We Have Returned

We Have Returned

Giant buildings - no bigger
than my finger –
at the curve -swimming
in the ocean – huts of blue –
empty - last nights
foot prints show at low
tide – nothing has changed

I recall laughing – then a hush
it was last night before
seaweed washed beyond a
tractors tracks disturbing ladies
carrying plastic bags
shells to send home – as if to
prove, “We are here.”

Some jog – some linger in
a morning fog – some alone –
others walk hand in hand
to view another sunrise – to
snap another photo – even as
a tide rolls in and out –
our sun brings silence as it
reaches up and out of the
sea.

At high noon when heat
burnt tender flesh, blisters –
mothers plaster lotion
onto bare skin – believing in
protection.
At high noon children stir
sand into castles – a dream
destroyed when day is night

Men cover up their nose with
Noxema – strut up and down
the shore still staring at a girl
in a bikini – forgetting what
it is – but knowing when

their children played in sand
and slept in blue huts along
an ocean, slept in simple
rooms – heard the rush of
a high tide slapping wooden
steps…

laughing never ceased, as
children - free to walk
along a shore –
tossing bread to sea gulls
laughing – knowing tomorrow
would be like today – no one
thought time would pass so
quickly as a tide greeted a
moon in a night sky.

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

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

BLOOD LINES - 1966

Blood Lines 1966

It wasn't the hair, gauze shirt
with a zipper down the back
but, his voice...
so strong -
it rattled my bones -
broke my heart...
sent goose bumps down a spine.

Who, who was he before he turned
gray...
arms thin -
moccasins worn...
Strength came from his soul
it cried out...
reaching the nervous …
system.

Care? Who - cares about yesterday,
today he gave his blood
his thin leg’s crossed
eyes lost in time
weaker now
sharing
life

all they noticed - a gauze shirt -
the beard -
worn moccasins,
not worn purple veins,
No one new his name.

Nancy Duci Denofio

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

BIRTH OF A SON from book "What Brought You Here?"

Birth of a Son

It took a little girl
to wipe my forehead
It took a little girl to place
a cold wet cloth
on my face,
a little girl to squeeze my
hand, and reach up, to touch
my face.

It took a little girl to fluff a
tear drenched pillow
beneath my head.
A little girl who sat patiently
at the edge of a feather bed,
before the screams - before
Papa left between contractions.

PaPa peeked through a door-
way – had his child been born?

It took a little girl to heat the towels
and place them beneath by back,
It took a little girl to rub my feet,
and place white porcelain buckets
at the bottom of my bed.

It took a little girl to help me push
and she stared and wrinkled her nose.

A little girl whose eyes were
filled with tears, ran to the window
announcing you were here.

“What Brought You Here?”
page 45 – 46
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

ONE CAPSULE in the FOREST

One Capsule in the Forest


a single tree
breathes in the forest

a benign tumor.

bacteria wiped out
the mountain.
a fungus spread from
limb to limb

sparing one single tree

a capsule for a new
beginning,
the cordial for a forest.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

NAILS IN PALMS

Nails in Palms

Can you guide only a few?
Some must suffer so –
some - must feel nails once
punctured into your feet -
your palm’s.

Are we really here for
a reason – can we help
a stranger and would
they listen? Can we tell
a friend you were – here
will they walk away –
laughing?

When sickness comes
they look up – at who
we do not see – but
learning – yes there is
a bright light - you
send others back – to
push them home. . .

Must have felt nails in
their palms – nails hit
so hard – pain . . . will
never leave.

Your home felt nails
but not built with human
hand’s, yet you believed

a reason, learned –

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

SHADOWS ON A CRYSTAL BALL

SHADOWS ON A CRYSTAL BALL

first a cloud
of light in
your vision - like
smog covering a city
on a humid day. . .
it's disease

eyes closed
at night
pulling shades
of yesterday
a dream revealing
a picture of a
coming storm

words vanish on
paper -
shadows on a
crystal ball. . .

disease - restless
now, as the eye
of a storm
passes in night

thunder -
lightening
strikes - wires
snap as wind
rips into darkness
destroying light

someday -
perhaps tomorrow. . .
a desvastating
storm - severe
enough to erase
light
forever


