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

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

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

In Full View

In Full View

With a wide smile you
knocked on my window -
still – standing on my
porch.

You looked - disturbed.

I turned to my left,
I step to the right -
In full view

In the midday sun
a bit of silver shined
as you lifted your arm -
pointed at your head -
your right hand, your
finger on the trigger -

I startled you?
I suppose -

I never stopped smiling -
as beads of sweat poured
down your face - and
your hand - began to shake

I closed the drapes.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

GRAVESITE

GRAVE SITE

approached a village
grave yard resting
near an old train track
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'
breasts on a giant limb
must be Mama

watching her child
fly near her grave, near
buckets crying syrup

no roadway in winter -
on top of a crest of
pure white snow - the

grave yard - cement
markers peeking through -
Mama’s voice,
silently yelling...

"Up here, on the hill....
it's cold, and I'm alone."

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MY FATHER'S MORNING

Grandmother had to be
dancing upstairs in her
kitchen - her radio blaring.
When her friends arrived -
all talking half English -
And, my mother said,
"It's too much noise."
But, the noise never stopped.

Father, he invested in a
bigger radio - more noise,
unlike grandmother did
following the death of his
father - it was tradition
to remove all the tubes
from the big - radio in her
parlor - respect.
So father never listened
to the "War of Worlds."

The day father's father
died, it had to be the
worst day of his life. . .
His father laying in
the marriage bed, his head
resting on a pillow -
a pillow stitched with
grandmother's hands
"I Love You" in Italian.

My grandfather, his head
resting on the pillow
whispered to his son,
his last request. . .

"One more cup of water
before I die."

Grandmother paying the
milkman on the front
porch, and father ran
down the steps - he
had not shed a tear -
yet filled with fear. . .

Father grabbed his
mother's arm, pulled
her away - pulled her
up the front stairs
then to his father's
room.

Father's baby brother
sank to the floor -
near the stained
woodwork in the door
way of his father's
room, and his second
son stood holding
the empty cup of water.

Nancy Duci Denofio