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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BLINDED BY THE SETTING SUN
A collection of four poems
on life, hate, and suffering

between trees
beyond grass
up, on a hill
silent and waiting,
he stalks

at dusk she reaches
the hilltop,
eyes of a stranger
smiles…
no one heard
screams, yells, as he
savagely, grisly beat her…
raped her…

blinded by sunlight,
between trees
knowing, how beautiful
a sunset is…
she, can't recall his face.

Resting on a maple leaf
a robin, sings as it beats
its' breasts…

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Below Zero

Curtains moved by
forced air; she
needed angel wings.
Television blasted
through walls: feet,
cold, skin breaking,
stockings
lost; what belonged
had disappeared.

His fingers long and
slender, his eyes
hurt, he walked and
his body jerked.

Cold feet on a
strangers bed
this angel never learned
to fly, she never
belonged, never
moved, and pretending to
fall off to sleep.

He locked doors
tapped keys
a madman. His angel
lay there lifeless.

No way out - no walking
no screaming -
no strength to toss a
chair to break glass
of to fly out a window.

Polite before drugs - he
must have given to play
games.

While the angel slept
she recalled trust, but
knew not everyone was good.

It was something in the
smile that turned him
into stone - a sick mind,
with no place else to go.

Even if her angel wings
had grown – they had no
way to bring her home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved



They Say You Have Children

They say you have children
not sighted – but blind –
The say you have children
Protected with walls.

And your children are gifted,
but you haven’t the time.
You won’t take a day to be
sighted, not blind.

They have their senses -
transformed it to love
a touch and a feeling, a
an archive of time.

You know you have children
they have taken your name
they are one in a million –
If you just understand…

Their life will be different,
and, you’re freighted to see
how people observe them,
with eyes that are blind.

You know you have children
they were given your name,
using all of their senses,
they learned to survive.

So we have the knowledge.
and you find the time –
Your children will treasure
with you love at their side.

They say you have children,
and gifted not blind…

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved



THE SICK BOY AT THE TABLE

Who - will do anything
for the sick boy
tied to the dinner table?
Last night - he picked
up the chair - tossed
it at a window, crammed
his head close to glass -
squinted and then, laughed.

Who - will talk to the
sick boy tied to
the breakfast table?
Yesterday, he pulled a
knife from a kitchen
drawer - sliced the
curtains into shreds -
struck a match to light
rags. . .

Who - will untie a sick boy
at the lunch table?
His wrists bleed, his hands
are useless, fingers white,
and his feet - blue.

Who - will cover up the
sick boy in white sheets
When he is let loose
on city streets?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

STORAGE GARAGE

We still talk about it
vague to some
words etched
scratching red brick -
hearts around names
it was puppy-love
vague - besides. . .
I never loved a
ten year old
those words
all lies

Today -
we could fill
a red brick wall
so many names
so many boys
it would be nice
to. . .
remember when?

(First chapbook- Grandmother's Bleeding Hearts)


NancyDuciDenofio
all rights reserved

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

Why Haven’t You Grown Wings?

White wings fan
claws grasp a round
piece of wood.
White ropes extend
sixteen floors.
Anyone who passes,
stares.

“My eyes red – wings
wide - I can fly - but
not until my owner let’s
me cling to his finger.

Why haven’t you wings?
Why aren’t your eyes red?
Why do you stand still?
I won’t hurt you.
I can talk – only if I see
a face like mine.”

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Locked Inside the Bathroom

She locked the bathroom door
and I hear her crying.
She never cries, or locks the
bathroom door.

I’ll wait right here outside the
door, lean my head against the
wall, and have to listen to her
cry.

At least when she cries
I know she is still alive.

My legs hurt – I keep moving
them because they get these
funny tingles and feel funny. . .

Really, I don’t want to hear
her cry or sit here on the floor.
I don’t like it when she locks
the bathroom door!

If I knock, she’ll get mad
and probably cry louder. . .

So I wait, no one else is
home. No one else hears
her cry.

I’m tired, and so I’ll knock
just a little. My voice,
louder, “I’m here waiting
for you. Can you hear me?”

She continued to cry and
I continued to wait, on the
floor – legs crossed.

I want someone to come
home, anyone – if I leave
the floor near the door she
may never come out.

The only thing I heard
above her cry was our bird
tweetie.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Loves Ashes

Marble cold, exact
rushing water - kissing
nakedness, of time lost

Hear rushing water
skipping stones, hands
touch, harmony exchanged

a distant star, a glimpse
of fate as two birds spring
free, we all must leave...

Electrify night
long since our meeting in
secret caves, and streaks

of rain coat your face with
loves ashes, earths explosion
long ago.

Marble dries in sunlight, color
fades at sunset, time shall not
replace you kissing stone

tucked from light of day
a lighted path, love arrives -
echoes in autumn, your

voice. One year has
depleted streams …
love to rock is marble still

I shall want you until moonlight
disappears, a world beyond
to fold in flesh, not stone...

I see you - still - as air is changing
color - as light flickers through
trees, losing life.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Black Clouds

Told the wind outside. . .
"Protect me from this storm."
I asked,
"Blow away these black clouds."
for I am afraid of thunder.

At night as I drift to sleep
lightening flashes in my dreams -
Memories of fright filled days
when violent storms
always stayed.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Below Zero

Curtains moved by
forced air; she
needed angel wings.
Television blasted
through walls: feet,
cold, skin breaking,
stockings
lost; what belonged
had disappeared.

His fingers long and
slender, his eyes
hurt, he walked and
his body jerked.

Cold feet on a
strangers bed
this angel never learned
to fly, she never
belonged, never
moved, and pretending to
fall off to sleep.

He locked doors
tapped keys
a madman. His angel
lay there lifeless.

No way out - no walking
no screaming -
no strength to toss a
chair to break glass
of to fly out a window.

Polite before drugs - he
must have given to play
games.

While the angel slept
she recalled trust, but
knew not everyone was good.

It was something in the
smile that turned him
into stone - a sick mind,
with no place else to go.

Even if her angel wings
had grown – they had no
way to bring her home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
copyrighted
all rights reserved

I Never Knew
I Knew You


I never knew I
knew you, so
many years ago,
I loved you -
never - knew why?

We met inside a
sky of marble –
I pretended to be
reading while I
sipped coffee;
you glanced
my way.

The second day,
I glanced up as if
I didn’t know
you were there;
our eyes met,
and you stayed.
I always wondered
why?

A sweet smell
of summer, a
morning - in July.
A certain kindness
in your face,
a gentleness,
as you grinned -
A safe place to
begin.

I never knew
I knew you,
so many years ago
I loved you -
yet I said good bye.