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

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

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?

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

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

Your Imagination

YOUR IMAGINATION

How one sided love can be
when one side feels but
scorn
how one sided life has been -
had it begun the day I was
born?

Too young to know we never
shared each others laughter -
Too young to know we never
played each others game -

One sided life - a one sided
home - where half is lived in
and another is a place without
signs - keep out. . .

Older - I know my heart broke
and useless tears covered my face -
only for a reason why?
you shared so few words - to
carry it on as if you were never
there.

Perhaps you weren't

I imagined you?


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

CHILDREN NEVER CHOOSE

CHILDREN NEVER CHOOSE

I did not choose to be alone on a play ground
to push my favorite shoes in dirt to swirl
the merry go ground - at a slow pace. . .
Toss sand on a slide, hoping not to stick
to metal - wearing dresses - then.

I did not embrace the thought of walking
alone - down Avenue A passing the pharmacy
where my mother received her little round
pills - down Avenue A where my leg's carried
me over red ants hiding between cement.

I ran, ignored the neighbors who waved.
Told to rush - to run - not walk - to pick
up pills before mother died - she told me
so. . .

I did not choose to crawl up our staircase
to my grandmother's house, stopping midway -
to sit alone on the landing. . .
hearing mother's Irish temper explode, but,
she is Irish, I was told. . . and in a minute
- it was over, and she smiled.

I knew Grandmother stood tall at the top -
her apron stocked with chew gum - never gum.
Her hands in the pockets of her apron. . .
A finger to her lips - my little legs
crept up the stairs - she whispered, "New
cookies from Woolworths" -

A Sicilian, upstairs talked different from
mother downstairs, but I cherished both. . .
I did not vanish when I had to ride a
borrowed bike - or smile when a cousin
near the border of Vermont - gave me another. . .
I loved country rides on back roads.

I did not choose to flip flop in white
panties in a bright yellow pool while
Grandmother watched from her window
on the second floor - guarding her white
sheets - hung perfectly straight on a clothes
line draped from a garbage shed to our back
porch. . .

I played near her pear tree, her grape
vines, tomato plants, and beans. . .
close to a shed where dolls slept.
A shed furthest from our cellar door
where I split my toe - on a nail, on a
door where grey paint peeled near rusted
handles - opened to a place where the
boggy man lived.

I did not enjoy watching mother press
pretty dresses for me to wear - watch her
knit, sew, and leave everyday for work -
help pay bills - I created at birth. . .

I did not know my parents could not hold
me - three months - stared through glass
to see their child hooked to lines attached
at her forehead. . .
I did not single out my parent's but I felt
lucky I survived to be their chorus. . .

I did not hand pick my socks, shoes, or
choose the style of my - hair - mother cut
ringlets - stored them inside a red
and white striped box, clips of white
still attached - closed with white ribbon.
Curls chopped off because at five - a school
nurse warned every mothers in our neighborhood
about bugs - about bugs - bugs jumping from
one head to another.

But - I may have selected to stay alone while
playing at the playground. But, I don't
remember why?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved