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
DID YOU EVER WONDER WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A RED LIGHT WARMS MY SOUL
A RED LIGHT WARMS MY WOUL
rubber hits ice, air escapes
like a bursting balloon
pulling me sideways then
down, as if a giant hole
in the pavement sucked
me into darkness
horns muffled and water
rushed inside, touching
my feet, rushing up
to my knees, as cold as
autumn air, I
taste sharp cracks
in ice as if a razor blade
cut my skin
I can hear the six o'clock
plane heading west, and the bells
of Saint Agnes - like the
flushing of a toilet, pulling
down through a drain, sucking
all that is . . .
I hear the wind cut through
bare branches
of a tree, as bodies swarm
on top of me - on ice - my teeth
clenched, my head touching
the steering wheel - then
a red light warmed my soul.
Nancy Duci Denofio
published in What Brought You Here
June 2010 page 39
rubber hits ice, air escapes
like a bursting balloon
pulling me sideways then
down, as if a giant hole
in the pavement sucked
me into darkness
horns muffled and water
rushed inside, touching
my feet, rushing up
to my knees, as cold as
autumn air, I
taste sharp cracks
in ice as if a razor blade
cut my skin
I can hear the six o'clock
plane heading west, and the bells
of Saint Agnes - like the
flushing of a toilet, pulling
down through a drain, sucking
all that is . . .
I hear the wind cut through
bare branches
of a tree, as bodies swarm
on top of me - on ice - my teeth
clenched, my head touching
the steering wheel - then
a red light warmed my soul.
Nancy Duci Denofio
published in What Brought You Here
June 2010 page 39
Saturday, August 14, 2010
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
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
Friday, August 13, 2010
ABOVE THE WORLD
ABOVE THE WORLD
One morning on my way to school,
I took the orange pills from our window
ledge – facing Seneca Street where
mother watches me if I run to fetch
something from the big market. . .
I take her from the ledge, stuff them
into my pocket of a freshly starched
pink flowered dress.
Behind grandmother’s bushes near
red beans I use to make mud pies,
I remove the top.
All those orange pills stare at me, like
the eyes of those in our neighborhood.
I took one - chewed it – then started to
walk, first past Charlie’s Grocery – he
wasn’t in his rocker chewing on his
cigar. . .
I walked down Avenue A toward my
school, noticed one of mother’s friends
beating a rug against the railing of her
porch. She never looked my way, so I
took another orange pill from the jar,
and chewed it. Then, glanced back
toward the porch, waved to mother’s
friend, sneaking the bottle back into
my pocket. I thought I took enough
to live.
“Twinkle - Twinkle little star….”
Humming the song to myself, leaning
my head against the push out window
of our Studebaker… “How I wonder what
you are?”
I began to draw stick figures on the window
of our Studebaker then rubbing it clean –
breathing – rubbing – breathing – rubbing
and drawing, erasing it – exhaling, and
breathing, drawing, erasing it . . .
“Up above the world so high….”
I believe it was my first time to fly.
Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
One morning on my way to school,
I took the orange pills from our window
ledge – facing Seneca Street where
mother watches me if I run to fetch
something from the big market. . .
I take her from the ledge, stuff them
into my pocket of a freshly starched
pink flowered dress.
Behind grandmother’s bushes near
red beans I use to make mud pies,
I remove the top.
All those orange pills stare at me, like
the eyes of those in our neighborhood.
I took one - chewed it – then started to
walk, first past Charlie’s Grocery – he
wasn’t in his rocker chewing on his
cigar. . .
I walked down Avenue A toward my
school, noticed one of mother’s friends
beating a rug against the railing of her
porch. She never looked my way, so I
took another orange pill from the jar,
and chewed it. Then, glanced back
toward the porch, waved to mother’s
friend, sneaking the bottle back into
my pocket. I thought I took enough
to live.
“Twinkle - Twinkle little star….”
Humming the song to myself, leaning
my head against the push out window
of our Studebaker… “How I wonder what
you are?”
I began to draw stick figures on the window
of our Studebaker then rubbing it clean –
breathing – rubbing – breathing – rubbing
and drawing, erasing it – exhaling, and
breathing, drawing, erasing it . . .
“Up above the world so high….”
I believe it was my first time to fly.
Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
GRAVESITE
GRAVE SITE
approached the village
grave yard resting
near old train tracks
over looking
mountains of Vermont
in fall, marble wraps
an envelope by color -
summer – a robin’s nest
in the old maple -
one robin, beating its'
breast on a giant limb -
must - be Mama
watching her child
fly near her gravesite, near
buckets where syrup cries
no roadway in winter -
on top of the crest of
pure white snow - a
grave yard - cement
markers peek out of
white over coats -
Mama’s voice - is
silently yelling -
"Up here, on the hill....
it's cold, and I'm alone."
Nancy Duci Denofio
And yes, I can hear my mother calling - especially when the winter hits the New England States.
approached the village
grave yard resting
near old train tracks
over looking
mountains of Vermont
in fall, marble wraps
an envelope by color -
summer – a robin’s nest
in the old maple -
one robin, beating its'
breast on a giant limb -
must - be Mama
watching her child
fly near her gravesite, near
buckets where syrup cries
no roadway in winter -
on top of the crest of
pure white snow - a
grave yard - cement
markers peek out of
white over coats -
Mama’s voice - is
silently yelling -
"Up here, on the hill....
it's cold, and I'm alone."
Nancy Duci Denofio
And yes, I can hear my mother calling - especially when the winter hits the New England States.
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
Monday, August 9, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
TWO PEACHES KISSING
Two Peaches Kissing
thin - old bedspread
clashes with fringe
on a lamp shade -
a glass shower door -
seltzer bubbling
garbage can full..
one more cigarette -
all packed.
a red tipped cane
supports a cold
wall - near, two
peaches kissing.
clock ticking on a
nearby bed stand,
hear the lady with
a spray can - closer
past departing time
a knock on the door -
the cane hits the rug
she doesn't talk, her
feet must be wrapped
in rubber
smell the disinfectant
she will reach - to feel
fuzz, from two peaches
kissing
I'll tell her they are mine.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
thin - old bedspread
clashes with fringe
on a lamp shade -
a glass shower door -
seltzer bubbling
garbage can full..
one more cigarette -
all packed.
a red tipped cane
supports a cold
wall - near, two
peaches kissing.
clock ticking on a
nearby bed stand,
hear the lady with
a spray can - closer
past departing time
a knock on the door -
the cane hits the rug
she doesn't talk, her
feet must be wrapped
in rubber
smell the disinfectant
she will reach - to feel
fuzz, from two peaches
kissing
I'll tell her they are mine.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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 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
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
Saturday, July 17, 2010
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
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
A CHILD BURIED TODAY
A Child Buried Today
A child buried today.
I listen to women of
rain. . .
tears covered by veils
of darkness – shadows
of women.
Cyprus, Sri Lanka -
mourn the
prostitution of their
daughters, and
empty stomachs -
deformity, and disease.
A blaze thickens in
a woman’s heart -
Invisible -
imprisons a soul, as
fear saturates their
bodies.
A brave assault,
motionless - a
life swept past -
ash - beneath a rock.
It’s March - oh
I shall weep as I
see those abandoned -
abused - left on a street.
April. - “I shall
seek not to deliver,”
she spoke – touching
her swollen belly,
sick, and dying.
In May – brave souls
on the edge, arrive to
help those crying tears
and too - doctors
are torn apart by war.
June - I sit patiently
and no one hears
the sting.
She told me,
“I buried my child
today.”
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
A child buried today.
I listen to women of
rain. . .
tears covered by veils
of darkness – shadows
of women.
Cyprus, Sri Lanka -
mourn the
prostitution of their
daughters, and
empty stomachs -
deformity, and disease.
A blaze thickens in
a woman’s heart -
Invisible -
imprisons a soul, as
fear saturates their
bodies.
A brave assault,
motionless - a
life swept past -
ash - beneath a rock.
It’s March - oh
I shall weep as I
see those abandoned -
abused - left on a street.
April. - “I shall
seek not to deliver,”
she spoke – touching
her swollen belly,
sick, and dying.
In May – brave souls
on the edge, arrive to
help those crying tears
and too - doctors
are torn apart by war.
June - I sit patiently
and no one hears
the sting.
She told me,
“I buried my child
today.”
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
FREE WATER
At times I don't return to my
childhood, or picture what you
are doing and write about it -
or climb a mountain, or want to
fly - this poem - unlike most of
my other work, is one you can sit
and draw your own conclusion!
Free Water
slap -
slap bare feet
naked legs
crossing - crossing
inner halls
midnight -
arms stretch
wrap
tucking
need
hand -
caught
tears fall
gentle touch
of love
feel air - breathe
blurred faces
free water -
moistened
a heart
stone to dirt
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
childhood, or picture what you
are doing and write about it -
or climb a mountain, or want to
fly - this poem - unlike most of
my other work, is one you can sit
and draw your own conclusion!
Free Water
slap -
slap bare feet
naked legs
crossing - crossing
inner halls
midnight -
arms stretch
wrap
tucking
need
hand -
caught
tears fall
gentle touch
of love
feel air - breathe
blurred faces
free water -
moistened
a heart
stone to dirt
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
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
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
Monday, July 12, 2010
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
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
Saturday, July 10, 2010
JAY STREET
JAY STREET
bakers
baking
Italian bread -
two establishments
side by side.
every morning
filling bags the
color of the
Italian flag
two bakers fought
for thirty years,
over a parking lot -
a piece of property
shared by their
establishments
neighbors watch
from their porch,
women bending forward
listening, squatting
in broken kitchen chairs
nylons rolled to
ankles, bellies jiggle
while they laugh -
sip espresso coffee
talk loudly in Italian
while bakers fought
across the street a sign
reads open, even if closed -
on display, cookies filled with
cream, sprinkles, pine nuts;
shapes of circles,
stars, and moon
In the corner on a table
you’re greeted by a plastic
bride and groom… placed
near a cow bell – hanging
on by a rope hitting the
old wooden door.
Jay Street, on a hot August
night, windows
cranked open – people, more
now on a porch across from
two establishments – on the
side where cookies and
a bride and groom greeted
you – a little house selling
Italian ice
women, their leg’s spread, still
sitting on the porch…
refreshing themselves with
a home made fan, the Italian
flag, of course...
a red kerchief tied around a
flabby neck, catching sweat –
laughing as two bakers
close up shop -
never talk.
women knew who congregated
where, how long they stayed,
who ate Italian Ice, bought bread
in different colored bags, who
drove fast down Jay Street, on a
hot summer night
and still the parking lot stays
divided by two establishments
one remained the same,
selling bread – the other moved
out and new one fights instead.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
bakers
baking
Italian bread -
two establishments
side by side.
every morning
filling bags the
color of the
Italian flag
two bakers fought
for thirty years,
over a parking lot -
a piece of property
shared by their
establishments
neighbors watch
from their porch,
women bending forward
listening, squatting
in broken kitchen chairs
nylons rolled to
ankles, bellies jiggle
while they laugh -
sip espresso coffee
talk loudly in Italian
while bakers fought
across the street a sign
reads open, even if closed -
on display, cookies filled with
cream, sprinkles, pine nuts;
shapes of circles,
stars, and moon
In the corner on a table
you’re greeted by a plastic
bride and groom… placed
near a cow bell – hanging
on by a rope hitting the
old wooden door.
Jay Street, on a hot August
night, windows
cranked open – people, more
now on a porch across from
two establishments – on the
side where cookies and
a bride and groom greeted
you – a little house selling
Italian ice
women, their leg’s spread, still
sitting on the porch…
refreshing themselves with
a home made fan, the Italian
flag, of course...
a red kerchief tied around a
flabby neck, catching sweat –
laughing as two bakers
close up shop -
never talk.
women knew who congregated
where, how long they stayed,
who ate Italian Ice, bought bread
in different colored bags, who
drove fast down Jay Street, on a
hot summer night
and still the parking lot stays
divided by two establishments
one remained the same,
selling bread – the other moved
out and new one fights instead.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Friday, July 9, 2010
THEIR SOCIETY
THEIR SOCIETY
They have robbed us of innocence
replacing it with arrogance –
do those who talk about the negative
those things to help the needy – really
think in such a way - or is it - only a crowd
they cling to like a fraternity – repeating
what others say?
do they cling to money – not give a damn
about the well being of our elderly –
suffering inside a two by four room –
soaked in their own urine?
how dreadful life would be if everyone
joined their society of well doers – who
grip a dollar in their fist – regardless of
those who exist.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
They have robbed us of innocence
replacing it with arrogance –
do those who talk about the negative
those things to help the needy – really
think in such a way - or is it - only a crowd
they cling to like a fraternity – repeating
what others say?
do they cling to money – not give a damn
about the well being of our elderly –
suffering inside a two by four room –
soaked in their own urine?
how dreadful life would be if everyone
joined their society of well doers – who
grip a dollar in their fist – regardless of
those who exist.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Thursday, July 8, 2010
FISH SELLER
Fish Seller
Monday morning
A-li! A-li! A-li!
whip snapping
fishseller...
climbing a
mountain
far from the
blue sea
below.
Ciceri - Ciceri - Ciceri
"All hot, all hot, red hot."
another vendor
struggles up the
mountains side...
American Nuts!
American Nuts!
shouts the loudest -
donkey sobbing
for air, blood streaked
lather,
a whip carved and
sliced flank...
On the mountain
top, from side to side
garlic, iron wares,
straw hats and aprons...
The last cart drawn
close at the top
of the mountain, with
cherries, slabs of ham,
fish and fish in
garlic oil...
The old woman,
directing a parade
wiped the donkeys
face with a white
cloth blessed by
an ancient saint...
so the animal could
climb the mountain
again on Tuesday.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Monday morning
A-li! A-li! A-li!
whip snapping
fishseller...
climbing a
mountain
far from the
blue sea
below.
Ciceri - Ciceri - Ciceri
"All hot, all hot, red hot."
another vendor
struggles up the
mountains side...
American Nuts!
American Nuts!
shouts the loudest -
donkey sobbing
for air, blood streaked
lather,
a whip carved and
sliced flank...
On the mountain
top, from side to side
garlic, iron wares,
straw hats and aprons...
The last cart drawn
close at the top
of the mountain, with
cherries, slabs of ham,
fish and fish in
garlic oil...
The old woman,
directing a parade
wiped the donkeys
face with a white
cloth blessed by
an ancient saint...
so the animal could
climb the mountain
again on Tuesday.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
It Was Not Yours
“it was not yours . . .
it was not yours . . .”
something is keeping me
awake; I turn, watch my
husband sleep – peaceful,
inside of me I feel a
bouncing ball banging
against my heart
“it was not yours . . .”
a toy globe, the base
chipped missing red
paint – small – I remember
it well – on my school
desk –
a desk daddy got from an
old building – one they
were going to wreck with
one of those large balls
“it was not yours . . .”
a broken doll, once danced
wore a ballerina costume
wore toe shoes – my ankles
too weak, never danced on
toe – only slippers
“It was not yours . . .”
a framed picture my brother
had given me at Christmas
I really loved having it, and
hanging it in my bedroom –
he was away at college – he
is the artist. . .
Who are you?
first choice on precious
memories mean a dollar
to you . . .
something keeps me awake
at night as a ball fills up
the inside, expands and
begins to slam against my
heart –
Who are you to tell me
it wasn’t mine . . .
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
“it was not yours . . .
it was not yours . . .”
something is keeping me
awake; I turn, watch my
husband sleep – peaceful,
inside of me I feel a
bouncing ball banging
against my heart
“it was not yours . . .”
a toy globe, the base
chipped missing red
paint – small – I remember
it well – on my school
desk –
a desk daddy got from an
old building – one they
were going to wreck with
one of those large balls
“it was not yours . . .”
a broken doll, once danced
wore a ballerina costume
wore toe shoes – my ankles
too weak, never danced on
toe – only slippers
“It was not yours . . .”
a framed picture my brother
had given me at Christmas
I really loved having it, and
hanging it in my bedroom –
he was away at college – he
is the artist. . .
Who are you?
first choice on precious
memories mean a dollar
to you . . .
something keeps me awake
at night as a ball fills up
the inside, expands and
begins to slam against my
heart –
Who are you to tell me
it wasn’t mine . . .
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
Monday, June 28, 2010
Second Hand Mama
baked a home made
chocolate cake,
like Mama -tasted your potato
salad, it was as if
Mama came home - heard
you have one crooked arm,
held my breath when
you extended your arm,
Mama, she use to
show people her arm
proud she
broke it playing touch
football with
her ten brothers -
you speak your
mind as Mama did -
always right. . .
I heard you
love to gamble,
playing cards and dice -
traveling to exotic
places - Mama, did too -
Mama, handed me my
first quarter
for a slot machine -
you never did. . .guess
you’re my - second hand Mama.
baked a home made
chocolate cake,
like Mama -tasted your potato
salad, it was as if
Mama came home - heard
you have one crooked arm,
held my breath when
you extended your arm,
Mama, she use to
show people her arm
proud she
broke it playing touch
football with
her ten brothers -
you speak your
mind as Mama did -
always right. . .
I heard you
love to gamble,
playing cards and dice -
traveling to exotic
places - Mama, did too -
Mama, handed me my
first quarter
for a slot machine -
you never did. . .guess
you’re my - second hand Mama.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
GOLDEN THREAD OF TIME
GOLDEN THREAD
OF TIME
No other gown
close - with threads
inside – out - as light
catches a flicker
of gold - as a leg
extends, and the
other, a twist, a
turn, and golden
threads sparkle
dark shadows
a crowd of different
shapes with eyes
watching a girl
in pink as golden
threads - catch light
she told her
dressmaker – inside
out
she told herself
it’s hot, this make
up, don’t hurry,
don’t run, don’t
sweat, don’t trip
in high heels while
I walk with smaller
steps, and turn
a bit to let the
light catch golden
threads.
don’t look at any
of the ghosts in
the dark, with eyes
that see –
flash – flash – flash
my eyes see circles
of round brilliant
light – larger than
tiny lights, I must
follow the runway
she twists slightly
a body moves to
music – twists
slightly – like a
Tootsie Roll
then with gusto –
shoulders held back,
head facing ghosts
knowing eyes are
watching every
move – her head
twists a body
follows to a
designated spot –
and, you stand to
stare – too move
ever so slowly –
a bit cock eyed as
a hip pushes out
as a leg kicks
across another as
a body twists and
turns
keep these arms
still – remember to
look from left to
right.
flash – flash – flash
those circles are
back – now I have
to talk – talk – talk
as slow as I walked
“Thank you. Thank
you,” now tell them
your name and what
great state you are
from – clearly, and
turn to face the ghosts
remember the eyes
in the dark
her head is still – as
she hears the audience
cheering – clapping
her shoulders move
and once more those
golden threads
sparkle in the light
and a slight nod
a slight smile
a slight movement
then twist, a body
leads, a head is
last
walk tall, don’t
hunch over, tall and
straight, straight to
the dressing room,
don’t trip, don’t
look down – never
look down
it’s over
ghosts have simply
left the room, and
circles of light are
now fluorescent
bulbs
she recalls the
silence.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
OF TIME
No other gown
close - with threads
inside – out - as light
catches a flicker
of gold - as a leg
extends, and the
other, a twist, a
turn, and golden
threads sparkle
dark shadows
a crowd of different
shapes with eyes
watching a girl
in pink as golden
threads - catch light
she told her
dressmaker – inside
out
she told herself
it’s hot, this make
up, don’t hurry,
don’t run, don’t
sweat, don’t trip
in high heels while
I walk with smaller
steps, and turn
a bit to let the
light catch golden
threads.
don’t look at any
of the ghosts in
the dark, with eyes
that see –
flash – flash – flash
my eyes see circles
of round brilliant
light – larger than
tiny lights, I must
follow the runway
she twists slightly
a body moves to
music – twists
slightly – like a
Tootsie Roll
then with gusto –
shoulders held back,
head facing ghosts
knowing eyes are
watching every
move – her head
twists a body
follows to a
designated spot –
and, you stand to
stare – too move
ever so slowly –
a bit cock eyed as
a hip pushes out
as a leg kicks
across another as
a body twists and
turns
keep these arms
still – remember to
look from left to
right.
flash – flash – flash
those circles are
back – now I have
to talk – talk – talk
as slow as I walked
“Thank you. Thank
you,” now tell them
your name and what
great state you are
from – clearly, and
turn to face the ghosts
remember the eyes
in the dark
her head is still – as
she hears the audience
cheering – clapping
her shoulders move
and once more those
golden threads
sparkle in the light
and a slight nod
a slight smile
a slight movement
then twist, a body
leads, a head is
last
walk tall, don’t
hunch over, tall and
straight, straight to
the dressing room,
don’t trip, don’t
look down – never
look down
it’s over
ghosts have simply
left the room, and
circles of light are
now fluorescent
bulbs
she recalls the
silence.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Friday, June 25, 2010
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.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Where Is Love?
Where is Love?
If I had my way I would keep
you tucked away
where only I could
be your lover
where only I
could be
your friend
I'd keep
you happy
building
private dreams,
inside our
private world.
Stillness in the dark
drops into a room
where I am alone
to picture, your face,
taste life
You can remove
dampness from morning,
loneliness from day –
everything you give me,
I need
everything I need,
I need with you
all we share - dreams,
laughter – we have
cried tears of joy, and
sadness –
celebrate love
as one
without you what is life?
and when did it begin?
and why must it end -
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
If I had my way I would keep
you tucked away
where only I could
be your lover
where only I
could be
your friend
I'd keep
you happy
building
private dreams,
inside our
private world.
Stillness in the dark
drops into a room
where I am alone
to picture, your face,
taste life
You can remove
dampness from morning,
loneliness from day –
everything you give me,
I need
everything I need,
I need with you
all we share - dreams,
laughter – we have
cried tears of joy, and
sadness –
celebrate love
as one
without you what is life?
and when did it begin?
and why must it end -
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Saturday, June 19, 2010
INDIAN STYLE
the porch, in the front
the porch near roses,
near metal milk crates
and above colored slate
from Vermont – is where
she sits – Indian Style,
on top of pieces of
wood, warped, and
gray paint peeling
the porch near two
doors leading too
two families in the
city, on a corner lot
in a city filled with
children who played,
played – as she watched.
the porch where she
smiled when a friend
walked by, a friend one
day –
sitting Indian Style
she smiled once more
another friend walked
by – near the hedges
lining the property,
she saw her feet
touch cement, her head
looked straight ahead –
legs crossed Indian
style on the porch
where fingers picked
at pieces of wood
covered in gray paint,
a smile on her face
a stray tear rolled
down her face,
caught the edges of
her lips, where a
smile – remained
scooting over to the
right, toward the
metal milk box,
she opened the lid
and there – inside
where paper dolls
were stored - inside,
she saw her friends
smile back.
Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
the porch, in the front
the porch near roses,
near metal milk crates
and above colored slate
from Vermont – is where
she sits – Indian Style,
on top of pieces of
wood, warped, and
gray paint peeling
the porch near two
doors leading too
two families in the
city, on a corner lot
in a city filled with
children who played,
played – as she watched.
the porch where she
smiled when a friend
walked by, a friend one
day –
sitting Indian Style
she smiled once more
another friend walked
by – near the hedges
lining the property,
she saw her feet
touch cement, her head
looked straight ahead –
legs crossed Indian
style on the porch
where fingers picked
at pieces of wood
covered in gray paint,
a smile on her face
a stray tear rolled
down her face,
caught the edges of
her lips, where a
smile – remained
scooting over to the
right, toward the
metal milk box,
she opened the lid
and there – inside
where paper dolls
were stored - inside,
she saw her friends
smile back.
Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Do Anything...
They said, "Do anything,"
bad habits
didn't matter -
A cigarette – taking in
deep drags and then
exhaling – followed by
a diet with less fat, as
bones became thin
protruded through skin.
Ice inside a crystal glass,
sings... hands tremor as
one mixes a tonic and gin.
Strip off your wig -
white fuzz sparkles
as it blends in summer
lights.
A minister fighting
on a porch, but he is
among tulips in bloom
as spring sings with
robins beating their
breast.
You bend, pick the
color red, a favorite
rose, and sweat seeps
deeper into lines on
your face as if a thorn
has carved age in place.
You could have been
strong, clicked your
heals, swung your
brief case – or wore
aprons not suits –
aprons crossed
instead of cloth draped
over boney knees –
Do anything, was all
they said...
Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved
They said, "Do anything,"
bad habits
didn't matter -
A cigarette – taking in
deep drags and then
exhaling – followed by
a diet with less fat, as
bones became thin
protruded through skin.
Ice inside a crystal glass,
sings... hands tremor as
one mixes a tonic and gin.
Strip off your wig -
white fuzz sparkles
as it blends in summer
lights.
A minister fighting
on a porch, but he is
among tulips in bloom
as spring sings with
robins beating their
breast.
You bend, pick the
color red, a favorite
rose, and sweat seeps
deeper into lines on
your face as if a thorn
has carved age in place.
You could have been
strong, clicked your
heals, swung your
brief case – or wore
aprons not suits –
aprons crossed
instead of cloth draped
over boney knees –
Do anything, was all
they said...
Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
A Shadow Lost on Friday
bored with him, his
bearded face - curious
curling of smoke
twisting to meet her eyes,
her shoulders droop
still -
a drink warms
ice melts,
as wrists curl -
two shadows on a wall
as he puffs a
pipe, a ring of smoke
near gentle features,
seeps into pores -
he doesn’t talk
a shadow - still
he knows she detests
him, his grubby looks,
fruitless charm –
a shadow lost
she thought,
perhaps? Pouts -
crosses her legs - her feet
beneath a marble table,
dreaming of next
Friday -
shadows on a wall,
wrists bent to hold her
head - sips beer
from a crystal glass -
lights her only cigarette,
men stare at her, a flickering
of golden light – still
a shadow cold – a marble top,
smell the aroma
from a bean of vanilla,
a bearded mans pipe -
until Saturday.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
bored with him, his
bearded face - curious
curling of smoke
twisting to meet her eyes,
her shoulders droop
still -
a drink warms
ice melts,
as wrists curl -
two shadows on a wall
as he puffs a
pipe, a ring of smoke
near gentle features,
seeps into pores -
he doesn’t talk
a shadow - still
he knows she detests
him, his grubby looks,
fruitless charm –
a shadow lost
she thought,
perhaps? Pouts -
crosses her legs - her feet
beneath a marble table,
dreaming of next
Friday -
shadows on a wall,
wrists bent to hold her
head - sips beer
from a crystal glass -
lights her only cigarette,
men stare at her, a flickering
of golden light – still
a shadow cold – a marble top,
smell the aroma
from a bean of vanilla,
a bearded mans pipe -
until Saturday.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Congress Park
1800’s
come, smile
look at me
you, with a parasol
held high above
your head -
such - white skin…
get closer,
no curves in
your spine, or
elsewhere on
your - person…
you,
sitting so straight
occupying wooden
chairs - scattered
along a path,
chairs of spindle…
match your back.
cross over,
I’m relaxing,
with my legs
crossed, back –
straight…
staring at you
while I suck my
pipe.
women…
all of you, carry
parasols – sexy
beautiful, but alone
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
1800’s
come, smile
look at me
you, with a parasol
held high above
your head -
such - white skin…
get closer,
no curves in
your spine, or
elsewhere on
your - person…
you,
sitting so straight
occupying wooden
chairs - scattered
along a path,
chairs of spindle…
match your back.
cross over,
I’m relaxing,
with my legs
crossed, back –
straight…
staring at you
while I suck my
pipe.
women…
all of you, carry
parasols – sexy
beautiful, but alone
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Fifth Avenue
“Remember me -
on Fifth Avenue,
I wore that
red and white
scarf?
Remember, the
day you lost it
in the wind -
It kept me warm.
I left a package
I carried from the
grocery store, not,
your worn out shoes -
Italian bread,
baked ham
a bottle of seltzer -
I remember.
The door man
should have noticed…
Why did you move?
I’ve walked Fifth Avenue
for weeks
to track you down…
Did you had to leave
your card board box?"
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
“Remember me -
on Fifth Avenue,
I wore that
red and white
scarf?
Remember, the
day you lost it
in the wind -
It kept me warm.
I left a package
I carried from the
grocery store, not,
your worn out shoes -
Italian bread,
baked ham
a bottle of seltzer -
I remember.
The door man
should have noticed…
Why did you move?
I’ve walked Fifth Avenue
for weeks
to track you down…
Did you had to leave
your card board box?"
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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