by man’s red-taped rule and
paid audacious fines.
all, I’m happy, I know finally where I am,
an outcast without shadow and not giving a little damn.
yearning I have now is like a canyon so wide and really deep
to fill it, just impossible, except in anxious sleep,
join old friends and family, long gone, and so long passed,
need of a useless shadow……………can’t even be rightly cast.
A Blue Rose
I once heard of a blue rose of forgetfulness new
In a tale, oh, so old, of Arabian hue
An aroma so sweet, it melted memories of pain
Of true love, ill placed, had died where carelessly lain.
But hold, there is more to this tale I tell you this day,
As blue slowly crumpled into deciduous grey.
I did grow such rose on a mountain so high
Below snow lines that melted by summer’s last cry
It was planted with care,… I protected it well,
watered with love til blue buds did swell.
The days rolled by slowly as they acquired full bloom
And two score of blue roses in one tiny room.
I drunk in the flavor, along with the wine,
hundreds of times over,…alas,…..to forget,
…………you were no longer mine.
of the message
won't know where to send it.)
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