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A BIRD WITHOUT WINGS

A Bird Without Wings

springs are dry
in a forest
a bird with broken
wings cannot fly –

a scanty path to
follow – to reach
a brook without
stones

stones –
tossed my way

we keep our
distance short –
like the bird
who cannot fly,
who cannot reach

a place of security
or touch wings
fluttering as a
mother feeds
beak to beak

as an empty
spring –
our lips remain
dry –
our lips are
not moist from
each others
touch

as a bird who
once flew
now wallows
on moist
hollow ground
hope is gone

for one
who gathered
stones - emptied
brooks where
children use to
step –

each stone
tossed -
gathered
to build a wall –

a wall - you will
never climb
you are a bird
without wings

Nancy Duci Denofio

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

CHILDREN of the DARK

CHILDREN of the DARK

Stone houses against
a mountain side, between
bushes of red gardenias
and hydrangeas near
lime and lemon trees,
near olive branches –
and wheat fields.

A street, narrow;
balconies and stoops
where town folk gather
in clusters, similar to
all clusters - along
the edge of the mountain.

Villagers gather to share
secrets - or to be proud;
a cross now pinned outside
off of a cotton slip -
signifying her husband or
son notified her - soon
they shall return for
those he left behind.
Leaving America - a place
he only knew.

A gust of wind - a thin layer
of ash from Mount Etna
finds its way between the
mountain and lay its ash
over the clothes attached
to olive trees.

Women pray for spring to
bring heavy rains, and keep
rain away in June – for it
would kill buds blooming
on the trees.

Women pray for husbands
to come home, to be happy
in the mountain, filling sacks
with wheat – for the wheat
man – the rich man in town.

This winter a few flakes of
snow crossed the mountain
top – and kissed a palm.

A simple stoop of stone –
a hen struts by to
enter a home - with an open
door, where birds of all
colors – as shrubs or trees
flock to hear the music
on the streets.

Homes stand side by
side, deeper – instead of
wide. A simple stoop where
women compare the price
of an artichoke - when few
feet walked –
pick another fresh – but its
weight to much to bare.

Pictures of saints are lined
on walls, near a picture of
the Brooklyn Bridge.
One room – one table, and
chairs. Upstairs, what
women call a marriage
bed.

At the end of a day when
purple covers the sea and
a mountain sleeps – when
donkeys are tied in stalls
and children dream – some
stay awake counting stars.

Children hear prayers from
a neighbors home, and cries –
when a letter arrives – knowing
someone else will never cross
the ocean – will never make it
home – back where houses
clustered close, where elders
talk.
And in the darkness
children listen.

Nancy Duci Denofio

The Carnival

THE CARNIVAL

At the fire station –
cotton candy, caramel apples,
and the merry-go-round,
but I knelt near a window
a shade half blocking my view.
I heard music from the
merry-go-round,
same song, and
same horses.
same people from
our village standing in line.

I leave the porch to
sit on worn steps, chipped
paint catches cotton.
I stretch my legs to kick some
stones, and scuff my shoe’s.

You are not here to yell,
you are not here to watch
me cross a street,
you are not here to hold me
when the horse moves up and
down.

You are not here to hug me.

A small road crosses in front
of the old porch where cars
park near weeds, near grave
markers, those dead from the
village.
I wonder if you too can hear
the music?
I wonder if you too can see
flashing lights?

You are not here to keep my
hand warm, but next to all those
parked cars, you are still there,
still riding the merry-go-round
at the carnival. . .
but, you forgot to say good-bye.

Nancy Duci Denofio
published June 2010
by Dystenium
pages 14 - 15

TOUCHING SILK

Touching Silk

Between pink painted lips
you whispered
slanted - flirting eyes
stared - bending your knees
slightly twisting your body –
a vanilla Tootsie Roll machine.

Miniature stars glittered
in moonlight - you raised
your long white
gloved arm to wave –
moonlight shined
in baby blue eyes

At the auto shop
I watched men
slap your ass as they
prepared to brace ice and snow
to “filler up.”
In the basement a picture
hangs collecting dust -
Marilynn bent over touching silk
her head flung back slightly
tilted to the right
she was laughing.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

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

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

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

TO THE GENTLEMEN

To The Gentlemen

Bow, to the gentlemen
Saratoga Belle…
congregating in the
park, dressed in fancy
frills…
Sip magic mineral
waters, listen to a band…
bow, to the gentlemen
tilt your parasol – flirt -
flirt - if you can….

Hard faced, manly
features, wearing
laced buttoned shoes…
Let your smile loose,
raise a corner of your
mouth, for just a little
while…
It doesn’t hurt to flirt -
flirt if you can…

Expensive Saratoga
trunks packed neatly
for the stay… filled
with glitter, gowns
taffeta and lace…
Bow, to the Gentlemen
stare from the corner of
your eye… you’re just
a passing fantasy, so
go on, flirt for a
little while…

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

GRANDMOTHER'S BLEEDING HEARTS

GRANDMOTHER'S
BLEEDING HEARTS

That damn radio
blasted
day and night with
church songs
she would sing
with the announcer
blessing Jesus for
everything she had.

Pray tell,
what did she have?

That same old
formica table -
white with red
chipped paint.
One over sized basin
for a sink -
soiled dish towels
hanging, drying
draped over one
piece of wood.
A dented white
metal cabinet
filled with foggy
plastic glasses -
ceramic cocoa bowls,
cracked.

Every other day
she held onto a ice
pick – clenched in
her aging hand
defrosting her old
refrigerator.

Those knees...
they had to be raw.
She knelt on linoleum
day and night
praying.
Praying out loud -
half crying, saying -
"Thanks. Thanks."

Her slippers worn
her apron dingy
she never wanted
anything new - God
wouldn't like it -
she had to sacrifice -
sacrifice.

I still see the old
black iron pan
resting on a stove
without a lid...
scolded herself
holding it in place -
her pantry had a liner,
red little frills at the
edge, red and white
flowers –

cups, saucers
lined perfectly in
place.
No one touched a
single item in her
pantry – And,
If the old door
creaked, or the
calendar shook
on her pantry door -
Grandmother appeared
wondering what it was
you took?

A pull string
hung in the middle of
her kitchen – hit her
head, since a cord
connected it to her
damn radio –
it connected life.

As she aged a hassock
placed at her feet,
lifting them…
her knees too old,
too frail, to hold
her as she prayed...

Her home made
curtains blew in the
wind - she ached to reach
the window sill,
staring at a pane
of glass.

Old and aging,
rapidly.
She never, never
wanted to cry - but
I felt her tears,
her aging heart.

She never gave up
old "Zebra Bread."
a toaster – proud, as
her curled thumbs
flipped the sides,
testing to see if the
toast was done.

Each morning I sat
with her at her kitchen
table, both of us had
cracked ceramic
bowls – and we
tossed, dried old
Italian bread – Dandy
Crackers, Ritz and Graham,
Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes,
and cookies from her old
antique cookie jar –
a bear smiled at me. . .

I loved her cookie jar
filled with striped
cookies from "Woolworth’s"
Those cookies made
me happy.
On Tuesdays, Grandma
climbed the inside
staircase to the second
floor – holding a brown
paper bag. . .

I followed – watched as
her old hands filled
her jar with cookies –
patiently waiting, and
she handed me one;
her gold tooth shinning
as she smiled.

I waited, squirmed
in the chair at the table,
begging with my eyes
for more.

Now - I wonder why
Grandma’s pans hung
from nails in her pantry?
I wonder why her
bread box was nailed shut?

The cookie jar, I
remember most - yellow,
green – eyes of a funny
bear watching – but,
those damn church songs
embarrassed me!

Her homemade curtains
blew in the wind -
echoes of how God
was going to change our
world.

I played beneath the
opened kitchen window -
near Grandmother’s
plants -
her bleeding hearts.


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

THE SPACE BETWEEN NOTHING

Space Between Nothing…

Every day we search
for what is final
and we want it with
all our might,
this thing we call
permanence,
this space between
nothing, and everything. . .
where memory calls
home, and hands, never stop
reaching for a lifetime.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved