TIME TRAVEL

TIME TRAVEL

TIME TRAVEL

Look into a stranger’s eyes
what – three dollars for a
bottle of water – fifty dollars
to park the car

a bed with a partial ocean
view – out on the deck -
twist to your left – bend
forward - look

1954 – lucky if you found
a motel for four – two
single beds – no one
searched for bed bugs

no one had wheels on
a suitcase – holding a
brown tweed hard case
popped open all the time

now - even if the cost
continues to rise – most
fly – bags are measured by
the inch

this one slightly slips
through the hole, this one
has too much packed on
its’ side

that one – not a carry on
as you shove your purse
inside – forgetting what
you packed, and where

by mistake the medication
was placed inside a bag
costing fifty dollars more
to ship –

you had to toss containers
into a trash - thought
extra would pass the
guard - complained but

no one cracks a smile,
or cares about the cost -
when all you needed was
a slightly larger zip

lock bag - shoved
one hundred dollar
face cream into a dollar
store container -

men never fill plastic
bags - remember room
numbers - or care if
they see the ocean -

took no time to pack
or cared what they had
to bring - probably
never unpacked 0r fought

over a top drawer in
one of those over priced
hotels -

where we go it doesn’t
matter – it’s when you
leave or come back –

still see a twin engine
as propellers were
gaining speed - flew
close to the ground

too young
to care

now a family spends
hours in front of a
computer screen – to
find a deal so they

all can travel to
some far off
destination
driving first four

hours, paid higher
prices for gasoline -
frantic as they run
into the airport

paid to park a car
for the entire week -
booked an early flight -
bareky make it -

could it be so much
better - flying to a
destination where bed
bugs still congregate

1954 - waving good bye
you were on the tarmac
no guards, no police -
only a free feeling

wind from
propellers –

dreaming of your vacation
where – it never mattered
when, one day it would
begin

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

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

GENIUS

GENIUS

(Lately a group of us on line at Got Poetry on Facebook have written one minute of less poetry, so here is one to share with you.)

I write it
to you -
genius -
on the inside,
but more like me
on the outside

I tell you,
but you know it -
you are a genius
I'm less than
you are -
on the inside

suddenly it grabs
it feels as if I
don't belong -
will I disappoint
you?
will you hesitate
from the outside?

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

CEMETARY PARKING LOT from book What Brought You Here?

Cemetery Parking Lot

the space near the front
door - near push
carts - near blue
light specials - near a
lady from the salvation
army, ringing a bell -
swinging a red bucket,
half smiling, tilting
her hat - half smiling -
near double doors -
at the front entrance to
K-Mart...

I want to wait inside
our car - where a
cemetery surrounds
the hospital on the hill,
behind garbage bins -
near employee parking
where you can smoke.
I want to wait inside
the car while you
purchase paper towels,
toilet paper, garbage
bags, soap, and fabric
softener.

I wait in the car play
with the crank out window,
slip my fingers over
the steering wheel -
feel where a horn plays
music, feel a knob
which turns on wind shield
wipers - a knob -
to twist for headlights -

I wait in the car - remove
my shoes, toes touch a
brown - thicker - carpet
you replaced after you
spilled paint from a
hardware store.

I wait inside the car -
blow on windows draw
stick figures on glass -
blow on windows draw
houses, balloons and
cats.

I wait inside the car,
cover my legs with your
old navy blanket, rest
my head on a padded
arm rest - close my
eyes....

And, I wait inside the
car - falling asleep -
listening to a bell held
by a half smiling lady
near double doors -
opposite the cemetery
where you were laid
to rest.

Nancy Duci Denofio
from book "What Brought You Here?"
published by Dystenium 2010

A LAST GOODBYE

A Last Goodbye (imagine coming back to say goodbye to one you once loved, after you have left this earth.)

A finger straight
she wipes dust from
a golden plate; white
gowns, white gloves;
men stand tall escorting
all who love.

As she floats by
stained glass windows,
white gowns, pearls and
veils . . . In her eyes –
spider webs of silk,
some a dusty shade of pink.
She watches – a line of
men turn their backs from
the golden rail. Turn away
from a golden plate. . .

Once she talked of
power like a deck of
cards turned, one by one.
And a sliver of light
cuts the fog – recalling
his arms around her
waist and lifting her
to kiss his face.

She glares into the
brightest light, then
glances back at a silk
wedding gown. . .
Her finger straight –
she lightly touches
his broad shoulder,
blows air onto his neck.

Time has come to face
a brighter light –
She said her last goodbye.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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