A GROWN CHILD

A GROWN CHILD

she is happy, cheerful
clothes of bright orange
age on her face – tanned

she worried about space
where she and her daughter
would sit

laying blue towels
advertising the Yankees
on beach chairs at the pool

satisfied her - as she
lifted her daughters arms
to cross on her lap

a mother claps – smiles
rewarding herself – a
job well done

watched her walk up
a hill – empty handed
knew her hands soon

filled with pain and
love – as she wipes a
mouth of a grown

child – who doesn’t
know her name – as
she carries around

a heart of glass as
it breaks into pieces
of pain – of love

but she continues
day after day to care
for a grown child

wipes her mouth –
she wants her to live

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

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

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 changed the color of the blossom.

Ignorance on the part of a lazy man, one
she married and 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 eye’s her grandmothers,
knowing everything as she rocked
back and forth.

That’s before the 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 roll onto hollow
cheeks as if a diamond sparkles and
she sees. . .

Her leg’s run, carrying her body to
the playground, where Plato’s once
stood, and leaps onto a slide
and her thighs burn

Nancy Duci Denofio
Follow me on my fan page Nancy-Duci-Denofio@facebook.com

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

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

NEVER

Never

Never going to be
home - on a fifty foot
corner lot where
everyone hears
each other argue…

Never going to be
home coming queen…
or a mother of two,
or a sixteen year old –
or eighteen – or
twenty one or even forty….

Never going to be a
child - afraid of the dark,
spiders, mice, red ants…
or another game of softball –
with Mama…

Never going to be a
morning when I steal
a pressed white
shirt from brother’s closet
to wear beneath a v-neck
sweater…

Never going to be a
child of five making her
first communion, or another
ride on some strong shoulders,
or a trip to State Street with
Papa for orange pineapple
ice cream …

Never going to be a
young girl sitting side by
side near Papa, for the
Veterans Day Parade –
or tack up signs
with Papas’ picture,
his successful bid for office,
a smile ear to ear,
he wins.

Never going back.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

SALT WATER TEARS

Salt Water Tears

In my mind you were
the outcast, standing
humble in a line of
mourners -
close to the casket.

People cried, hugged
you - wrapped their
arms about your body,
to seal the envelope of
death - with love...

It appeared you had a
constant spasm in your
neck - swinging long
blonde hair away from
salty tears.

So obvious to me, you
were pretending -
false tears smudged your
makeup - then, rolled
down your face...

Death can rip you apart
exposing so much guilt -
exposing so much fear...

It's too late to wash
scars away with salt
water tears...

Nancy Duci Denofio copyright@1996 Published "Women and Death"

WE FOUND PEACE BUT NO VALLEY

We Found Peace
but no Valley


Dressed in winter gear
scarf
hat
double jackets
boots
triple socks
spare gloves
stuffed into hip pockets -

mittens colored red
dog brought his
own coat -
walking down,
down
you said,
a valley here?
down,
down.

Just wore this coat, and
wind is fierce in the forest -
forgot the axe
we - are - lost,
aren't we?

Snow Is crusted…
feet chewing
into thin slices
of white
ice
colder.
snow,
shimmers
colors
of a rainbow -
rain is far
from here.

These eyes - can make
sun melt snow -
if I dream -
sleep in the valley?
No valley
here.

Yesterday you had the map
plans drawn.
I thought you
double checked
before we left
home?
You - are - so
wrong

Black ink -
last years;
the real one fell
behind the bedpost
last night.
I thought you knew?

Grab the paper sack
eat baloney sandwiches
build a tent -
taught how in girl scouts

don’t laugh - I have to pray
on my knees,
Grandmother taught me,
never practiced much.

Forgive him for misplacing the
road map, and can you send a
little sun?
Maybe change the seasons,
or even, fly over us
lead us home?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Begging To Be Touched

BEGGING TO BE TOUCHED

stretched out
beside you
begging,
to be touched

stroke
my back, run
your fingers
through
my hair

a child -
pleading,
rub my back -

if you stop
I move restlessly
about, moan,

groan,
begging,
don't give up.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

CLUE PEOPLE

CLUE PEOPLE

Those girls they jump rope –
I can hear the scrapping of the
rope – knew I wasn’t wanted
before – or now. Besides –
it was on the other side of the
street.

How can I play on the other
side of the street? And, this
one girl thinks she’s better
then all the rest, because she
has the biggest driveway.
We have a corner lot!

Next door two old people
and another lady Mamas
age but she talks too much.
She tells stories and they are
really lies – but, Mama said
they are stories – so I have to
believe Mama.

Sometimes a little girl shows
up next door and I am allowed
to visit her, play with her – and
listen to the lady with the big
mouth. The little girl, she has
the same games as me and she
piles them on top of the ladies
old table – it tips – as she reaches
for Clue.

“Draw a player but close your
eyes – tight, and don’t peek,”
the little girl visiting told me. . .
I said, “I won’t peek, and I’m
happy to be here and love Clue.”
I said this without a smile – my
head lowered like when the
girls jumping rope in the big
driveway shoo me away.

For some reason I always end
up being Mrs. Peacock, and I
always carried a knife.

One lady in the neighborhood
was really Mrs. Peacock, but
she wouldn’t carry a knife. Her
hair looked exactly like the picture
staring at me. We have a
neighborhood filled with Clue
people.

The man across the street, he was
never home and he never told a
soul when he would return – one
of the boys told another boy – I
only have little boys on my side
of the road – that he goes to jail
and stays and comes home and
then, goes back.

So he was the guilty one when it
came to Clue – he was the one
with the gun – you see – I imagine
a man in jail had to have a gun,
maybe a mask like a bad man?

The fancy lady on the block had
to have a candle stick – she was
the lady with the big front yard.
I never see her – and they do drive
in and out of that long drive way
but she never looks, or waves.
She had to own a candle stick. . .

The butler – well he lives on
another block; across the street
near the big street next to the
big market where a lady plays
with a big cash register. Mama
told me my cash register holds
pennies for penny candy.

So, the butler must carry all
the brown bags out of the big
market for the people who shop
inside. . . he has a uniform too
and it’s black and white. I guess
all big markets have butlers.

Well, I am tired of Clue and tired
of the little girl – telling me what
to do – like the lady with the big
mouth. I tell the lady I am leaving
and she watches me walk down
the inside staircase, and I promise
not to touch the walls.

Our front porch is big – bigger
then the girl with the drive way –
on the other side of the street. I
play on our porch with Mama –
she is picking weeds. I sit next
to a metal box where milk is kept
and I lift the lid – the milk is gone
but my paper dolls look at me –
and they talk – we all get along.


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

LIGHT AND FIRE

LIGHT and FIRE

Midnight – I stand alone -
eyes bleed, flashes of
fire corrupt sight. . .
Limbs stiff - as if dragged
in time on frozen earth –
yet blistering skin.

Eyes stare – heads tilt, as
if to question a silence
inside my head - a strange
ringing – growing stronger,
my train of thought
degenerates.

No sound heard, or has one
been to taste fire on their
lips – beyond a crossing
upward near a mountains
peak. And, feel skin turn
cold, and pain disappears.

A distant ball of light
explodes – now few are
chosen to observe –
only those to hear
strange sounds of voiceless
chatter.

A space where earth opens,
- time stands still –
a world of many moons, and
darkness roars beyond a mere
flashing light.

Someone - will find me in this
forest.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Love on the Run

You must have frightened
me – since I never knew
love – moving closer
as feet slithered over grass
like a snake
slipping on cement,
too close
tripping over a curb
a car screeching
too close

tires scaring pavement
felt a strangers hug
hearing church bells ring
at twelve o’clock
while people stared:
it was how I left you

too real
love - crippled love
I try not to count the years
when I learned -
what it was - I left
on grass
when cars swerved
church bells rang
telling me
what a heart knew.

I Never Knew
I Knew You


I never knew I
knew you, so
many years ago,
I loved you -
never - knew why?

We met – I sipped
coffee - surround
by gray marble
pretending to be
reading – knew
you glanced my
way.

I hated coffee,
but all the people
working in a cement
building with marble
walls, drank coffee
purchased
from a blind man –
I learned to like
coffee, then – when
I glanced up –
holding a white
paper cup – when
you walked by

our eyes met –
you stayed
I always wondered
why?

A sweet smell
of summer, a
morning - in July.
A certain kindness
in your face,
a gentleness,
showed as you
grinned – a safe
place to begin.

I never knew
I knew you,
so many years ago
I loved you -
but we said good bye.

I never knew
where you went,
or who you loved –
I often thought
our paths may
cross –
one more time.
Your red car –
Ice cream sundaes
Beer near a small
town where you lived,
where you knew the
owner – where you
held my hand – and
still smiled – even
without coffee -
I pass the bar –
now and then – it’s
too gone -

I always knew
your white house -
been years since
you left home –

I never knew
I knew you,
so many years ago
I loved you –
and I never knew why?

When someone tells
me they don’t drink
coffee – a smile comes
to my face – I see cold
marble walls and recall
the blind man handing
me my first cup of
coffee, to be like all the
others. . .

For a moment you
returned to say hello -
then I pour some
coffee – and for a
moment, I see that
foolish grin.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

Published in “The Muse” and
offered in the issue to others for critique;
as you will notice, this is not my style of
writing, but it was something, one day,
that just came to be…

Educated Plaster

Educated - not
by choice
drilling holes
without plaster
robbing innocence
stealing clean
white paper –
squeezing it
into a ball…
it's garbage.

Educated.
Encouraging self,
unwatched
it disappears
like a candle -
neglected
scaring a
surface
unable to repair
deep rooted burns.

Re-educate
the failure…
foundations crack…
block by block
cement the basement…
without strength
foundations
crumble
as plaster
beneath papered walls.

Nancy Denofio - 1992
published MUSE
all rights reserved

From The Shoreline

Twilight seeps
in shades of gray...
I open a sliding
door,
inhale fresh air
taste salt water
on lips,
with hope,
I'll see him...

His dark hair blows
freely in wind,
at times, I dream he
gazes toward me...
it's a wind,
pushing him...
He bends forward
collecting treasures
from a shoreline,
his tan excites me...

Fog thicker beyond
a sandbar where he
runs...
blending with an ocean
wave,
a tide claims him,
I've yet to see him
after that...

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

THE HOMELESS

Who will know their name?

Grapefruit shipped from Florida
lay gutted in someone’s trash -
summer heat - cockroaches
lay eggs – on top of tender white
juice. . .

The name of the dead found
dead yesterday – no one really
knows.

Army greens thrown inside a
bin disclosed for the homeless,
a lost pair of rosary beads dangles
from the metal flap – near
a parking lot, on Congress Street –
where someone died last night.

Lunch was tossed into a can
In front of D’Andriannos
Pizza joint – dinner – half eaten
Over flows onto the pavement
And, the nameless wait until
Daylight ends to empty trash.

When daylight shines between
cement – nameless lay curled
on top of grass – dirt – melting
snow.

The name of the dead – found
last night - no one knows.

Patrons of a boutique quickly
Walk on Congress, their eyes
Focus on cracks in cement –
Never seeing dirty skin, filthy
Clothes – a broken bottle of
Whiskey. . .

The name of the dead – found
In the morning – no one knows.

A young girl in hot pink tights
her leg’s spread, reads a book
resting on her knees, above
Her on red brick – graffiti –
Madonna twice. . .

Detectives question the young
girl in pink tights, she barely
lifts her head, or smiles – and
probably doesn’t read.
She shakes her head, no.
Another nameless will be laid
to rest – without a name on
granite, or mentioned in the
Press.

The nameless – no one knows
or do they give a damn.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A DOLL LIFELESS ON THE BEACH

At night while sitting
alone on the wide porch
at the beach, I am quite
aware, no one is here.

Something draws me to
a window – as if my eyes
in pain, and staring.

I attempt to leave the porch
but again I am drawn to the window.

While in the dining room,
I sit near a window.
Here in this spacious room,
no one around.

Pictures drawn on paper in
pencil, faces of those
I’ve never met.

For some reason,
I am drawn to
the window.

I believe – I lived on a large
parcel of land, in a large home
with wealthy people and the
ocean - near.

I am drawn to the window

Carriages and dust
flying
umbrellas are held over
heads of all the women.
Men
in black – a carriage white –
women wear long dresses.

I see a wooden fence –
lined with pine trees.

I am small
watching from a wide front porch,
my hair long -
it’s hot.
My little feet tap back and forth -
worried for some
reason.
A sound in the distance –
I turn
to see nothing.
I wait on
the porch near a window.

“Don’t touch the flowers,”
In a clear voice – “The
gardener handles dead
blooms.”

I hear words and no one is near.
I take a walk and see two lions on a path,
I know I have climbed onto the lions back.

A woman comes closer
she is beautiful, draped in a color only
a sea can wear…
a veil of pink.
She is holding a doll – old fashion - too.

When I draw her
she is standing
near the ocean.

Nearby a broken doll
alone on the beach
laying face down
on a broken window
frame

I am drawm to the window.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

CHILDREN of the DARK

Stone houses against
a mountain side, between
bushes of red gardenias
and hydrangeas near
lime and lemon trees,
near olive branches –
and wheat fields.

A street, narrow;
balconies and stoops
where town folk gather
in clusters, similar to
all clusters - along
the edge of the mountain.

Villagers gather to share
secrets - or to be proud;
a cross now pinned outside
off of a cotton slip -
signifying her husband or
son notified her - soon
they shall return for
those he left behind.
Leaving America - a place
he only knew.

A gust of wind - a thin layer
of ash from Mount Etna
finds its way between the
mountain and lay its ash
over the clothes attached
to the olive trees.
Women pray for spring to
bring heavy rains, and keep
rain away in June – for it
would kill buds blooming
on the tree.

Women pray for husbands
to come home, to be happy
in the mountain, filling sacks
with wheat – for the wheat
man – the rich man in town.
This winter a few flakes of
snow crossed the mountain
top – and kissed a palm.

A simple stoop of stone –
where a hen struts by to
enter a home with an open
door, where birds of all
colors – as the trees
flock to hear the music
on the streets.

The homes stand side by
side, deeper – instead of
wide. A simple stoop where
women compare the price
of an artichoke, when few
feet walked – they could
pick another fresh – but its
weight to much to bare.

Pictures of saints are lined
on walls, near a picture of
the Brooklyn Bridge.
One room – one table and
chairs. Upstairs, what
women call a marriage
bed.

At the end of a day when
purple covers the sea, and
a mountain sleeps – when
donkeys are tied in stalls
and children dream – some
stay awake counting stars.

Children hear prayers from
a neighbors home, and cries –
when a letter arrives – knowing
someone else will never cross
the ocean – will never make it
home – back where houses
clustered close, and older
people talk. And in the dark
children hear.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Girls in the City

We jumped off the train without a penny
to our name wearing torn jeans and a
few shirts we found in some trash.

Karen detests Jennie, feeling she’s too
good with her fancy suede jacket; she
grabbed it first.

Now, sitting side by side, shoulder
to shoulder, snuggling like some baby
to its Mama’s breast.

Leaning against some high rise building
burning those shirts in a tin can in the
alley to keep warm.

Karen, she’s going to leave us soon. Her
eye’s are moving back and forth because
she needs drugs. She won’t tell us; we know
she knows all about drugs.

She slipped me something once, and I
pretended to swallow it, stuck out my
tongue and wiggled it around - to prove I did.

Jennie waited – needed a reaction from me
so I wiggled my feet, tapped my fingers and
nodded to music; which wasn’t there.

“I like drug people,” Jennie said with her
drug smile. . .

We all slept from the heat of burning
shirts, in an alley near Broadway – it was
winter – no place else to stay.

Jennie never knew - I never used.

Right angles of light began to wake us
and people hurried along the sidewalk –
we had to move – soon.

“We are all going to be somebody someday.”
I told Karen and Jennie.
“Jennie, you will be a star on Broadway, and
Karen will design jeans or satin gowns.”

I never mentioned I was going to work
inside one of these cement buildings –
probably cleaning floors.

Karen, she complained about dreaming.
But, to hell with her - she can’t breathe
without a bad word from her mouth.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
copyrighted material

Front Street 1918

Women - complained about the
cold - people crammed inside
one room, sleeping on floors
within tenements, or two room
flats; on Front Street.

But this - is America
where dreams come true.

Women - complained about the
noise outside - in the middle
of the night. Men gathering
outside, in the middle of the
night - around a pail of fire;
like bums.

No one listened to the women.

Men gathering inside of of
saloons, in the back room
drinking home made wine, playing
craps, and smoking old stogies.

Women complaining when they
visited the butchers shop -
about the price of meat, and
eggs costing more, brown sugar
instead of white.

No one listened. Women were
immigrants, can't write, or
read. . .

Men complained those who
delivered coal - then the
strike began and schools closed,
theaters - and half the workers
at the plant, out of work from
a lack of heat.

No one listened to the men.

Near the Mohawk River streets
would flood after a hard rain,
or thawing of winter, and boats
were rowed up and down the street
collecting victims from a second
floor.

Immigrants gathered where customs
were like home, a mountain village
against open fields of wheat: women
shopped, bargained for the best
price as pushcarts rolled through
village streets. But women wore
a golden cross attached to their
sweater - it was a Sicilian way.

Men never noticed.

Men never noticed.

In 1917 war injured dreams of
immigrants, no more peaceful streets,
everyone was touched - even all
the children - when would it end?

On Front Street, near the Locomotive
Plant, and the big plant - known
to light the world, it was the
industrial revolution - but war took
the men while women worked with
children at their side.

Women complained about the war.

Men came home in baskets. Immigrants
were clueless about their relatives
overseas.

No one listened.

War heroes returned, bringing some
kind of sickness, some kind of virus,
and the sickness crept into a town
taking more lives than war. . .

No one listened as men and women
ached with pain.

America - where people gather under
lamp posts in a winter storm, and
dreamed of a better life.

Remembering wheat fields in the mountains
and the owner of the land - you had to
listen - immigrants remember - they
understood.

Now another white carriage moved
slowly down a cobblestone street,
for every woman, man, and child to
see - inside, wrapped in white sheets
lay the dead, one on top of one.

And on the door of the dead a black
wreath hung, and a sign for those
sick inside, for others to keep away.

Men and women talked about that day
they cheered when paper boys ran up
and down a city street, yelling,
"The war is over, the war is over."
Church bells rang.

But no one knew another knew another
killer would be ravaging the streets.

Some one understood - long before
the illness struck - understood people
needed to compromise and provide health
and education.

But no one listened.

Not until war and sickness killed -
enough to compromise. No one had to
read or write - in plain sight was
all it took to know, and understand.


Nancy Duci Denofio
copyright all rights reserved

SELLING PROGRAMS -
SARATOGA RACE TRACK
1936


Your bike built like our
Studebaker, and that
was in 1936 –

You and your friend's rode
twenty eight miles through
woods, twisting roads
without lights, to camp out
at Saratoga Lake. . .
You and your friends sold
programs at the track.

You told me – men stood on
stools behind a box - yelled
odds – before each race, and
how fast they changed...
You told me – you made ten
cents on every program.
Was it worth the ride?

You slept in a forest
beneath tall pines on a cool
Saratoga night – near the
old casino where gangsters
played.

One night hard rain, storms -
came fast, and a policeman
asked, “Do you want a
place to sleep - tonight?”

You and your friends loaded
up those heavy bikes and took
the ride down Broadway.

You and your friend's were
housed inside a jail, on beds
where criminals slept.

You and your friend's were
safe one night in the middle
of an August storm.

When morning came the smell
of bacon frying - eggs, and
toast - you all watched the
guards pass and thought they
would bring you food.

“Do we get breakfast too?”
I know you had to smile,
and probably nudged your
friend's.

“Nope,” A policeman said,
“You and your friend's
were only overnight guests."

So they let you out, and
gave you back those old
bikes, built in 1936.

You and your friend's rode
off to the track. You rode
down Lake Avenue and took a
right on Regent, and another
left on Union Avenue to the
gate. You all strapped bikes
to pine trees, and began
yelling, “Programs, get
your programs here - ten cents.”

You told me many things but
I often wondered if Grandmother
knew what type of job you had
in 1936?

Nancy Duci Denofio
copyright all rights reserved

Sesquicentennial
Schenectady NY

So - what if Mama wanted
me to run across vacant land
within the gates of
Union College…

Wearing some one hundred
and fifty year old dress – she
made last month…

So - what if I choose the brief
freedom of the shore – grit
between my toes –
sunburned – tired – wanting
more…

Warned if I took the family
trip – I’d be out of talking
on a stage… but still
could wear the old – new
dress…

So - with a bonnet on
my head, and a red and white
checkered dress – I ran across
the vacant land, while fire
works filled the sky…

So - I wondered if women
one hundred and fifty years
ago, wearing bonnets and
long dresses – did they too
have sun burn cheeks?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

BRANDYWINE DINER 1963 Retake from the 50's



Neon lights flash
off and on
creating color on pure
white skin.

Bob Dylan PLAYING ON the
Jute box, inside a
small – world - of a diner…

Out side ears are as deaf as the
man laying on his horn,
no one moves…

“The Times They Are A Chang’in.”

A finger feels a slit in red upholstery
“Imagine” the person who carried the knife.

It’s three o`clock
on a Sunday morning.
a curtain of smoke creates a crown
above the head of a girl buried into the
armpit of a long haired hippie.

A man, wearing
black leather
boots, fringe hanging
from the bottom of his jacket,
from his sleeve,

Entered through the front
door - held open with a rock -
deathly hot…

He grabs the waitress
motioning - where he will sit,
She watches as he thrusts
his body forward,
struts past the girl smoking
while hugging an armpit, chewing
a wad of gum.
She looks up, her face tells him -
she is upset, interrupting Bob Dylan

He winks at another girl, one holding
the wrong side of her cup, he takes a deep breath
And the girl with her drags on her cigarette.

Another drag, and follows the man with
inviting eyes.

He strips his jacket, hangs it
inside-out above his head on a metal

hook. Slips easily into the booth
and restlessly taps the formica table.

Protruding from his leather jacket, a handle of
a knife.

Fingers caress the slit, deeper now.

Neon lights of red splash color on the
table-top.
The woman with her slinky walk slides gently
into the booth, she offers him a salem.
He reaches for his jacket pulling out a
Match.

The folk song "Jesse" blares from the
jute box.

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