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

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

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

A QUIET PLACE

A QUIET PLACE


When you enter a church
you get this – empty – feeling
as if . . . no one was there
but everyone – is – looking.

(Those wide wooden floors
in my grade school, and doors
opening to the hall, everyone
was looking.)

The altar at church is so
extravagant – God – lives
there inside a golden box near
little booths – a line forms
and nerves happen, the closer
we get to the red drape.

(The drapes Grandmother
made for her parlor are
nothing like these)

We all wondered why God
needed the man behind the
screen – to listen to us – to
hear us when we said, “I’m sorry.”
And at five, did we do anything
too – wrong?

(When I was bad at home, I
ran away to hide behind my
bedroom door.)

It was the Priest behind the
drape with a soft voice. A
Priest who would never let us
see him, and - when he whispered
his breath hit my face.

(When I talked back to mother
she sent me to my room where
I sat and stared out the screened
window.)

Inside the little booth with red
drapes, our fingers would tap and
thumbs twiddle as we sat in the dark
A slight reflection of red from
the drapes, waiting – for our
punishment – how many prayers
would we have to say at the altar?
And, in front of God, waiting in the
golden box.

(I never liked the dark, so Daddy
turned the night light on before I
went to sleep.)

Now, the Priest moved behind
the screen, his face no longer leaned
against it, his breath no longer
touching my cheeks. He now told
us how many prayers we had to
say to be forgiven, in front of
God and all his Saints.

(Grandmother she knelt everyday in
front of her table, at the foot of
her bed, and prayed.)

When it was my turn he told me
to say ten Our Fathers and ten
Hail Marys – the others watched
you finally knelt at the altar,
prayed – prayed – as they waited.

(Mother told me to hurry when
the street light turned on, because
it was getting dark)

We left the quiet place where
no one was – but, everyone was -
looking. Outside, on the steps of
the church we all looked at one
another and laughed – pointed at
the one who prayed the longest.

(But I knew God was not laughing
inside the golden box, like
Grandmother never laughed when
she prayed.)

Nancy Duci Denofio

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

MISSING

MISSING

have you seen her –
it’s been since 1989
grown, but police say
she looks like this –
police tell all the
homes on our street
to look for her –

went missing while
she was playing in
her front yard – the
cops gave up – and
new neighbors moved
in – never knew about
the missing girl back
in 1989 –

parents let their children
play in their front yard
feel safe in the
neighborhood – felt
safe until another child
fitting the same description
disappeared last week –

in a few years she too
will be history – until
another child brings her
back to life.

Nancy Duci Denofio

BLIND FISTS CRY OUT

Blind Fists Cry Out

A stranger wraps his arms about
her waist; cold shivers run up and
down her spine -

"They will save him," she whispered,
"Experts do this all the time."

She heard sea gulls squawking,
and legs splashing – faint voices
mumbling.

She screamed, "I want to know!"
She flung her arms above her head
as if they had eyes - she whispered,
"Is he alive?"

She stood to run, tripped, and fell.
Sea shells cut apart her legs -
she grabbed sand - tightly
squeezed her fist’s and cried.

"Are you the mother?"
A stranger’s voice. . .

She reached to feel a face.

"Tell me – what . . . does he look
like - Is he cold? Is he warm
or - is he blue?”

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
from working memoir "Blind Fists Cry Out."

POSTED KEEP OUT

Posted Keep Out

Beyond the track
which carried you
north, white signs
with black letters
“posted keep out.”

Beyond blood once
fresh and wet like
the yellow roses
drying or the corn
stalks ready to leave
vacant fields; soon
bails of hay.

You said he peeked
at your petticoat, below
lace and satin.
And, I noticed
you could not sleep…
The train flew past
graveyards, and crept past
city streets, awakened
by laughter echoing
through glass; you were
smiling. You were
alive.

You showed me the
petticoat worn last
night before he soiled
it, then said, “No one
noticed the color
of his skin.”

Slightly rocking
side to side, we both
raised our glass,
and toasted to the
light, not knowing
what will become
of night.

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

DEPOSIT TRASH

DEPOSIT TRASH

That's me
hanging around the "Motel"
near the spot where a sign
reads, "Deposit Trash,"

where chipmunks congregate
in the city
climb a single tree
in our concrete jungle -

That's me
leaning against red brick
seeing less than you
knowing all there is
to know - about
"Depositing Trash,"

watching people strut
by in suits
while I still wear
open toe shoes in
late fall -
forgot to paint my
toe nails and clip
the longest on the
big toe . . .
but no one knows

That's me
a reflection on a
dirty window showing
my age - showing me,
a faceless woman -
a shadow in black
leaning against
red brick near that
sign "Deposit Trash,"

where few people
notice I walk a
little crooked -
I seldom smile -
I seldom laugh -
I seldom deposit
my trash

It is me in the
reflection - I lift
my arm to cross
my chest - as if to
feel my own heart
race - then move
rub my back against
red brick to stop
the itch

That's me
waiting for a stranger
in a yellow cab - to
slow up in front of the
motel window - a
reflection in black - to
pick up - then deposit
trash.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

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

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

A WAVE OF PEACFULNESS

NOTE - This was written during all of Mother Natures Upheaval

A Wave of Peacefulness

I want the moon to coat
a natural skin onto the earth -
saturate the ground with peace.

I want the moon to cast
peacefulness . . .
covering the world -
covering you, and
covering me with clear
shadows of ourselves.

Moonlight covered by smoke -
volcanoes’, storms at sea,
ash - lumber burns to
remove nature.

A cast of peacefulness over
your home, into your heart -
deep inside each breath
you take. . .

A cast of moonlight
should curl like a lily over fresh
waters and friendly shores,
a cast - endless - a
wave of peacefulness.

Nancy Duci Denofio

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

WHITE ROSES

White Roses

white roses…
white light
dance

circle me
in white lace
surround me

in white satin…
touch my skin
your - tenderness

of petals pure
white roses - on
a perfect vine

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved