LADY ON A WALL
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
talking
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
believe.
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
@2010
DID YOU EVER WONDER WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, October 23, 2010
COMMUNICATING AFTER DEATH
COMMUNICATING AFTER DEATH
A shot glass you once held and gave
to us – a souvenir
has been on display since you
passed away
at parties among gin – scotch - whiskey
and there - a Schlitz shot glass
peers at us with eyes unseen.
A simple token of you brings back
laughter – stories - tales of when you
too were here embracing life -
it was this a glass we brought . . .
I told you so
while I talked to you on the porch -
asking, “Please show us you are here
tonight.”
A different week - broken mirrors. . .
not knowing why two broke into
smithereens - then a glass moves
moving dust around - a clean circle,
we knew it was you
a meeting with a glass, he told me
to place inside my purse – so
that night – on our porch I asked
you to please give us a sign –
to know forever more
you are with us
we are sitting among all
who prayed to themselves
to be chosen – but was
it all our words – our talks
which mean so much – I knew
you were listening – I knew you
were following my steps
number one – we knew a medium
came through as she talked -
words of a child – what she
held inside a coffin – what she
wore to sleep – who was the last
one to hold her hand. . .
next a woman deep in depression –
another needing surgery – and
finally the girl in the blue blouse -
our eyes connected
she said, “I see two – a paternal
Grandmother pushing to be heard
first and your mother – holding
a baby in her arms.”
Every word connected us – but
when she held up her hand and
said, “Your mother is
talking about a little glass” my
husband nearly collapsed.
when she said, “The mirrors –
she didn’t break the expensive one…”
and when she told me not to
soak my feet, it was expensive -
supportive shoes I need. . .
mother’s words continued and
she wasn’t skipping a beat – she
did not want to stop telling
and all she said was perfectly
read -
now I know for sure your
with me – between us as we
ride – you said so, knowing I
do not drive. . .
you told us you were listening
like the good luck plant – a man
gave me – Irish Shamrocks -
on Mothers Day, he gave to me,
a stranger
so we continue – we communicate
without words – your love remains
strong now – as if we looked
eye to eye
Nancy Duci Denofio
A shot glass you once held and gave
to us – a souvenir
has been on display since you
passed away
at parties among gin – scotch - whiskey
and there - a Schlitz shot glass
peers at us with eyes unseen.
A simple token of you brings back
laughter – stories - tales of when you
too were here embracing life -
it was this a glass we brought . . .
I told you so
while I talked to you on the porch -
asking, “Please show us you are here
tonight.”
A different week - broken mirrors. . .
not knowing why two broke into
smithereens - then a glass moves
moving dust around - a clean circle,
we knew it was you
a meeting with a glass, he told me
to place inside my purse – so
that night – on our porch I asked
you to please give us a sign –
to know forever more
you are with us
we are sitting among all
who prayed to themselves
to be chosen – but was
it all our words – our talks
which mean so much – I knew
you were listening – I knew you
were following my steps
number one – we knew a medium
came through as she talked -
words of a child – what she
held inside a coffin – what she
wore to sleep – who was the last
one to hold her hand. . .
next a woman deep in depression –
another needing surgery – and
finally the girl in the blue blouse -
our eyes connected
she said, “I see two – a paternal
Grandmother pushing to be heard
first and your mother – holding
a baby in her arms.”
Every word connected us – but
when she held up her hand and
said, “Your mother is
talking about a little glass” my
husband nearly collapsed.
when she said, “The mirrors –
she didn’t break the expensive one…”
and when she told me not to
soak my feet, it was expensive -
supportive shoes I need. . .
mother’s words continued and
she wasn’t skipping a beat – she
did not want to stop telling
and all she said was perfectly
read -
now I know for sure your
with me – between us as we
ride – you said so, knowing I
do not drive. . .
you told us you were listening
like the good luck plant – a man
gave me – Irish Shamrocks -
on Mothers Day, he gave to me,
a stranger
so we continue – we communicate
without words – your love remains
strong now – as if we looked
eye to eye
Nancy Duci Denofio
Saturday, October 2, 2010
THE FRUIT MEN WON
THE FRUIT MEN WON
A black wreath collects flakes of snow for the fruit man.
A black wreath nailed to a door of old wood – while
snow decorates a wreath with white – as a soul of a
fruit man.
Spheres of crystal once frozen - cry from the upstairs
porch, dripping tears as the sun kisses morning –
releasing ice from night – allowing men now and
women to ascend the steps; dressed in black.
A footstep crushes a dead leaves, it’s November.
Women carry trays of food, their heads bent forward,
bowed in prayer, forward to hide emotions, or simply
bowed to step carefully and cursing winter. Women
with naked legs, rolled down stockings, and a black
over coat. A veil hides tears, only God knows.
“God, why have you taken John, a young man, a
husband, a father of three sons?”
A woman stares at the man who climbs stairs as
she listens to the words, shakes her head as if she
too is wondering about God.
“He wasn’t ready for the other side,” speaking to
a man, reaching the top of the stairway.
Men and women cross a sidewalk - see the wreath,
as specs of snow drip from under branches – crying
mourning too for John – the fruit man.
Men and women climb a narrow staircase - smell of
cedar clings to hand sewn drapes covering the top
of a stained glass window; visitors stare out to
Seneca Street then turn to climb four more steps to
the second floor – the mahogany door is open.
Here, others gather to pray, to stare at death, to
observe John sleeping between bow windows,
his parlor, his place to live, now still.
Flowers surround his casket – yet all you hear is
the dripping of water into a bucket, keeping his
body cold.
Women gather in the kitchen - talk about those
three long days when Nancy hid her tears, her
head laying on a pillow where the words John
stitched with her hands – catches tears.
Her head on the pillow where her husband
was left alone to die – not knowing heaven was
so close – not knowing to stay by his side.
Women talk - pour a bit of espresso, slice hot
bread - Nancy will never know who took up space –
who drank – who ate, or cooked homemade bread?
She won’t recall who hugged her, wiped tears and
tasted salt on her cheeks – who felt her pain.
John – she thought – he never cared about one
gold tooth as it shined catching light when she
laughed, never noticed old worn dingy aprons,
or watched as she twisted clothes like twisting
her hair into a braid. John, never saw pin holes
in her dress where flowers were placed on their
wedding day.
God took her sunlight in the winter of her life,
three sons to raise alone, in a world where
immigrants were frowned upon.
She saw the undertaker drain John’s blood into
their tub on Monday morning – three days he
laid between bow windows, where plants grew
in daylight – his soul left long ago – through
white light.
She won't remember friends – how they
carried on, some gawking at the casket,
commenting on his youth, how peaceful he
appeared, asleep between hand sewn drapes
near pictures of his son’s.
She won’t remember friends who washed
dishes, after feeding the hungry, or cleaning
her kitchen – those who remained at her side
a day of two friends who whispered each other
“What will become of them, a mother
and her three sons?”
John, asleep beneath the earth for years -
Nancy walked those twenty blocks to his
resting place in all seasons of the year – to
place flowers from her garden at his headstone.
As age began to take a toll – her feet began
to swell, her hands shake as flowers were
placed at his grave; she never complained . . .
She talked with John, her gold tooth catching
sunlight. On her walk, slower now passing
strangers – nodding hello – still talking to her
husband, promising to meet at heavens gate.
Alone at his resting place is where her tears
fell onto marble, crouched on her knees, on
snow, moist grass, on leaves, on ice –
She prayed aloud - touched his photograph.
John’s friend Ralph – she told him,
"He tried to help – tried to tell why your
life ended - but the Fruit Men went to
Syracuse - Ralph died - so at the end the
Fruit Men won.
Nancy Duci Denofio
A black wreath collects flakes of snow for the fruit man.
A black wreath nailed to a door of old wood – while
snow decorates a wreath with white – as a soul of a
fruit man.
Spheres of crystal once frozen - cry from the upstairs
porch, dripping tears as the sun kisses morning –
releasing ice from night – allowing men now and
women to ascend the steps; dressed in black.
A footstep crushes a dead leaves, it’s November.
Women carry trays of food, their heads bent forward,
bowed in prayer, forward to hide emotions, or simply
bowed to step carefully and cursing winter. Women
with naked legs, rolled down stockings, and a black
over coat. A veil hides tears, only God knows.
“God, why have you taken John, a young man, a
husband, a father of three sons?”
A woman stares at the man who climbs stairs as
she listens to the words, shakes her head as if she
too is wondering about God.
“He wasn’t ready for the other side,” speaking to
a man, reaching the top of the stairway.
Men and women cross a sidewalk - see the wreath,
as specs of snow drip from under branches – crying
mourning too for John – the fruit man.
Men and women climb a narrow staircase - smell of
cedar clings to hand sewn drapes covering the top
of a stained glass window; visitors stare out to
Seneca Street then turn to climb four more steps to
the second floor – the mahogany door is open.
Here, others gather to pray, to stare at death, to
observe John sleeping between bow windows,
his parlor, his place to live, now still.
Flowers surround his casket – yet all you hear is
the dripping of water into a bucket, keeping his
body cold.
