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

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
Editor - PORTRY IS LIFE
http://poetry.limitededitionspress.com
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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

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