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

CANDY IN THE FOREST

CANDY IN THE FOREST

If you never walked in the forest
after smoking green leaves, or
connected, side by side, friend on
friend, smelling sweet sweat,
soft sweetness of the soil, or rolled
around in high grass, removed
your clothes to swim nude in a
lake, picked dead dandelions for
a friend –

Then you will not dream about it, or pretend to know.

If you never hitch-hiked on a road
where cars seldom traveled, or never
pulled pack your thumb, back to your
fingers, lowered your arm after a
car sped by, but smiled when your
legs tired, smiled when you were
hungry, smiled at nothing but laughed
at everything you heard -

Then, you will not dream about it, or pretend to know.

If you never knew Whitman’s Leaves
of Grass – or focused on what it told
you -

Then, you will not dream about it, or pretend to know.

It wasn’t a piece of candy or a
delicate slice of fudge, or a box in
deeper shades of yellow, with names
of things to come, but a vision, the image of know and still living

Then, you will dream about it, and know.


Nancy Duci Denofio
published in What Brought You Here
by Dystenium page 12-13

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

SILENT DAYS

SILENT DAYS


walls surround me
everywhere dolls
stare out from plastic
eyes - empty soda cans
pop - as tin expands
heat enters a room

piles of books to read
without light - yet
fill a room with sound
as clicking from a
machine mends a brain
activates cells
destroyed, or is it a
kidney?

see a rug,
brown furniture
sunlight behind a shade -
turn on a sound
machine - picture blurred
voices heard

music stings
blasting from a passing car -
open windows,
perhaps a convertible
flashy red corvette - youth
stirring in seats and yes,
Janis Joplin still
seems quite alive
filling air waves, shaking
windshields.

birds must be building
another home
together - wings flap back
and forth - back and forth
above the air conditioner
outside, near a shade tree

children sing fight,
carry on like rats in a cage
fight - fight
who will it be to run, or jump
higher than him?

a single key
as silence surrouds me
and protects me - my
chair faces a bare wall
without noise - slowly I
turn toward a window -
crying for me - oh I have
said before to walls. . .
silent days are midnights
dream for a tomorrow - while
silent nights you lay alone
and shake - in summer heat.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

Love on the Run

Love On The Run

you frightened me
I hated love
too close
my feet slithered over
grass
heard a car screeching,
a strangers hug
as a church bell rang
people stared,
I was leaving you…

you were much
too real – two hearts
don’t fall in love –
it crippled me
for twenty years
before I learned
what I left on grass,
when church bells rang
talking - telling me
what the heart knew

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Brandy Wine Diner 1959

It's three o'clock
on a Sunday morning,
a grey curtain of smoke
surrounds you - at Brandy
wine Diner.

Two men share a booth,
both sip coffee from small
white cups - their finger’s
play with white bags of
sugar.

Across from them a young
girl stares, into her
personal fog. . . she holds
the wrong side of her cup -

she crushes one cigarette,
lights another - fog thickens.

A man - hung-over, a black and
white counter -leans on his arm’s,
his clothes soiled by coffee
spilled. . .
He peeks between his finger’s
glares into a mirror hung,
below a stack of Rice Krispies,
Corn Flakes, Shredded Wheat.
A face of a stranger.

A gust of wind pushes
the glass door, open . . .
blinded by iridescent green.
Iridescent green - opens
eyes of the man leaning -
on the counter…
shimmering green catches
the attention of the man
reading the paper…
startles the girl smoking her
third cigarette.

A patron struts past
the counter, all eyes stare;
she flops into a booth in
a corner, next to a man wearing
a black leather jacket
Hells Angels - scrolled on his back…

I reach, poke my finger into a
slit in the red upholstery,
picturing the person who
held the knife.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all work copyrighted

Fireside

Knees bend
close to ground –
mother’s sweater resting
on my back, sweeping
near the sand.

Toes - frozen,
extend beyond dusty
sneakers.
Heartless - a forest in
night.
A sun vanishes,
and bodies shake while
shivers crawl beneath
skin. . .

Now – we stand
close to a source of
light -
growing brighter.

A fireside - smell kindling
wood - faces turn red as heat
rises, when tiny hands
clutch a tiny – sturdy
twig…

Waiting. . .
for my - turn – left to right
anxious – I want my turn. . .
A plastic bag is passed
around the circle of
light –

Two fluffy marshmallows
placed on a twig –
promptly toasting – eating,
and observing –
what is left inside the bag –
counting to myself.

Nancy Duci Denofio – copywrited

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