Women gather in the kitchen - talk about those
three long days when Nancy hid her tears, her
head laying on a pillow where the words John
stitched with her hands – catches tears.
Her head on the pillow where her husband
was left alone to die – not knowing heaven was
so close – not knowing to stay by his side.
Women talk - pour a bit of espresso, slice hot
bread - Nancy will never know who took up space –
who drank – who ate, or cooked homemade bread?
She won’t recall who hugged her, wiped tears and
tasted salt on her cheeks – who felt her pain.
John – she thought – he never cared about one
gold tooth as it shined catching light when she
laughed, never noticed old worn dingy aprons,
or watched as she twisted clothes like twisting
her hair into a braid. John, never saw pin holes
in her dress where flowers were placed on their
wedding day.
God took her sunlight in the winter of her life,
three sons to raise alone, in a world where
immigrants were frowned upon.
She saw the undertaker drain John’s blood into
their tub on Monday morning – three days he
laid between bow windows, where plants grew
in daylight – his soul left long ago – through
white light.
She won't remember friends – how they
carried on, some gawking at the casket,
commenting on his youth, how peaceful he
appeared, asleep between hand sewn drapes
near pictures of his son’s.
She won’t remember friends who washed
dishes, after feeding the hungry, or cleaning
her kitchen – those who remained at her side
a day of two friends who whispered each other
“What will become of them, a mother
and her three sons?”
John, asleep beneath the earth for years -
Nancy walked those twenty blocks to his
resting place in all seasons of the year – to
place flowers from her garden at his headstone.
As age began to take a toll – her feet began
to swell, her hands shake as flowers were
placed at his grave; she never complained . . .
She talked with John, her gold tooth catching
sunlight. On her walk, slower now passing
strangers – nodding hello – still talking to her
husband, promising to meet at heavens gate.
Alone at his resting place is where her tears
fell onto marble, crouched on her knees, on
snow, moist grass, on leaves, on ice –
She prayed aloud - touched his photograph.
John’s friend Ralph – she told him,
"He tried to help – tried to tell why your
life ended - but the Fruit Men went to
Syracuse - Ralph died - so at the end the
Fruit Men won.
Nancy Duci Denofio
Monday, August 2, 2010
YOU ASKED ME TO DANCE published What Brought You Here pg. 5-7
Following an accident - as a child - and returning to the spot and as an adult remembering what occured, and with your eyes closed, you see yourself there, once more.
--------------------------------
YOU ASKED ME TO DANCE
A white butterfly . . .
You have come home to dance
on my shoulder, high above daisies
to spin in circles
casting our shadows on a pond
a rendezvous of seasons, and
a landscape covered with snow. . .
You fooled me.
Your sister’s, sister?
No one noticed when she fell
through ice.
A white picket fence keeps
me away.
I feel your wings.
You flutter toward the barn
pass the statue of the
BlessedVirgin Mary.
We dash to skip over holes
in the floor of the barn.
You grab my hand
we skip over light; reflections on
a wide plank wooden floor.
We pass a broken lantern
red glass shimmers,
and Grandmother’s wedding dress
hung near our homemade stage.
You grab my hand, and together
we run to the hillside
we roll into a ball and tumble
“head over heals”, Grandmother said,
on over grown grass. . .
We roll over clover and our toes tangle
in weeds,
we roll near apples left beneath the apple
tree . . .
In winter,
I hear you laugh -
your tear’s roll down your face
you’re laughing so hard
you bend to catch your breath. . .
Your chin captures yellow of a butter cup,
and again - the wings of a white butterfly
leads me to the white picket fence. . .
The slope disappears.
The apple tree, a twig.
And your face
appears in murky water.
Your laughter still surrounds me. . .
A stone is tossed, and circles swirl over,
and over.
My eye’s close as if captured by the
swirling water,
and you were gone.
Forgive me.
A yellow eye - inside a white daisy
asked - me to dance. . .
we are leaping across summer grass
near tall weeds and wild flowers.
Our dance ends – so,
I snap your stem to take you home.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
--------------------------------
YOU ASKED ME TO DANCE
A white butterfly . . .
You have come home to dance
on my shoulder, high above daisies
to spin in circles
casting our shadows on a pond
a rendezvous of seasons, and
a landscape covered with snow. . .
You fooled me.
Your sister’s, sister?
No one noticed when she fell
through ice.
A white picket fence keeps
me away.
I feel your wings.
You flutter toward the barn
pass the statue of the
BlessedVirgin Mary.
We dash to skip over holes
in the floor of the barn.
You grab my hand
we skip over light; reflections on
a wide plank wooden floor.
We pass a broken lantern
red glass shimmers,
and Grandmother’s wedding dress
hung near our homemade stage.
You grab my hand, and together
we run to the hillside
we roll into a ball and tumble
“head over heals”, Grandmother said,
on over grown grass. . .
We roll over clover and our toes tangle
in weeds,
we roll near apples left beneath the apple
tree . . .
In winter,
I hear you laugh -
your tear’s roll down your face
you’re laughing so hard
you bend to catch your breath. . .
Your chin captures yellow of a butter cup,
and again - the wings of a white butterfly
leads me to the white picket fence. . .
The slope disappears.
The apple tree, a twig.
And your face
appears in murky water.
Your laughter still surrounds me. . .
A stone is tossed, and circles swirl over,
and over.
My eye’s close as if captured by the
swirling water,
and you were gone.
Forgive me.
A yellow eye - inside a white daisy
asked - me to dance. . .
we are leaping across summer grass
near tall weeds and wild flowers.
Our dance ends – so,
I snap your stem to take you home.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
MAGIC OF A LEPRECHAUN
Magic of a Leprechaun
Collected all the details;
charts, records -
then organized the day -
we knew – you would
never give up.
Etched in my mind,
your eyes.
Years have gone
since hell broke loose
but time is still filled by
memory - your strength
and courage – your battles
for living -
On the day you were to
die we were brought to
your side – near the head
of the bed, to the right, I
stood.
No one moved. I recall
the sound of the respirator,
your eyes opened, but you
stared at the ceiling as air
pumped your chest up and
down -
I don’t recall what I was
thinking, it was what you
were thinking that bothered
me – watching you stare -
tubes and tape and blood
draining from your mouth –
then your eyes closed.
A friend shared rosary beads
from Ireland...
out loud I asked God,
"If only you could wake
one more time see the beauty
of these rosary beads..."
I placed them in her hand.
You sat up, waved your
arm toward the door as
nurses came into the room,
and I smiled for awhile –
you glanced at us,
gathered around your bed –
It was that last spark of
life – you lived another
day – you joined others
when the magic of a
leprechaun touched
your skin.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Collected all the details;
charts, records -
then organized the day -
we knew – you would
never give up.
Etched in my mind,
your eyes.
Years have gone
since hell broke loose
but time is still filled by
memory - your strength
and courage – your battles
for living -
On the day you were to
die we were brought to
your side – near the head
of the bed, to the right, I
stood.
No one moved. I recall
the sound of the respirator,
your eyes opened, but you
stared at the ceiling as air
pumped your chest up and
down -
I don’t recall what I was
thinking, it was what you
were thinking that bothered
me – watching you stare -
tubes and tape and blood
draining from your mouth –
then your eyes closed.
A friend shared rosary beads
from Ireland...
out loud I asked God,
"If only you could wake
one more time see the beauty
of these rosary beads..."
I placed them in her hand.
You sat up, waved your
arm toward the door as
nurses came into the room,
and I smiled for awhile –
you glanced at us,
gathered around your bed –
It was that last spark of
life – you lived another
day – you joined others
when the magic of a
leprechaun touched
your skin.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Thursday, July 1, 2010
She Travels Alone
She Travels Alone
The sound of the train traveling over
tracks reminded her of her legs
pumping, rocking back and forth
on a fancy metal foot rest of a
Singer Sewing Machine.
Legs with strong muscles; and a
thimble on her thumb, pushing cotton
over metal and then the sound stops.
Out the window of the train
hills, large meadows,
streams, a small pond and
naked trees kissing icicles
as a warm wind brushes snow
gathered late last night.
Traveling slower, close to a town
small children wave at
all the strangers in small soiled
windows where she peers at
impatient motorists at a railroad
crossing, she hears the whistle.
The train rocking now from
side to side, crossing Main Street.
A common place, people cross
cobblestone – as familiar as the
odor of garlic browning in olive
oil – a fresh tomato ripened
on her vine, or the apple shared
from the fruit man.
The conductor shouts, “Schenectady.”
Legs uncross – cross – nervous
squirming in her seat, fidgeting,
fussing over a wrinkle found on
her blue cotton dress; fingering a
corsage pinned to a gray overcoat.
In her mind she kept touching the
holes in her husbands socks, reaching
for the pin cushion near large spools
of white thread, she’d stitch, and
break loose with her teeth.
The flowers disappear from her
dress and a dingy apron
drenched by dirty water is tied
at her waist. Her hands, raw
scrubbing her husband’s
skin. Her body a machine, like
her sewing machine, over and
over until soot is removed from
where he works.
Her husband, nude, as the water
from his back is closer to black.
And now - she travels alone.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)