HAVE YOU EVER WALKED A PRIMROSE PATH?

HAVE YOU EVER WALKED A PRIMROSE PATH?


Three fifty foot lots seemed far, so distant
to a five year old. A five year old; gentle
meekness of a child, innocent yet filled with
fear - which lasted through the years.

A child tolerates what is learned, gives
permission - to elders – although a candy
man reacts to frayed arteries on a Primrose
Path; giddiness, twitching, twisting a
common leaf then ripping it to shreds.

Misbehavior, common to the onlooker –
perhaps today labeled attention deficit
disorder – some mental block – or far too
shy – or far too friendly - a child smiles.
A child knows the arteries to Primrose Path.

Loose stones are kicked, heads look down,
and the smile gone - for awhile. The distance
a child walks pollinates a vine, layering
failure – as a path brightens in a new lip of
daylight.

One day a child full of grace, this tiny
angel – wings carry the child above the
wickedness of wrongdoers – when simple
wings were observed as naughtiness
inside – full of sin – inside - anger builds
as a child walks a Primrose Path.

Children learn to behave and do as one is
told, even if words string webs where one
is trapped by personal damage – unlike
thorns on bushes.

An angel has no capacity to tell or ability
to convince, unskilled talent; a child
remains inside a capsule, a personal
space where words are muffled - then
heard as whining –



Blind dishonesty becomes a way of life
clouded by destruction but to one so
young what is destruction but a broken
toy – or ice cream falling from a cone: so,
the silencer still reins. . .

Why didn’t a child run on Primrose Path?

The silencer to a child is a clown; a
round face, one who smiles, cheers
and praises those whom play his game.
A false affection, unknown to a five year
old who believes in clowns and grins.

At the end of Primrose Path the silencer
waits, an opened door, peacock feathers
on a wooden floor – hallucination will
play tricks – and everyone is watching
calling out your name.

The lady only next door, close to a clown
known to have mental problems, and
her only daughter killed crossing her
Primrose Path.

All around children fear the lady on the
porch who rocks back and forth, hands
out popcorn, laughs, and calls your
name to come and sit for awhile. All the
time the evil lurked next door.

Next door where new gifts are given –
and no one hears a whimper, and tears
dissolve - what was that? A child thinks.

Another time – a story stale, and those
living near Primrose Path love to watch
a belly jiggle, when someone laughs.

The poor, and needy, accept wrong
doers, denying any claims as false –
as the silencer inside stone walls
wallowing in personal wealth, steals
more than money, more than pride.



His soul sold to the devil before his
life became a pre historic charge
plate, his commission, offers of
penny candy to a child.

Proprietors knew the cost of being
poor, and so they learned to be
in business for themselves, a child
for collateral.

No window shopping on this path,
no neighbor would betray a friend
one trusted – no neighbor knew
about the piles of wooden boxes
where a silencer played.

No laws protected children from illegal
operations - a child stealer working
his own rackets - bargaining with a
child’s mind. His assault became his
sexual possession.

No one talked about the end of
Primrose Path, or believed any
child should walk with fear – too near
to be a prisoner: he hands out a
popsicle, or a stick of gum.

Those who walked the Primrose
Path left names etched on a brick
façade. Those who played on a
Primrose Path, kicked the can, jumped
rope, ran to play hide and seek, and
skinned their knees.

Those who played at the end of
Primrose Path, never spoke.


PART TWO

It remains inside like a piece of metal
rusting, corroding any possibility of a
future - children have been torn,
or crumbled as a piece of used paper.

A silencer warned – all hell would let
loose - if a child spoke.


PART THREE

A neighborhood praised the silencer
as if a prince among the paupers
bringing gifts to thank him for his
business, and sharing drinks, or a puff
on a cigarette; shown as a home movie
on a wall.

His world of destruction had no expert
witness, or media, or tip off – and he
knew the preacher. A silencer told
his own stories, but never revealed
his true tattletales.

Memory chases without real pain
or formal cause; no reason to kill
a child’s recollection of a simple life,
and a child closes lips, tight as a
clam trying to survive without water.
In front of you as if you knew blacking
out as black and white TV.

A parade down primrose path; a beaten
path, ruts and grooves and arteries
carried on informally: a hobby horse
occupying space on top of boxes, near a
festival of color, near feathers of a peacock,
his hiding place.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved@2010

DANCING IN STARLIGHT

DANCING IN STARLIGHT

He loves her -
her red bonnet
identical to
matching strands
of hair.
He loves the
way she moves,
dancing -
his red
whiskers tickle
her freckled
face.

She watches him,
while he flirts
beneath the brim
of his straw hat.
She twists her
body to the left,
needing not his
tender touch.

He wraps his
arms about her
waist -
as he is touching
bows, ribbons,
and petticoats.
He kicks his
feet - pebbles
fly
lifting sand
into air.

She listens
to a crowd laugh –
reckless
as men begin to
clap, cheer, gulp
beer, in midnight
air – staring at a
girl, her hair flows
left then right
twisting as her hips.

Knowing how
life will be
next Friday -
sipping seltzer
watching.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Right Reserved

I CRIED TO DREAM AGAIN

I CRIED TO DREAM AGAIN


I cried to dream again -
You were there
I saw you in my dream
I could touch you, hear you,
make you smile - then
you told me you could not
stay, I held your hand –
you could not take me
with you.

I cried to dream again,
I buried my head into
my feather pillow –
whispered - dream - dream...
but, nothing happened.
I continued to whisper -
dream – I want to see you
one more time – one second

Your eyes stared into mine,
You turned away, as your
slender legs walked quickly
not held up by strong arms –
as I watched you I knew
I would never see you here
again –

You turned to wave good
bye – you were with me in
my dream, here – in this
room - you were
looking at me,
staring at me - laughing.
So I whispered to feathers
between cotton, as tears
covered a pillow.

I cried to dream again
you were no longer sick
you were a picture
stored in black and white.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

STEP ON A CRACK

STEP ON A CRACK


All mothers in our neighborhood smoke
cigarettes and wear red Indian kerchiefs on
their forehead to keep sweat from falling
onto their faces - mothers all wear tube
tops - stuff toilet paper inside to make them
look big - send their children to the grocery
store, the drugstore where Mr. Ferro gives tiny
brown bags filled with little bottles of pills.

Mother looks worried when she runs out
of her little orange pills. She would say,
“run, I need my pills, it’s the only thing
that keeps me alive.”

So I grab two one dollar bills she has in her
hand- dash down Avenue A -without thinking
about the cracks or breaking mother’s back –
now I run as I clench my fist so hard my nails
dig into my palm - all I had to do was drop
two dollars.

On those days when I ran for mother, my mind
wasn’t on cracks in cement – but mother dead
at home, laying on our kitchen floor because
I was too slow.

Up the steps I climbed reaching the door to the
pharmacy – I see Mr. Ferro – he smiles - takes
two dollars and hands me this little brown bag
folded perfectly at the top, with two staples.
My steps are quick as I leave the drugstore.
Running down four cement steps, across Mason
Street to on Avenue A. I run - all the way home
expecting to see mother flat across our kitchen
floor – dead.

She isn’t. She is staring out the window
looking out toward Seneca Street - we live
on a corner. Perhaps mother was nervous back
then, and had to work so hard – we counted
pennies from our window ledge for a loaf of
American Bread – pennies, and if we were lucky
a dime or nickel was mixed into the clutter of
change. We took walks together too – mother
kept saying, “step on a crack break your mother’s
back.” I never stopped staring at the blocks of
cement with the name “Visco and Sons” printed
on each slab of stone.

Mother also sent me across the street to Central
Market, for a can of spam, oh, how could she
eat spam? or a can of white tuna fish she told me
it had to be “Tuna of the Sea.” Mother handed me
money then stared once more from our kitchen
window toward Central Market, kitty corner
from the house – directly across from the alley
way.

Walked across a parking lot, scuffing cinders
with shoes – counting change clenched in my
hand – wondering if she gave me too much? She
always gave the correct amount, knowing I
would take an extra ten cents from the window
ledge for the morning – to shove into my pocket
to bring to another store – sold penny candy
at noon time, when fifth and sixth graders walked
across Van Vranken Avenue to buy Malted Milk
Balls twenty for ten cents. Before crossing a busy
road, a lady in a man’s cop clothing, white gloves,
told us when to cross. That’s why mother didn’t care
if I went to the penny store with ten pennies to get
twenty Malted Milk Balls.

Finally I reach the house, climb the stairs with
a larger brown paper bag, holding the railing, daddy
told me when I left the house - no one worried about
people stealing children, but mother did – she watched
from her kitchen window – puffing on her cigarette –
until I opened the side door.

Central Market, a bigger grocery store – giant compared
to Charlie’s three doors down Avenue A – where slabs
of cement lifted up higher in spots, and lower in others.
I had to worry about mother’s back crossing Charlie’s
cement blocks.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
1-11-11

TIN BUCKETS

Tin Buckets


Mother - today near our yellow
garage I leaned against old
yellow chipped paint, and
instead of flicking paint with
my finger - I stared at our old
pear tree

crying as if rain coated fur
coats – pears strewn about
the lawn – ants and worms
living inside
no one saving bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – as Grandma.

Are you with me Grandma?

You remember Grandma
took care of bruised fruit -
tossed scraps from her second
floor window - of our city flat,
to feed blackbirds.

Those maple trees - you have to
remember?
Growing back home, in your home
town – “Middle,” Mother said –
always, Mother said, “Middle,”
not Middle Granville its' name -
a place near the Vermont border -

Mother – you were proud of those
maple trees – crying like pears on
my lawn, in my home town - proud
when you pointed to thin tin
buckets – buckets attached to
mighty strong trunks -
tin buckets filled with maple syrup -

Mother, I know you can see me.

I bet all those trees with buckets
were glad to see you when you
finally came home? I cried when you
left our home.

You told me you climbed those mighty
limbs of the maple -
you tied tin to their trunks –
you would hide beneath a single tree
as if a piece of scorned fruit -
well, you did have far too many
siblings to hide from.

Mother, you are not there - on the crest
gazing over rusted train tracks - tracks
twisting around raised stones – tracks
near your brother’s bar – you’re not
laying near trees crying into buckets
or hiding from your siblings -

You see mother - now you can fly

yet, resting in peace – never your
style - I do enjoy you listening when I
talk out loud – you see – I know you
are right here! You told me so.

Remember, “I'll haunt you till the
day you die,” Mother, and you laughed -
I believe you protect us - our entire
family.

Remember when you turned all the
fans on, and tears ran down our wall –
when pencils were tossed – pictures
fell – and now you’re moving glasses.

I know you hear me – you hear me when
I talk. Even my husband, he believes
since you touched his face. I'm
pleased.

Mother, you are watching me –

You see me, hear me, listen to all
of my wishes, stories, and see my tears.
And you answer in your own Irish way -
we believe you.

That day we placed a wreath at your
grave – knee deep in snow, we noticed
snow inside tin buckets –
Did you notice too?

We talked about the other side, you
told me about my birth – and all those
dead people coming back – I knew
everything by heart. So we talked as
I grew – and I believed – we talked
when you were dying, and I believed

You’re right here watching me as I
tell others!

But why not touch my face?

Mother, you can fly over our pear
tree and watch scraps of food fed
to black birds, touch faces in
the night - guide us in daylight.

So fly Mother, fly near the border
where slate resembles slabs of
fudge – where rocks fall into streams,
where maples do cry into buckets,
and your talking with all your friends
now - resting on the crest.

Fly – Fly – guide us all with your
light.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
1/6/2011 copyright

BUTTERCUP

Buttercup


You love me, you love me not -
You love me - I could tell
by the color of your skin, when
you kissed the buttercup, and
your lips moistened by your
tongue.

You held the buttercup
with two fingers,
twirled it back and forth,
side to side - ever so slowly.
You never spoke to me
you stared into my eyes
as if you could
read them.

You smiled at me, then pursed
your lips, blew a bit of air in
my direction as petals flew
gently touching my chin.
Squirming, knowing not how
long I could take - stillness.

My own lips moist.
My body aches
to be the buttercup
you once held.