Thank you for taking time to read the material posted here. I would be pleased if you could comment, and I promise to comment back. Sincerely, Nancy


Monday, March 29, 2010

The Tender Age of Five

It was the spot to sit
on top of our old red sofa,
and my thighs rubbing against
worn upholstery . . .
feet - kicking, raising dust.

My head leaning against
lead paint, fingers flicking
color, and two Chinese statues
stare in my direction.

Barely missing the gold framed
mirror situated over my head,
my leg's kept on moving . . .
A restless child.

It was near dinner time when
I heard my mother scream,
"Your fathers dead, he's dead."
I felt my heart inside the
front of me, didn't know a
heart raced.

But my mother's tears became
my own, and I began to cry.
Tears rolling onto our red
velvet couch, and mother still

My mother never covered my
thighs because I wore pretty
ironed dresses, ankle socks
and buster brown shoes. . .
Never told mother how cold
my legs were: I never cried
near the gold frame mirror
above the crush velvet couch.

Those legs with ankle socks
I began to kick and dust flew
and I began to sneeze, and still
tears fell.

It was the tube, our radio,
telling listeners about the
explosion at the plant.
The plant was the General Electric
Company. I heard people were dead.
Mother called out, "Lots of people

Mother left in our old red Buick,
and Grandmother entered the living
room, knelt near the red couch. . .
I saw tears in her eye's too, but
when she was upset, she talked in
Italian. She cried in Italian too.

I believed Grandmother when she
assured me, Daddy was fine. . .
She placed her hands on my leg's
to stop them from moving, and put
her finger to her lips.
Now I know, she wanted to hear the

Nancy Duci Denofio
web page http://home.rr.com/nancydenofio

Friday, March 19, 2010


Brandywine Diner 1959

It's three o'clock on a Sunday
morning, a grey curtain of smoke
surrounds you, at Brandywine Diner.

Two men share a booth,
both sip coffee from small white cups,
their finger’s play with white bags of

Across the aisle a young girl sits…
alone. She stares thru her personal fog.
She holds the wrong side of her cup,
she crushes one cigarette, and lights another…
fog thickens.

A man; hung-over, a black and white counter
leans on his arm’s, his clothes soiled by coffee
spilled, and peeks between his finger’s
into the 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 the 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 the corner,
next to a man wearing a black leather jacket
Hells Angels, scrolled on his back…

That’s…. when I poke my finger
Into a slit
in the upholstery,
picturing the person who held the knife.

Nancy Duci Denofio

Thursday, March 11, 2010


deep reds were
waving yesterday, now
gusts of wind
rip color from
graceful trees, hours
gone - lay naked near
brilliant orange,
ever - gren

where we walk
the road not wide
or paved...
paint peeling on
a crooked porch,
splinters of glass
spot at us as wind
rocks earth, once more...

our feet still shuffle
caressing flat rock of
hazy blue and pinks,
aging earth... rain falls
covers slabs of color,
rock - hard
cold by natures pain.

Nancy Duci Denofio 2005