Many of these poems will be of the city of Schenectady from early 1900 to the present.


Monday, January 31, 2011



Pleaded on a phone
for a miracle –
long ago you held
your hands on my eyes
and I still see -

This time it was not
me who needed you
near a rest room
near a lobby
near the entrance
to intensive care

I cried out loud
begged you to
give her one more
year - only one
more year.

You – cured my eyes
you held me close
you told me, only me
what to believe –
showed me miracles
do happen

It made me think of
a lady on the wall –
half floating, yet
to me –
when I was destroying
my own life; or –
did they?

A lady on the wall,
she wasn't solid, she
seemed to float - it
was the first time she
let me know everything
would be fine.
I knew I had to

It is hard to give in,
to think we all have
our time and to believe
your life was at an end.

For a time I believed
my tears, prayers, all
unheard - for years -
unheard, but for years
I have believed,
you listened - then

The lady on the wall
may have saved me –
long ago.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Friday, January 14, 2011



Grandmother had to be
dancing upstairs in her
kitchen - her radio blaring -
when her friends arrived -
all talking broken English -
my mother. downstairs in
a two family flat said,
"It's too much noise."
But, noise never stopped.

Father, he invested in a
bigger radio - more noise,
unlike Grandmother -
following the death of his
Father – Back then, when
a radio first came to be,
someone died – someone
Italian – tubes were removed
since it was a “new tradition”
to remove all the tubes
from a big radio in her
parlor – “Respect,” was why.

Father never listened
to the "War of Worlds."

On the day Father's Father
died, it had to be the
worst day of his life. . .

His Father laying in
their marriage bed; in Sicily
all beds slept in by husband
and wife were a marriage
bed –

Father saw his Father’s
head resting on a pillow
a pillow stitched by
Grandmother's hands
"I Love You," in Italian.
My Grandfather, his head resting
on this pillow - motioned for his
son, and whispered his last request.

"One more cup of water
before I die."

Grandmother at the door
to the front porch, paying
the milkman, a pison’ a
person called pison in
Sicily, was special – as close
to a relative as one could be.

On the front porch – I am
sure Grandmother was
talking, maybe laughing
when her son came running
down the steps –

Her son, still not shedding
tears – as he said, “Papa, he
is dead.”
My Father grabbed his
Mother's arm, pulled her up
the staircase – her pison’
followed, as she walked
down a hallway to their
bedroom – laying over his
body, she wept, she screamed,
she looked up to God, asking
why? No one could pull her

Father's youngest brother,
he sank to the floor as his body
leaned against a wall – tears in
his eyes watching the scene of

Father’s middle brother stood
near the doorway – staring I
guess, at his Papa, his Mama
as she touched his Papa.
A empty cup of water placed
on top of their bed stand, empty.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Thursday, January 6, 2011


In Full View

With a wide smile you
knocked on my window -
stood still – standing on

You were - disturbed.

I turned to my left,
You step right -
In full view.

It was noon, a midday
sun above your head
as a bit of silver shined
you lifted your arm –

pointed at your head -
it was your right hand,
your finger on the trigger -

I startled you?
I suppose -
I never stopped smiling -
as beads of sweat poured
down your face -
your hand - began to shake

I closed the drapes.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
2002 - copyright