My
Quiet Hiding Place
and other Selected
Poems
Dante A Cinelli
©
Copyright 2023 by Dante A. Cinelli
|
Image by David
Schwarzenberg from Pixabay |
My Quiet
Hiding Place
I
have. a secret hiding place as I know do you.
It’s
somewhere near between earth’s great green and
depth of azure blue,
Perhaps
near earth's equator, perhaps beneath
Polaris’ shine?
Or
is it in a High Sierra’s view where colossal clouds
abound?
It’s
difficult to remember where my lonely footsteps
found.
But,
wherever it is, it’s a quiet chamber, perhaps
below
a roiling sea,
There
my memories, like buried treasure, can be dug
by wrinkled arms
and weakened knee.
It’s
as quiet as a graveyard in desolate, moonless isles
I
visit to find gold memories extolled from family’s smiles.
I
don’t stay long to garner memories, maybe two
or
four, …..or eight:
An
ethereal glance, a touch, ……a waft…….. of
lilac…
,,,,,,,…..blossoms……arrayed by garden gate.
A
gentle flash of Nona,……Papa,
but they too
quickly fade,
There,
……all but one,…..of laughing children
swimming in the creek's green glade.
I
leave by a sudden AWAKE,……albeit diminishing
returns
For
there are so many memories for which my heart
forever yearns.
*****
What My
Eyes Have Seen
My
friends, come with me to a great tangled forest of coruscating
vignettes,
some fading quickly into oblivion forever.
The
venue, my memories; the driving force, the bitter-sweet taste of
nostalgia,
sprinkled
with passion and wonderment.
I
have stood high on a hilltop beneath a voluminous blue canopy with
magnificent
green
orange billows of gray edged clouds.
I
stood transfixed, motionless like a victim of the once-beautiful
Medusa
until
my ancient spine begged for relief.
I
gained ease by sitting atop a boulder until the sunset
radiated
before
me in glorious orange and flame streaks.
My
friends, my eyes have looked down the bow of a fast
moving
ship in convoy slicing
silently
through a vast Pacific, cutting a green glowing swath of algae and
minutiae.
I
felt the presence of God looking at a million stars in the darkening
indigo night, the
Southern
Cross above my brow, forcing my spirit to cower in this scenario.
I
needed no syllogisms, no great words to lift me, but to remind me at
night to be on my
knees
in reverence, no higher than the lowest beggar in a
Persian
mosque,
praying to the same God but by a different name.
I
have stood at attention, saluting flag-draped coffins of companions
killed
on duty after WWII was over, and a Korean truce in effect.
I
stood atop a silent Mount Suribachi where valiant enemies gave
their
lives fighting for their countries. I stood where the second
American
flag was ordered to be posted.
I
stood where the then-Lieutenant Schrier commanding the
flag
raising squad, later in life to be my Commanding Officer.
So
perhaps, this little four year old immigrant boy and his
older
brother, Emilio, paid a small payment on that
September
day in 1936 when my father, a simple, but proud man
called
his family to America by sacrificing his life, his comfort,
his
living a normal life by saving nickels and dimes, working
at
two jobs and running a cobbler’s shop, sleeping in
the
hoveled back of the store to save rent, to bring us
closer
to America’s shore. This was no mean laborious
goal,
but the sacrifice of a human life for the sake of
uniting
a family in the land of Oz. And it continued on
for
decades; with the help of our mother, we stood
on
their shoulders as they lifted us up in this glorious
land.
We slowly through the years began to understand
the
meaning of the word “sacrifice”, but never the full
meaning
until they passed from this life, too late to
know,
too late to kneel before them in humility.
But
I must say my older brother morphed much sooner
than
I:
Follow
me, dear reader, about twenty five years after
World
War II was over, Emil had fought in the south Pacific
as
a an army medical assistant in combat, attending
wounded
soldiers and Marines on Okinawa, being bayoneted
slightly
in the side of his torso, surviving, and killing his
attacker
with a knife. Luckily his wound was minimal
and
missed his intestinal tract. I saw the scar myself.
