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