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
Poetry and Prose by Nancy Duci Denofio with bloger http://nancyducidenofio.blogspot.com
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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
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
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
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
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
Monday, August 30, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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
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
Saturday, August 21, 2010
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
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
Thursday, August 19, 2010
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
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
Saturday, August 14, 2010
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
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
Friday, August 13, 2010
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
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
Sunday, August 8, 2010
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
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
Thursday, August 5, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
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
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
Thursday, July 22, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
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
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
Saturday, July 17, 2010
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
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
Monday, July 12, 2010
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"
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"
Saturday, July 10, 2010
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
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
Thursday, July 8, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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
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
Friday, June 25, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
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
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
Friday, June 18, 2010
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
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
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
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
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
Sunday, May 23, 2010
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
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
Thursday, May 13, 2010
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
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
Monday, May 10, 2010
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
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
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