When a Sky Kisses a Sea

“THE LIKES I’VE NEVER SEEN”

He noticed the lip - of my petticoat,
his whisker's moved when he smiled.

“It's his way, Miss,” the door man
mumbled, "he has been given all that
life can give, and in one lifetime.”

We strolled down a steep hill to a
riverbed where rocks meet shells -
shells of orange, pink, purple, blue,
colors melt into sand -

“Perhaps today we should return to
fetch a carriage," he said as a gust
of wind turn him into a whirlpool as
water splashed against his face - a
single wave, soon a carriage followed
our footsteps as we neared the shore.

Hoofs splashed raindrops of mud -
turning I waved to the gentleman.

At the end of a single wave at the
ocean's edge I felt such power in a
single current rushing back to sea. . .

do we dare to change our clothes?
Will this gentleman watch?

Our toes touched cold waves as we
braved to take small steps, deeper
now the sea touched our knees -
our hands folding together as if our
bodies were touching -

A stranger called out as an echo –
his boat approached -
"Sand is growing some and water has
split pines near islands - covered
in water, some are." His voice familiar
to those from the back woods.

“That there Orphanage it will be covered
in water, you can bet on it. . .”

I glanced to where he pointed.

Tip toed from a sea as we sat on sand
observing planks of wood floating nearby
from a boardwalk we once walked -

People who sold apples covered with
caramel - brave enough to stay until
each window was crossed with tape - a
strange color green - as if a tornado
would soon dance through sunshine turned
white skin a shade of moss climbing pines -

Trees were talking – as if they too were
warning us like a stranger in his boat -
but how foolish is love as whispers from
a tree brought together lips - kissing,
arms - wrapped around each other as we
fell toward wet sand.

The same stranger yelled from his boat -
“Leave the shore," he pointed to a coming
storm.

All we did was glance into one another's
eyes and love – took over – as waves were
quiet, trees stopped blowing, and the sand
no longer wet - long hair covered by broken
shells; we made love.

We glanced toward the orphanage. Knowing
this stranger was correct as he grabbed for
my hand – a storm I had never seen.
We watched as sand was taken out to sea,
with colored shells, and stones - robbed
larger, weighty rocks – grabbed by a stronger
force then a rough tide as water left a
shore high and wide. A roar at sea, I
never heard the likes of . . .

Still he grinned, his mustache turned up –
he glanced back for the carriage man, he
too disappeared.

We never made it to the boardwalk – to
buy a candy apple.

A wind crossed earth as waves returned -
not knowing his kiss was a kiss good bye.

His focus - the orphanage at sea, as
he rushed to save children drowning or
clinging to a single piece of wood.

I glanced at a roof top where children
stood - no one there to wipe tears which
must have blended with sheets of salt water.

I found a body of a pine and wrapped
myself around it's trunk - stood to
watch life swept away - some floating
out to sea. Some who must have been
screaming as their heads bobbed, up out
of waves - one by one they disappeard.

I waited - now alone.

(c)2011 Nancy Duci Denofio

UNKNOWN TERRITORY

UNKNOWN TERRITORY


A faint moon lights your face -
although some say you vanished
in a storm -

Still I see your eyes as you
stare into mine - passion - our
appetite for love -

not been taken in spite
of certain death – no one sees
as we do.

Your face will never leave –
your face brings me back to
our last day – waves spill
over a rocky shore – you roll
me over and over again on
sand until our body is coated
and I embrace you – kiss your
lips, as clean as water – falls

You knew I would not let you
go - I held you – whispered
in your ear, kissed your ear
lobe - but a force stronger
pulled you from me.

I recall our hands slipping
and at last our touch of skin
falling from one another’s
reach to a place where we
roll together in sand. . .

Distance make no mention
of love waiting on the other
side, no matter theories are
words on paper – love is
real –

Your face – those prominent
features – countless stars
we tried to find the constellations
or even more momentous
a new planet –

We found our own – a sea at
moonlight innumerable stars
countless constellations, unknown
territory – we are in ecstasy –
Your face an instrument of
life after death - keeping
me here – will we ever leave?


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

PARTING GLASS (Troubled & Homeless)

Parting Glass (The troubled and homeless)

Joan’s oldest child
assaulted with
a meat cleaver,
talk about knifes…

Mary Beth, her son
hung himself, and
Joes plastered day
and night…

Ann is kicked from
time to time,
dragged by her roots
swept across the floor…

Agnes picks up
all the broken glass –
while Mama shakes
between an open door...

Randy, aborts a child
who sucks its thumb,
moved outside,

starving inside a
cardboard
box – next to her
shopping cart,
a child’s crib…

yesterdays love
swept down open
drains

Tomorrow, in the oven...
a love child
Mama’s heartbreak,
Papa’s dishrag.

The hand that cut a
cord… slowly kills a
child. A life, a mere
parting glass of dreams…

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

BROWN BAGGING IT

BROWN BAGGING IT

Her bobbed hair,
slim legs
lifted, stretched
out on a
park bench -
brown bagging it.

Chewing whole wheat
bread, reading
"Gone with the Wind"
can't see her face,
she ignores me.

She hikes her skirt,
purple flowered silk
above her thigh’s
legs crossed.

A plastic fork fits
into her right hand,
probably home made
salad of some kind.

Hope she drops it.
Drops it on her
skirt of silk;
perhaps her dressing
made with oil?

Trying to sleep on a
park bench, I stare
into the mist, and
I suddenly despise her

That girl -
brown bagging it,
on my property.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

ONE HUNDRED QUESTIONS - NINETEEN SIXTY FIVE

ONE HUNDRED QUESTIONS
NINETEEN SIXTY FIVE


Remember when a smile
lit up your face?
When we passed in the hall
back in nineteen sixty five?

Bob Dylan was telling us
who we were –
what to do –
if we didn’t listen
we would all be dead

We sang, holding hands
as we pretended to be
Sonny and Cher –
“You’ve Got Me Babe.”

Remember me hitch hiking
in front of RPI after spending
money to watch you instead
of Sonny and Cher –

Rocky and I were seating in
the balcony, front row, as I
peered through binoculars
watching you, listening to
“I’ve Got You Babe. . .”

No plans to get home
knowing your father would
be waiting out front of RPI
sitting behind the wheel of
his Cutlass – you weren’t
old enough to drive

It was a winter day when you
received your permit, drove
down to Avenue A, only
sixteen – it was daylight and
you had this old beaten up car

You used the front door –
anyone new, used the front door
then you would shake hands
with the family as they left to
listen in the kitchen

We sat side by side on a red
velvet couch – soon to be given
to my uncle in California –
I was comfortable, rocking in
our rocker from Vermont

Spent hours asking questions
I interviewed you for the first
time -
“Seventeen Magazine.”

One hundred questions
I asked –
One hundred answers
you told me –
Learning you desires
what – really - turned you on
James Bond
Double 07
and that double breasted
navy coat
you found in the attic
you had to say girls with
blue eyes and dark hair –
with that smile. . .

Mother listened from
the kitchen – we lived in
a city flat, called Goose
Hill – but, Schenecatdy
had nicknames for
neighborhoods, and boys,
men – they all had nick
names –

As I continued asking you
questions, I continued to
rock back and forth – not
knowing this would be the
first interview –

Presidential candidates
would take your place on
different chairs.
But, that was nineteen
sixty five – thirty years
before I dared to ask big
shots – questions about
their thoughts –
even one had more then
one hundred questions. . .

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2011

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.

PETE THE COP

PETE the COP


The bars, the bars -
bars to the left, right,
front and back, then
there was that silent
stream of light
which filtered through
a slight crack in the
doorway - light,
from the kitchen.

God.
God he always stared at me,
always watched.
Four inches by four inches
on the wall above those wooden bars.

My brother two feet away
lay awake with Pete The Cop.
Why didn't I have a friend
in the crib?
But,
I had God -
he glowed in the dark.

At night God watched us play
iron curtain,
after all those hugs and kisses,
tucked in sheets...
Flat now.
Flat.
Flat.
Flat.
Turning my head and staring
toward my brother, “It's time.”

Heard the hiss from the
radiator, as he placed an old
navy blanket on the wooden
rail...
Now on my knees -
Little knees
Little hands
Little feet
Ears close to the rail
brother whispered,
"Iron Curtain Going Down."
pulling his side of the blanket.

“My turn, hurry - I want my turn.”
I whispered, knowing a crack will
enlarge, a bright light shine through
our bedroom door –

dark figures with broad shoulders,
and sand paper feet will stand
near the crib.

"Iron Curtain Going Down."

Was it the crack in the door
or God who scared me?
I'm sure it wasn't Pete the Cop...
but yes – yes -
a hug from Pete
would have felt so good.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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How Many Thursdays In November?

How Many Thursdays In November?

Fall of the year - when trees empty
branches of leaves, doomed by winter,
bare – shivering in their way by ice -
snow – coating their limbs, and ours.

November, a season to give thanks
but who remembered to wear an apron
over a new shirt, while basting a
Turkey? Who splattered hot grease?
Covering Grandmother’s old table
cloth?

Sure, who wants Fall to arrive, when
you live in a place where snow falls
by the foot - where hands freeze and
pants are soaked, walking to school?

Sure, we all gather during the fall of
the year – we give thanks.
So, I do like all the rest of you with
your heads bowed, wondering to
yourself, what thanks? What is right?

The war is still on? I am feeling sad
about those who left us – about those
who are sick, hungry, even the man
who strolls the street – near Father’s
office. I thought about him – will he
eat enough in winter – and stay warm,
not to shiver like the limbs or a tree,
and me?

More people are not working – more
people can’t gather like this, and pray
about how grateful they are for this day…
this day in November.

A month of tragedy – Kennedy – like
it happened yesterday, it was all a fake –
all of it. He was a patsy, I know it. But
my parents tell me to hush. . .

I counted the notes on my journal,
where all the deaths of family members
happened in November. Grandfather –
it was a cold November day, I heard.

So here we are in the month to give
thanks.
Yes, I thank someone – anyone – for
all the gifts I get – next month. I laugh
but shouldn’t.
Yes, I do have grandparents, living.
Yes, I worry about my own family,

I wonder, do they worry about me?
I remember when I never reached the
table, Mother placed phone books on
a dining room chair.

We barely fit into the room – but
no one cared. They believed it was
a miracle we were all together, sitting
praying, peeking from closed eyes.

This year I get to tell the stories of
Indians, and Pilgrims – how they
became friends. I wonder why
Indians gave all their land away?
Who really wanted fur?

Grandmother is like Mother -
worried friends and relatives never
have enough to eat.
Wanting lots of leftovers –
and hearing the same old thing
about too much butter in her
mashed potatoes.

So it’s November, and we have been
lucky without snow. Today the men
our outside raking leaves, blowing them
onto other peoples property…

So it’s November, and my little
sister will be bringing home pictures
of Indians and Pilgrims, she will cut
paper like a Pilgrims Hat, she will make
head bands, and make me try them on.

But this war lingers so, and men –
shipped home inside coffins – but
buried in medals, with honor guards.
Where were those guards when they
were stranded in a desert?

You see we never change.
Never change - like Grandmother
inspecting a turkey for a feather
before a day of thanks –
everyone nervous when people
arrive late.

What makes me laugh? The year
my Father told me Grandmother was
having some spiked eggnog and she
was playing the piano…
He told me, “No one smelled the
turkey,” at least he didn’t when he
arrived; he was dating Mom then. . .

Grandmother, she never turned the
oven on.
She will never live it down -
We hear the story in November,
when we gather around her big
table.

So this year - I asked during a prayer
of thanks – how many men and women
are not here – at home?
How many men and women are scattered
on sand while trying to save their life?

How long must we say thanks for things -
things that are not right?

INDIAN STYLE

INDIAN STYLE

A porch, in the front -
a 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
grey 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 -

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 grey 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

YOU HURRY SO

YOU HURRY SO

you are the sugar
on my tongue –
sweetness of my
life – yet life seems
too short, not long
enough to be who
we are – as we grow
older we learn – it
has taken time

to learn about each
other – what catches
to one another like
a kiss – a hug – a
smile, never wanting
the moment to end

like last night when I
stared at you, you – so
peaceful while you sleep
and wondered how you
closed your eyes to life –
I can’t remember when
you stayed awake with me

then, in the morning If I
tell you I slept little but I
had a dream – it wouldn’t
matter since you tend to
hurry so -

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

LOVE LEFT IN TIME

LOVE LEFT IN TIME

legs running across the lawn
leaving, leaving, leaving you
behind –
startled you at first
you were afraid
my eyes were closed
squeezing you out of my life
as cars swerved
you grabbed me

I guess I never knew you
never believed you –
never listened to what you
said – or read your eyes…

Inside – it was fear I carried -
but why run into traffic only
to die?
why cross a crowded street
only to die?

I remember the crowd on the
lawn, it was lunch time –
even today when I pass
this place you enter my soul

from time to time I
wonder why?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

STONE STATUES BREATHE

STONE STATUES BREATHE

Half black – half white
his Papa told him so,
his Mama left him long
ago.

Locked between two
bedroom cells, when he
took Juicy Fruit from
some store shelf, then
his Papa tossed the key
away. . .

He carried a gun
tucked inside his jeans
and a jack knife on the
only key he carried near
his heart.

He never thought about
segregation, laughed
about it – since his Papa
was stone white.

They moved away from
where he was born - and
believed his Papa was
some big wig in the Army,
saw him shake the hand of
a President.

But Papa he left too, and he
never saw his uniform - it
vanished.

He never understood how
friends could take and gun
him down?

He was buried with all the
glory of gun shots, flags,
and uniforms; up on a hill
near the Potomac where far
too many white stones placed
on the ground in perfect
lines.

Now he sits and thinks about
the color of his Mama’s skin
which robbed him of his youth.
His Papa gone, and Mama
some where – unfound – he
lives in a one room shack
kind’a like his Mama did when
she gave birth.

It's said he fought from the
inside about the men - about
the black and white - about
all those killed and laid out
on some hill like schools of
fish - and murdered by some
stranger. . .

Then he took in a deep breath
and killed again – dreaming he
too was buried on the mountain
near a river where stone
statues breathe.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A QUIET PLACE

A QUIET PLACE


When you enter a church
you get this – empty – feeling
as if . . . no one was there
but everyone – is – looking.

(Those wide wooden floors
in my grade school, and doors
opening to the hall, everyone
was looking.)

The altar at church is so
extravagant – God – lives
there inside a golden box near
little booths – a line forms
and nerves happen, the closer
we get to the red drape.

(The drapes Grandmother
made for her parlor are
nothing like these)

We all wondered why God
needed the man behind the
screen – to listen to us – to
hear us when we said, “I’m sorry.”
And at five, did we do anything
too – wrong?

(When I was bad at home, I
ran away to hide behind my
bedroom door.)

It was the Priest behind the
drape with a soft voice. A
Priest who would never let us
see him, and - when he whispered
his breath hit my face.

(When I talked back to mother
she sent me to my room where
I sat and stared out the screened
window.)

Inside the little booth with red
drapes, our fingers would tap and
thumbs twiddle as we sat in the dark
A slight reflection of red from
the drapes, waiting – for our
punishment – how many prayers
would we have to say at the altar?
And, in front of God, waiting in the
golden box.

(I never liked the dark, so Daddy
turned the night light on before I
went to sleep.)

Now, the Priest moved behind
the screen, his face no longer leaned
against it, his breath no longer
touching my cheeks. He now told
us how many prayers we had to
say to be forgiven, in front of
God and all his Saints.

(Grandmother she knelt everyday in
front of her table, at the foot of
her bed, and prayed.)

When it was my turn he told me
to say ten Our Fathers and ten
Hail Marys – the others watched
you finally knelt at the altar,
prayed – prayed – as they waited.

(Mother told me to hurry when
the street light turned on, because
it was getting dark)

We left the quiet place where
no one was – but, everyone was -
looking. Outside, on the steps of
the church we all looked at one
another and laughed – pointed at
the one who prayed the longest.

(But I knew God was not laughing
inside the golden box, like
Grandmother never laughed when
she prayed.)

Nancy Duci Denofio

DREAMS OF PLATO

DREAMS OF PLATO


She was as sweet as an orange blossom
leaping over newly born daisies.
Her feet wrapped in patent leather shoes
and a face as perfect as a moon in autumn;
a product of two fine gems at Plato’s, but
you won’t recall Plato’s or a blast as hot as
the sun changing the color of the blossoms.

Ignorance on the part of a lazy man - one
she married - never loved; now a poor
widow imperfect burns.

But a small delicate flower is leaping.
She pumps a swing with her strong legs
and runs faster then the boys from her
block. Her eyes her grandmothers,
knowing everything as she rocked
back and forth.

That was before fire, robbed her sight -
alone, she sits on a faded pillow.
Alone on her porch, and sinking deeper
into earth.

She heard laughter from the playground
I watched as a tear rolled onto hollow
cheeks as if a diamond sparkles and
she sees.

Her legs run, carrying her body to
the playground, where Plato’s once
stood, and she leaps onto a slide
and her thighs burn.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MISSING

MISSING

have you seen her –
it’s been since 1989
grown, but police say
she looks like this –
police tell all the
homes on our street
to look for her –

went missing while
she was playing in
her front yard – the
cops gave up – and
new neighbors moved
in – never knew about
the missing girl back
in 1989 –

parents let their children
play in their front yard
feel safe in the
neighborhood – felt
safe until another child
fitting the same description
disappeared last week –

in a few years she too
will be history – until
another child brings her
back to life.

Nancy Duci Denofio

BLIND FISTS CRY OUT

Blind Fists Cry Out

A stranger wraps his arms about
her waist; cold shivers run up and
down her spine -

"They will save him," she whispered,
"Experts do this all the time."

She heard sea gulls squawking,
and legs splashing – faint voices
mumbling.

She screamed, "I want to know!"
She flung her arms above her head
as if they had eyes - she whispered,
"Is he alive?"

She stood to run, tripped, and fell.
Sea shells cut apart her legs -
she grabbed sand - tightly
squeezed her fist’s and cried.

"Are you the mother?"
A stranger’s voice. . .

She reached to feel a face.

"Tell me – what . . . does he look
like - Is he cold? Is he warm
or - is he blue?”

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
from working memoir "Blind Fists Cry Out."

POSTED KEEP OUT

Posted Keep Out

Beyond the track
which carried you
north, white signs
with black letters
“posted keep out.”

Beyond blood once
fresh and wet like
the yellow roses
drying or the corn
stalks ready to leave
vacant fields; soon
bails of hay.

You said he peeked
at your petticoat, below
lace and satin.
And, I noticed
you could not sleep…
The train flew past
graveyards, and crept past
city streets, awakened
by laughter echoing
through glass; you were
smiling. You were
alive.

You showed me the
petticoat worn last
night before he soiled
it, then said, “No one
noticed the color
of his skin.”

Slightly rocking
side to side, we both
raised our glass,
and toasted to the
light, not knowing
what will become
of night.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

ELECTRIC CIRCUTS

ELECTRIC CIRCUTS

Nothing to do
Nothing to say
Words have split us
Split us into different
People rocked by a
Man – he sits behind
His desk – rips me
Apart – once a week

Electricity placed on
My temples – ten times
Tried to clear my mind
Forget which life I lived
Which life this is?
This one – or the one
Before

Never knew to choose
Sections of time
Never wrote in chalk
Never used an eraser
Never took away a
Memory

Will they try again?
Will they rip me apart?
On my next trip – when
I return -
No one believes

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Nancy Duci Denofio: LONELY NIGHTS

Nancy Duci Denofio: LONELY NIGHTS

DEPOSIT TRASH

DEPOSIT TRASH

That's me
hanging around the "Motel"
near the spot where a sign
reads, "Deposit Trash,"

where chipmunks congregate
in the city
climb a single tree
in our concrete jungle -

That's me
leaning against red brick
seeing less than you
knowing all there is
to know - about
"Depositing Trash,"

watching people strut
by in suits
while I still wear
open toe shoes in
late fall -
forgot to paint my
toe nails and clip
the longest on the
big toe . . .
but no one knows

That's me
a reflection on a
dirty window showing
my age - showing me,
a faceless woman -
a shadow in black
leaning against
red brick near that
sign "Deposit Trash,"

where few people
notice I walk a
little crooked -
I seldom smile -
I seldom laugh -
I seldom deposit
my trash

It is me in the
reflection - I lift
my arm to cross
my chest - as if to
feel my own heart
race - then move
rub my back against
red brick to stop
the itch

That's me
waiting for a stranger
in a yellow cab - to
slow up in front of the
motel window - a
reflection in black - to
pick up - then deposit
trash.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

SLEEPING WITH THE SEA GULLS

SLEEPING WITH THE SEA GULLS

Dare I - dare I open up the drapes -
oh yes, light excites me
as you lay at peace,
extending night.

As a child's toes touch
stones, it's there I go to sit,
listen, taste salt water on my lips -
dampness on bare skin.

You are asleep
unlike the retired man - tending
to his umbrellas, sweeping
cigarette butts from his faded
redwood deck -
as least he hobbles, shuffles -
to touch light.

Sea gulls play as if on strings
begging -
a retired man,
stares at the seas,
his tanned head - bald -
pants rolled past his knees,
a pot belly resting on his thighs.

His eyes see more then those
who sleep in daylight,
extending night.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A GROWN CHILD

A GROWN CHILD

she is happy, cheerful
clothes of bright orange
age on her face – tanned

she worried about space
where she and her daughter
would sit

laying blue towels
advertising the Yankees
on beach chairs at the pool

satisfied her - as she
lifted her daughters arms
to cross on her lap

a mother claps – smiles
rewarding herself – a
job well done

watched her walk up
a hill – empty handed
knew her hands soon

filled with pain and
love – as she wipes a
mouth of a grown

child – who doesn’t
know her name – as
she carries around

a heart of glass as
it breaks into pieces
of pain – of love

but she continues
day after day to care
for a grown child

wipes her mouth –
she wants her to live

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Your Imagination

YOUR IMAGINATION

How one sided love can be
when one side feels but
scorn
how one sided life has been -
had it begun the day I was
born?

Too young to know we never
shared each others laughter -
Too young to know we never
played each others game -

One sided life - a one sided
home - where half is lived in
and another is a place without
signs - keep out. . .

Older - I know my heart broke
and useless tears covered my face -
only for a reason why?
you shared so few words - to
carry it on as if you were never
there.

Perhaps you weren't

I imagined you?


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

CHILDREN NEVER CHOOSE

CHILDREN NEVER CHOOSE

I did not choose to be alone on a play ground
to push my favorite shoes in dirt to swirl
the merry go ground - at a slow pace. . .
Toss sand on a slide, hoping not to stick
to metal - wearing dresses - then.

I did not embrace the thought of walking
alone - down Avenue A passing the pharmacy
where my mother received her little round
pills - down Avenue A where my leg's carried
me over red ants hiding between cement.

I ran, ignored the neighbors who waved.
Told to rush - to run - not walk - to pick
up pills before mother died - she told me
so. . .

I did not choose to crawl up our staircase
to my grandmother's house, stopping midway -
to sit alone on the landing. . .
hearing mother's Irish temper explode, but,
she is Irish, I was told. . . and in a minute
- it was over, and she smiled.

I knew Grandmother stood tall at the top -
her apron stocked with chew gum - never gum.
Her hands in the pockets of her apron. . .
A finger to her lips - my little legs
crept up the stairs - she whispered, "New
cookies from Woolworths" -

A Sicilian, upstairs talked different from
mother downstairs, but I cherished both. . .
I did not vanish when I had to ride a
borrowed bike - or smile when a cousin
near the border of Vermont - gave me another. . .
I loved country rides on back roads.

I did not choose to flip flop in white
panties in a bright yellow pool while
Grandmother watched from her window
on the second floor - guarding her white
sheets - hung perfectly straight on a clothes
line draped from a garbage shed to our back
porch. . .

I played near her pear tree, her grape
vines, tomato plants, and beans. . .
close to a shed where dolls slept.
A shed furthest from our cellar door
where I split my toe - on a nail, on a
door where grey paint peeled near rusted
handles - opened to a place where the
boggy man lived.

I did not enjoy watching mother press
pretty dresses for me to wear - watch her
knit, sew, and leave everyday for work -
help pay bills - I created at birth. . .

I did not know my parents could not hold
me - three months - stared through glass
to see their child hooked to lines attached
at her forehead. . .
I did not single out my parent's but I felt
lucky I survived to be their chorus. . .

I did not hand pick my socks, shoes, or
choose the style of my - hair - mother cut
ringlets - stored them inside a red
and white striped box, clips of white
still attached - closed with white ribbon.
Curls chopped off because at five - a school
nurse warned every mothers in our neighborhood
about bugs - about bugs - bugs jumping from
one head to another.

But - I may have selected to stay alone while
playing at the playground. But, I don't
remember why?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

A WAVE OF PEACFULNESS

NOTE - This was written during all of Mother Natures Upheaval

A Wave of Peacefulness

I want the moon to coat
a natural skin onto the earth -
saturate the ground with peace.

I want the moon to cast
peacefulness . . .
covering the world -
covering you, and
covering me with clear
shadows of ourselves.

Moonlight covered by smoke -
volcanoes’, storms at sea,
ash - lumber burns to
remove nature.

A cast of peacefulness over
your home, into your heart -
deep inside each breath
you take. . .

A cast of moonlight
should curl like a lily over fresh
waters and friendly shores,
a cast - endless - a
wave of peacefulness.

Nancy Duci Denofio