However,
in the vortex of war, in the complexities of
survival,
in the need for water and sleep which is more
precious
than platinum, he never received nor put in for,
a
Purple Heart. This might be hard to believe, my friends,
but
it’s true. You would have had to have known, my brother,
a
“turk” if there ever was one. When he passed on, I drove
to
a New Jersey flea market just to buy a Purple Heart for
$75
and place it with him. It would have been an impossible
red-taped
monumental task to have it awarded to him.
Beside
the fact that he never sought one.
OK,
back to the scene, in upstate New York, twenty-five years later.
On
the front lawn, someone from my now married sister’s
family
threatened to hit the cobbler’s head
(
I’ll name him Gepetto for now,…my father)…….
with
the barrel of a .22 rifle in the presence
of
Emil, the turk. It took three or
four
grown men to try to restrain him in reaching
the
aggressor.
The
way I heard it( for I was not present), bodies were
tossed
aside, legs and knees
bleeding
from scraping giant slate slabs on the walk,
the
aggressor, my brother-in-law, had
jumped
into his car and disappeared, while three men
held
the turk down.
Neighbors
had called the State police, but no arrests were made.
Then
I come down from the mountain, where I took my two
young
nephews to shoot 22 rifles safely in an enclosed ravine.
That
was the milieu which ignited the argument on a warm sunny
afternoon
in the Catskill mountains.
That
poor, poor bastard was lucky to escape with
his
life, but wait, there is more, much more….but
for
another time, another place,….the same
brother-
in-law, …….but a different turk, ………………..me.
But,
I, like Sherharazade, will tell a new tale of my family,
for
my family which aspires to know some of their roots,
some
of their tendencies, some of their foibles,
one,
maybe two of their weaknesses, but mostly,
I
pray, to be aware of their genes of goodness and
empathy
for the downtrodden.
When
we sailed by a beautiful, silent French Lady,
encrusted
with green copper sulfate,
holding
a torch, we didn’t know what was in our
future
then, what laughter, smiles,
travails
and tears were awaiting along
the
paths we were to take……who was the hero
waiting
for us on the dock?;his heart beating
in
his chest, waiting to embrace his wife, his
sixteen
year old daughter, his fifteen year old
turk;
and I, four years old. He never saw
me
before. I never saw him before either,
but
he grabbed my hand gently.
I
remember I told him that I hadn’t seen my
grey
and white rocking horse.
He
chuckled and laughed while he
said,
“ I think it swam back to Italy.”
I
must have thought, “Oh, well!…….but who is this
guy?”
That’s
what these eyes have seen.
*****
No Shadow
Is Cast
I’ve
walked this life for many years, laughed in the path I trod
I’ve
laughed and danced in the trek of life for many years,
provided
smiles, by family, friends, but too, a lake of tears.
Oh
yes, proverbial, wine, and women and raucous song,
and,….also,……recurring,……..by
darkening dream,……..
………..but, where
do I belong?
I
picked a few fruit, so tender, so sweet,
And
without bitter pits, did a voracious palette greet.
I
lived by Humankind’s rule, and they taught me how to kill or be killed
But
God in His infinite mercy, deemed this was not to be fulfilled.
My
walk continued under boardwalks where weak sunlight sometimes
filtered
through
of
harsh laws, and so complex, turned a weary
traveler’s sojourn from
from
bright to darkened blue.
I’ve
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.
But, in
all, I’m happy, I know finally where I am,
I’m
an outcast without shadow and not giving a little damn.
The
yearning I have now is like a canyon so wide and really deep
And
to fill it, just impossible, except in anxious sleep,
To
join old friends and family, long gone, and so long passed,
No
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.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Dante's
story list and biography
Book
Case
Home
Page
The
Preservation Foundation, Inc., A Nonprofit Book Publisher