Ray Cicetti is a poet whose work has appeared in a variety of literary journals, including The Platform Review, The Paterson Literary Review, and River Heron Review. He is the author of two collections of poetry: A Forest in His Pocket, published by Finishing Line Press, and Songs of Love & Longing, published by Blue Jade Press. His poetry often explores love, longing, nature, memory, and the complexities of human relationships, reflecting a thoughtful and deeply personal perspective. Cicetti’s work has been recognised for its lyrical quality and emotional resonance. He lives with his wife, Carolyn, in Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, where he continues to write and pursue his passion for poetry.
South Meadow Trail, Autumn, Cape May New Jersey
—for Carolyn
This is happiness.
We enter South Meadow trail, pass fiery red maples
highbush blueberry, and sweet gum trees.
A red winged black bird sits at the top of a cattail
preparing, perhaps, to head south.
Lines of muttering mallards descend from the sky
like little parachutes into the brackish water.
Yellow rumped warblers called butter butts
sail from bush to bush across the trail.
A downy woodpecker drums from a distant branch.
There is no conflict here. No words or ideology.
Nothing I want to possess or reject.
I reflect on the Buddha’s teaching that desire
is the beginning of suffering.
Great distances seem closer in this drowsy autumn light.
We stop at a mossy creek as green lily pads rest quietly
and leaves, red and gold, drift under a low arched bridge—
I think of Claude Monet’s painting, Water Lilies, Japanese Bridge.
Daylight gives in to a casual darkness.
We speak of summers past. Friends ill or gone.
How without notice the heart can decide to quit.
The days when we were young and the sky went on forever.
Returning home, Carolyn sips jasmine tea
while I sit on my black cushion facing east.
Calligraphy on the wall: Just This.
The sun’s last streaks send a ladder of light
through the window to a white orchid flower.
I touch the curious child in me
then breathe out, to open like a new leaf
unfurling from a fist to an open hand.
Loons on Damariscotta Lake
Not a single loon or two or five—
but more than twenty
swooped down near our canoe like a summer storm
or the arrival of wind,
to call out —dip, dive, rise, and dive again
and again, in the slate gray water.
We dropped our oars—stayed still as wooden ducks
to watch that great gathering,
our eyes and mouths wide open amidst
the clamor of wing beats
and mournful wails. All day we listened
to their haunting hoots and calls echo
across the lake, and we, awe struck and delighted,
forgot ourselves.
And all night from our house, we hooted back—
and hooted back again.
Elegy
—for Carey & Patrice
The mourners embrace
her husband who sits
silently, eyes downcast
as if composing a last letter.
His shoulders weighed down by defeat.
The chaplain reads a poem.
Friends stand to speak of her
kindness and compassion.
How fast it all goes by.
Memories of times shared:
The sorority parties. Raising children.
Vacations at the beach.
They gather around the blue urn—
say their last goodbyes.
Then turn toward each other.
Talk and laugh about their lives.
Take each other’s hands.
Hesitant to let go.
Innocence
As I walked down the street to get an espresso
I saw a young girl so entranced by a leaf she held,
it was as if she had seen her first shooting star.
I watched her raise it up to the sky. Like she was reading
a secret message from the leaf’s transparent green flesh—
and I thought about innocence.
Like that July afternoon Carolyn and I walked among light-struck oaks,
mesmerized by three fawns that charged out of the woods, bounded
back and forth across a creek bed, then just as quickly disappeared.
Those summers long ago, when time was forever—
and in my fast, weightless body, I’d slap the screen door open
first thing in the morning to run, without a thought, into the day.
And as I watched her, I wondered if my own innocent nature
had gone out of me, dislodged by the machinery of thoughts.
Now the girl looks up to track a line of sparrows
that, as if ignited by the sun, streak from one red maple to another.
Right then, I made a wish that she’d live a life of curiosity and wonder,
that she would not fall into resignation about what’s possible, this world’s
constant pulse of injustices, or the unrelenting selling of happiness.
But would make vows with all beings—to see the beauty,
even in great difficulties sure to come, and know
that there is a river of light that rises through her,
into the world.
The Galway Review 