REMEMBER THE MOVIES?
Did you walk with me
on these streets
where cars were once
cluttered, where men
in uniforms and white
gloves - stopped us?
Look, there was no over-pass
for trains or people hiding
from the rain - kissing.
Remember when we would
cuddle so close together
just past the over-pass
as you parked your Cutlass
behind the State Theatre?
Oh, I know you remember…
Yes – before the over-pass
did men and women our
age hold hands in front of
the Strand Movie House? –
They walked for hours to get
there but for what?
The lines weren’t for James
Bond, or for free candy if
you purchased tickets
earlier in the day, no – it was
for bugs. Bugs – the owner
of the Strand, made children
line up against a wall while
heads were checked, all
the immigrants, those who
couldn’t speak a word of
English, has to prove they
could sit in one of their
chairs with other children.
You see, the man, he
sprayed those children, made
sure they didn’t bring inside
one single bug from -
Ellis Island, or had any
sticking to their tattered
sweaters. Wonder what they
were sprayed with?
Wonder if you forgot those
days?
I will never forget you?
You disappeared as if taken
by a dark shadow behind red
velvet curtains -
Did the man remove you?
Were you an immigrant from
the past?
I know you never had bugs
nor did they check you at the
State Theatre – we were
someones dream back then, but
or those hot nights – on Route 9
when we enjoyed Malta Drive-in
outside movies, in cars, yes -
your Cutlass and yes, bugs
did come through open windows
opened to let some air inside
your Cutlass - remember
the stick you used to drive the
car between bucket seats?
Bugs did fly around us, but
did it matter?
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2011
DID YOU EVER WONDER WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?
Showing posts with label love lost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love lost. Show all posts
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
MEMORIES OF LOVE
Memories of Love
Dream with me -
become part of my world,
hold my hand, and share with me
collected memories of love.
Nature speaks in silent words
trees cling together
limbs covered in ice
magical, alive
a paramount to nature
each year I search a familiar brook,
a mountain top -
a current or a stream,
unending as our love -
we embrace - trees cling
together with frozen snow our
limbs bare.
Sunshine peeks through
branches, sparkling water
as it gives way to nature, rocks -
mounds of earth in the way
a stream flows, unending
in jagged lines, disturbing earth
creating a waterway deeper, deeper
in the woods.
Now, I stroll along paths where we
shared our love – so deep inside
a forest - greeting me – a familiar
brook where we became part of
nature sharing earth – skin glistens
Our love – unending - distance will
pull us apart, but not destroy love.
We share love among shadows
where snow has remained,
we melt together, becoming one.
Safe among the trees,
limbs, frozen
no feeling on bare skin -
sky of blue - high among towering
trees - below a stream
trickles from snow melting
to make way for ice –
for snow – for love.
Part Two
I made private plans with nature
to share my world with you,
so far away – love – changes
as seasons cause
water once flowing over stones
to forge as rapids, down –
away from our mountain
I share my thoughts
among the trees,
of you, and I - alone,
embracing in winter snow -
a stream never ends,
growing stronger - as love,
we connect arms -
tree limbs - connect life
in our forest.
So - let me share with you,
walk with me among the forest -
our path will meet once more,
its end, when I no longer dream
in winter white - when I melt in
springtime -
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Dream with me -
become part of my world,
hold my hand, and share with me
collected memories of love.
Nature speaks in silent words
trees cling together
limbs covered in ice
magical, alive
a paramount to nature
each year I search a familiar brook,
a mountain top -
a current or a stream,
unending as our love -
we embrace - trees cling
together with frozen snow our
limbs bare.
Sunshine peeks through
branches, sparkling water
as it gives way to nature, rocks -
mounds of earth in the way
a stream flows, unending
in jagged lines, disturbing earth
creating a waterway deeper, deeper
in the woods.
Now, I stroll along paths where we
shared our love – so deep inside
a forest - greeting me – a familiar
brook where we became part of
nature sharing earth – skin glistens
Our love – unending - distance will
pull us apart, but not destroy love.
We share love among shadows
where snow has remained,
we melt together, becoming one.
Safe among the trees,
limbs, frozen
no feeling on bare skin -
sky of blue - high among towering
trees - below a stream
trickles from snow melting
to make way for ice –
for snow – for love.
Part Two
I made private plans with nature
to share my world with you,
so far away – love – changes
as seasons cause
water once flowing over stones
to forge as rapids, down –
away from our mountain
I share my thoughts
among the trees,
of you, and I - alone,
embracing in winter snow -
a stream never ends,
growing stronger - as love,
we connect arms -
tree limbs - connect life
in our forest.
So - let me share with you,
walk with me among the forest -
our path will meet once more,
its end, when I no longer dream
in winter white - when I melt in
springtime -
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
LOVE DISSOLVES
LOVE DISSOLVES
those words we heard together
from a stranger – stayed near
for such a short time -
I thought it would have changed
you – I believed power from
beyond would have opened up
a force you never felt –
but – I was wrong
why I worry more then you?
why I beg for your lips?
why I ask for a little time?
my reasons are now fading
I was wrong - to wonder
those words we heard together
meant so much for so little
time – if I had a string to
tie you – to have you listen
to them one more time –
it would not have made you
different – your words were
always right -
but, I was always wrong
you walk through time as a
stranger
you ignore me like a pestering
insect
you shake your head and agree
but, then you say you don’t
recall why?
my reasons are now fading
as those words from a stranger
I did believe you listened
but, I was wrong
turn away – for I am not looking
turn away – for I am not hearing
turn away – because I can see
a statue passing by –
you were once the best wine on
my lips
you were the best cluster of grapes
to make – wine
your were the best taste when we
kissed
I see how love dissolves
I am the last grape on your vine
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
those words we heard together
from a stranger – stayed near
for such a short time -
I thought it would have changed
you – I believed power from
beyond would have opened up
a force you never felt –
but – I was wrong
why I worry more then you?
why I beg for your lips?
why I ask for a little time?
my reasons are now fading
I was wrong - to wonder
those words we heard together
meant so much for so little
time – if I had a string to
tie you – to have you listen
to them one more time –
it would not have made you
different – your words were
always right -
but, I was always wrong
you walk through time as a
stranger
you ignore me like a pestering
insect
you shake your head and agree
but, then you say you don’t
recall why?
my reasons are now fading
as those words from a stranger
I did believe you listened
but, I was wrong
turn away – for I am not looking
turn away – for I am not hearing
turn away – because I can see
a statue passing by –
you were once the best wine on
my lips
you were the best cluster of grapes
to make – wine
your were the best taste when we
kissed
I see how love dissolves
I am the last grape on your vine
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
LINES IN DUST
Lines In Dust
you,
never join me
when I cry
building piles
on a floor
of cluttered
junk,
gently your
pointer finger
making lines
on dust
head forward
leaning to your
right, reading?
If these tears
were blood
streaming
down my cheeks -
would you rush
to wipe the floor -
or clean
my face?
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
you,
never join me
when I cry
building piles
on a floor
of cluttered
junk,
gently your
pointer finger
making lines
on dust
head forward
leaning to your
right, reading?
If these tears
were blood
streaming
down my cheeks -
would you rush
to wipe the floor -
or clean
my face?
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
THE DOCK
THE DOCK
golden threads,
woven near a
crusty beach
bottle caps
empty cans of
beer
float near my
throne,
I brag - as queen
a paddle kissing
hands,
disrupting water
one owner of this
ruby land, emerald
sea, sapphire nights
emerald peaks at
brilliant light beyond
a twenty two foot dock
my court flew but
twice today
never spoiled wood...
friends engrossed by
poverty, unable to
see a personal sea...
tomorrow, I shall be
alone, as you recall
nails as carved stones
preserved since
earth began...
swamp tangled feet
tugged a mighty
seam holding life
at bay
tonight,
splinters of your
past
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
golden threads,
woven near a
crusty beach
bottle caps
empty cans of
beer
float near my
throne,
I brag - as queen
a paddle kissing
hands,
disrupting water
one owner of this
ruby land, emerald
sea, sapphire nights
emerald peaks at
brilliant light beyond
a twenty two foot dock
my court flew but
twice today
never spoiled wood...
friends engrossed by
poverty, unable to
see a personal sea...
tomorrow, I shall be
alone, as you recall
nails as carved stones
preserved since
earth began...
swamp tangled feet
tugged a mighty
seam holding life
at bay
tonight,
splinters of your
past
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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