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