A Death Train - This takes you back to the end of World War One
when more Americans died from the virus (flu) than war.

A DEATH TRAIN

The railroad, has taken those
from crowded streets, away
from blood drying – closer, to
yellow roses in a cluttered
field of holes in earth without
marble.

The railroad, has taken those
from crowded streets crossing empty
land passing bare stalks where corn
once grew - crossing
towns and cities without light.

The railroad once served crowds
spinning high above their means
and now dark corner in life -
night, all are the same.

Breathing not, one on top of one,
a petticoat of lace - one on top of one
carried home to a hollow
grave.

Laughter filled each midnight and
no one cared where you lived or
the color of your skin.

On crowded streets at midnight
voices cheered, and glasses touched,
smoke crossed in front of eyes, music
played at each and every table -
red wine flowed: now we see blood
on tender pink lips.

Voices once a sound of hope are
but a taste of tomorrows dawn.

The railroad is crowded with
the dead, one on top of one -
their last ride - to a simple place
of dirt and stone.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Home When Snow Falls

Her sleeve, loose
pink pajama - silk
material - she
hugs a pillow...

Seat #34. his
mouth is wide
open, snores -
hesitates - snores
again...

those two in
front, lean right,
lean left, and right
to join, touch shoulders
and strange voices
sing in free space
which isn’t free
above their heads…

The metal wheels you
brought, shake the
metal door near the
glass window as spines
move side to side
and the train passes
a little city, outside of
Baltimore…

The conductor,
slams on his
brakes, the chair,
slams into the back
of Seat #67, no
one was there, or
the strange voices
slipped beyond
our view.

To our east a sun
rises, and orange
marmalade cities come
alive in November…
before the darkness
comes – snow flakes
will fall.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

Her Son is Dying

We talked about
coupons, discounts
at a discount store,
and new color paint
for the third bedroom -
Her son is dying.

We talked about
last night at dinner,
last months grocery
bills, yesterdays
laundry, a broken dryer -
Her son is dying.

We laughed about
an article in the
morning paper, and
how I drastically need
a hair cut -
Her son is dying.

We considered a trip
south to get away from
this cold winter, even if
it for a few days;
and sun bathe -
Her son is dying.

She asked about my
grandchildren, how
they made out last week
in soccer, and if their
cold’s were better -
Her son is dying.

She inquired about a
dress she borrowed once,
the black one, with the
long sleeves, high neck,
and below the knee -
Her son is dying.

I asked about her son,
“Does he know you? Is he
breathing on his own?
Can he speak?”

I never asked how
much longer.

Her son is dying.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

The Sick Room

A cable line runs beneath
radiators generating heat;
you are in bed, one ear smothered
by a feather pillow, the other listening.

"Good Morning America."

A thumb, pushes a button,
every station is talking about
a man who killed his family
in a fit of rage.

Good Morning America, repeats,
“He was known as a man
who cared about his family.”

Blinds cover cheap
windows while cool air
seeps between a frame.

A thumb, pushes a button
changing the channel.

The room begins to blur,
eyes foggy; where is Discovery?
Speech slurred, some man is
talking about dinosaurs, and
creatures that roamed earth.

Push. Push.

A man touched some rock,
played games with monkeys,
made friends with a bear...

Swallowed pills - in the sick room.

Discovery Channel" still on
showing the remains; a skeleton.
Water came first, before
the mountains.
The screen projects a
four legged creature, a monster.

The room is foggy; a head
rests on a stack of pillows and
a needle is inserted into a vein.
A clear liquid drips slowly. . .

A sweater is hanging from
a bedpost.

The control for the television
is floating, and you can’t catch
it. You reach, the needle
is gone.

A picture on a night stand,
the eyes grow larger, come
closer, then back away –
people separate into pieces.

“Discovery,” is gone.

Who placed a quilt on the
bed?

Push. Push. A man is on
praising a man who killed
his family.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A Last Goodbye

A finger straight
she wipes dust from
a golden plate; white
gowns, white gloves;
men stand tall escorting
all who love.

As she floats by
stained glass windows,
white gowns, pearls and
veils . . . In her eyes –
spider webs of silk,
some a dusty shade of pink.
She watches – a line of
men turn their backs from
the golden rail. Turn away
from a golden plate. . .

Once she talked of
power like a deck of
cards turned, one by one.
And a sliver of light
cuts the fog – recalling
his arms around her
waist and lifting her
to kiss his face.

She glares into the
brightest light, then
glances back at silk
wedding gowns. . .
Her finger straight –
she lightly touches
his broad shoulder,
blows air onto his neck.

Time has come to face
a brighter light –
She said her last goodbye.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

STONES OF ICE

Small steps on big rocks
between colored stones
to collect.
A stream between a
mountain – as my steps
slow – and I want to
hurry – not to be alone
while tip toeing carefully
on rocks of ice.

I must watch each step
I can’t look up to see how
far they have travelled,
without me.
I have to be strong like
this mountain and not
worry about black bear
drinking from this stream.

And, as I move one small
step at a time – see brilliant
colors – face me as a sun
cuts through my path –
careful not to fall, I gather
stones of ice – of colors
like wet brick and blue,
pink and even orange . . .
stopping to glance to see
if anyone waits, or it
they are coming back
for me.

No one is there – no one
seems to care.

So I sit on a single rock –
larger then all the others
and rest as I shove colored
stones into the pockets of
my dress.

I would have worried once
about getting gingham
polka dots wet – no longer
on my mind I bend closer
to a stream to gather all
the pretty stones, I can
reach; wait for them to
find me near a stream
where I was left to collect
stones of ice, sitting on
a rock of ice; I sit alone
If only I knew then how
nature spoke.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Inside A Taxi

It’s like being inside
a taxi with no place
to go –
You may know who you are –
or where you’ve been – but
how did you get in here
inside this taxi
with no place to go?

Watched a meter spin
And new a stop light was
Stuck on red, and it was
hollering at me in its’ own
silent way, “Good Luck.”
For a moment I thought I
knew where the hell I was
heading, and I yelled out
to the man “Where the hell
are we going? Didn’t we
just pass that stand?”

People jammed the side
Walks and it looked like
Times Square - where people
walk and never talk – then
the taxi man he pointed
in the direction of the
diamond district where
diamonds shine in one big
bucket - I was the one who
said, “Good Luck.”
I shoved my hands
Into my pockets to feel
a wallet in my pants…
Still sitting in this taxi
with no place to go.

There - to my left
the morning show was
Live – NBC floated right
outside…
I’m stuck inside this taxi
with no place to go…
“Will someone, Mr. Taxi
man, find out where I’m
going? and where I am
from?” He kept driving
his Taxi, and never said
a word, nothing seemed
important – that was until
I searched inside that
wallet; no name, no plan,
no notes, and no cash…

Felt inside my pockets and
found a twenty dollar bill
my eyes scanned the meter,
yelled, “Please, let me out of here!
All I have is this twenty dollar
bill, but first tell me please
where it is I am at, cause
I’ve been stuck inside your
Taxi with no where else to
go.”

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

From the Inside

Filled with flames,
daggers, knifes, and swords.
Not warm flames,
not soft, welcoming light -
but, what is light?
uncomfortable, and erratic.

Those around me, feel
what matters - life soon
shuts another door.
Cold - Bitter long ago -
Isolating faces, cruel,
not vanishing by light.

Dreams possess a
wall bruised from the
inside.

I want to fly…

Lessons never learned.
Mother died, tomorrow -
years ago.

Stayed by her
wiping blood
dripping off her chin
down her neck,
no way - mother talked,
not then.

Flames and daggers of
night, arrive in an instant,
a radiance of natural
light from death, unlearned
from the inside.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

This is written for all of you who are fighting
any illness or loss - it is the direction
one will take "like an eagle in flight."


A Separate Universe

A chemical - releasing energy,
grasping every thread from life,
no mental block, perfect form -
the eagle in flight, effortlessly
performing, sibilant nature
seeking new adventure, pooling
with criticism -
providing a larger ego, and
reaching the top - a universe, alone
belonged to you - crossing mighty rivers -
infallible pride.

Your field of view - foretold prediction -
the omen - a public speaker, who
rearranged your expertise.

"Execute this bodily creation;
sporadic limbs no longer create,
engrossed with compelling
idle thoughts.
Shoot me - attack the phanton!"

Ceramic cracked - pieces cut skin
and a specter locked within -
visualizing a separate universe
not seen before - like nuclear war
wiping out familiar ground -
drastically changing your world around.

You met the traitor - halted war.
A director of the universe
dished out uncertainty - you
fought, screamed,
protested every word they spoke, but
words splattered like glass tossed on
to the ground.

Antagonized by fate - you plunged back
to the world where eagles flew.
You spread your wings – a new direction
selected - to lift pride -
to continue to survive
on a journey of the unknown.

Knocked down by thrusts of lightening.
Pulled violently into the eye of a storm. . .
Escaped with additional scars
but determined to survive
above forceful waves at a
familiar shore.

Directed - into a splice of former life. . .
Picked apart a brain, and
found proper pieces to cultivate;
some succumbed immediate death,
now, left with one millimeter
among ten thousand threads,
bolstering echoes of success.

Plans digested and dreams fade –
layers unseen – pain packed, and
delivered to be observed by the
Universe - alone.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Sharing Space

Crossed a linoleum floor
to a paisley spread,
newly weds
side by side in
separate beds - two
children shared a
heated room; one sucked her
thumb, one wet her bed.

His Uncles boots untied,
perched on a stool near
a metal sign - selling
old stuff, “Antiques,” he
said.

Cribs, pillows, and one old
blanket hangs to divide
a living space; his new
family all crammed
into one room -
Is this their honeymoon?

“Stay put, lots of space
right here, near the beach,”
his Uncle John tugged on
a sunburned arm.

Many a night we slept
on wet sand, when youth
was on our side, and
traveled long, counted
pennies for food – but
this place should be torn
down, for the sake of
the two children, asleep
with toes sticking out of
a rail of a crib.

Eighteen wheelers
cruised the beach road
at night - going some
eighty miles per hour,
scared to shut your
eyes, as head lights
beamed into the room.

By morning light, while
pelicans were playing on
a dock – feet tip toed
passed the hanging blanket;
heard a couple snore, and
glanced at two children
sharing a crib: sheets
the smell of urine.

Left paisley spreads and
separate beds, newly weds,
and children sharing one
small crib – in one room
among antiques, on a
beach.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
copyrighted

A Last Goodbye

A finger straight
she wipes dust from
a golden plate; white
gowns, white gloves;
men stand tall escorting
all who love.

As she floats by
stained glass windows,
white gowns, pearls and
veils . . . In her eyes –
spider webs of silk,
some a dusty shade of pink.
She watches – a line of
men turn their backs from
the golden rail. Turn away
from a golden plate. . .

Once she talked of
power like a deck of
cards turned, one by one.
And a sliver of light
cuts the fog – recalling
his arms around her
waist and lifting her
to kiss his face.

She glares into the
brightest light, then
glances back at silk
wedding gowns. . .
Her finger straight –
she lightly touches
his broad shoulder,
blows air onto his neck.

Time has come to face
a brighter light –
She said her last goodbye.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All rights reserved
copyrighted

STONE STATUES BREATHE

Half black – half white
his Papa told him so,
his Mama left him long
ago.

Locked between two
bedroom cells, when he
took Juicy Fruit from
some store shelf, then
his Papa tossed the key
away. . .

He carried a gun
tucked inside his jeans
and a jack knife on the
only key he carried near
his heart.

He never thought about
segregation, laughed
about it – since his Papa
was stone white.

They moved away from
where he was born - and
believed his Papa was
some big wig in the Army,
saw him shake the hand of
a President.

But Papa he left too, and he
never saw his uniform - it
vanished.

He never understood how
friends could take and gun
him down?

He was buried with all the
glory of gun shots, flags,
and uniforms; up on a hill
near the Potomac where far
too many white stones placed
on the ground in perfect
lines.

Now he sits and thinks about
the color of his Mama’s skin
which robbed him of his youth.
His Papa gone, and Mama
some where – unfound – he
lives in a one room shack
kind’a like his Mama did when
she gave birth.

It's said he fought from the
inside about the men - about
the black and white - about
all those killed and laid out
on some hill like schools of
fish - and murdered by some
stranger. . .

Then he took in a deep breath
and killed again – dreaming he
too was buried on the mountain
near a river where stone
statues breathe.

Nancy Duci Denofio

AGE MR. GOVERNMENT

A letter arrived today
from the Government…
medicare will be ignored this
years, no more five percent
raise, that makes $12.00 less,
equals one whole dollar, lost
this New Year.

No more butter, mayonnaise,
cream or real coffee...
Caffine
will not stimulate
brain cells,
cause the heart
to pump faster, might
even
keep me asleep so I won’t
know I missed my pills,
my walk, the doctors
appointment, and my
therapist, will wake you up - -

The State of NY collects
five cents on bottled water
and raised the price of bacon
because of the Swine Flu…
Diet bread doesn’t last too
long, and diet soda has a
drug that my rob what neurons
we have left…

Dry toast and Ginger Ale,
like we have a cold everyday.
and water with chocolate, might
keep us alive they say…
At first a drink was horrid,
but now red wine is fine…
Economical champagne is good they tell us,
with diet jelly on fake crackers -
but whose left to party anyway?

You take a walk downtown
because they give us discounts,
ten percent off coffee, decaffeinated
please…
ten percent off transportation, but
nothing much, and you can barely
more – a lady friend wants to use
a taxi, so you give in, - you barely
move – she gives up her high blood
pressure medication, to travel in style…

Broadway, the winds cutting through
those condo’s for one million plus,
have changed the approach to downtown,
Congress Park, and the entrance at
the track…

Tonight we’re meeting at a place
where someone’s telling jokes,
and no ones screaming insanity
into a microphone.
Ten percent off the total bill,
no splitting checks they say…
One table … and one percent divided
by ten, we splurge anyway.

So the Government gives us
advice, on how to get in shape… how
to do ten sit ups; without falling into
our own grave…
The government is telling us we can
go without butter popcorn, salt and
sugar, we can take a bus, if we shouldn’t
be driving a car… and where are we going?

Someday you too will be in our
shoes, when your daughter’s son gets
paid triple what you do…
And, your condo in the city is run down
and most foreclosed because
the city is no more…

Our advice Mr. Government, to you
from all of us…
close your eyes and see the future
and don’t ignore some ones past.

a letter arrived from the
government, cutting income once again...

can't even buy a pill or Tylenol
from the shelf, age, never knew
what it was all about...beyond graying
of ones' hair, mixing up grandchildren’s
names…

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Riding On A Rainbow

We had to store you in darkness -
March - the ground too hard.
Four men wearing black suits
lifted you, you - inside of brass -
on each side, the Lords Prayer,

Four men lifted you and placed
you back into a black car, and
once again we followed you...
to Father's carved heart.

Until We Meet Again - as marble
shinned in sunshine, you waited
forty four days - for May.
Four and four - your favorite
numbers when you visited the
track. Forty four days in a
place you walked by, played
near - even talked about.

Your soul created a rainbow
from one empty field to the
next - from one mountain
to another - the largest
rainbow, wider and in every
color.

White fluffy clouds were high
above this rainbow, blue -
deeper than a sky.
We were blessed with moistend
swabs of love - God rejoicing.

The rainbow - has disappeared
but you never stayed behind
heavens gate - you're still
riding on a rainbow believing
you are here.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved