The Clothesline

I wrote this poem one windy autumn day
20 years ago, when I still used clothespins!
Perhaps it will stir some of your own fond memories . . .

The Clothesline

From my window
it’s a comical sight, even musical
the way the wind plays posie
with my wardrobe hanging there.
Today, shirtsleeves wave to me
and flutter high and low
now and then
when wind swirls toss the trees
appearing
to be raising arms in unison
like graceful rows of Muslims
praising God . . .
they make their bows to Allah.

A merry sight, this autumn day
despite the fact that
folding clothes
will occupy my time tonight.
I still find viewing them delightful.
Never mind
that I’ll be picking bits of leaves
and twigs
from playful sweaters
woolen socks and sheets.

It’s sweet nostalgia
come to visit me today
bringing me to Brooklyn streets
and brownstones with their backyard lines
childhood thoughts of neighbors
hanging wash
tattle tales and peekaboos
hung dripping on the line.
Minny’s see-through underwear
and Bobby’s holey socks
Alice wears a bra now . . .
and you don’t!

Soon the winds will grow too cold
for hanging clothes
but still . . .
I might just do it one day, anyhow
just to see
the frozen stiffs come off the line
remembering
the laughter in our kitchen then
when Mother pulled them one by one
hard and cold
through the window . . .
clothesbodies
waiting to lie down
on toasty radiators
and dream away defrosting.
And I waiting too
to sniff the crisp winter’s air
that floated through that place
filling little heads with happy memories
times too easily forgotten
in a world gone electric.

Joanne Cucinello
1988

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