Memories of Love

Memories of Love

Dream with me -
become part of my world,
hold my hand, and share with me
collected memories of love.

Nature speaks in silent words
trees cling together
limbs covered in ice
magical, alive
a paramount to nature

each year I search a familiar brook,
a mountain top -
a current or a stream,
unending as our love -
we embrace - trees cling
together with frozen snow our
limbs bare.

Sunshine peeks through
branches, sparkling water
as it gives way to nature, rocks -
mounds of earth in the way

a stream flows, unending
in jagged lines, disturbing earth
creating a waterway deeper, deeper
in the woods.

Now, I stroll along paths where we
shared our love – so deep inside
a forest greeting me – a familiar
brook where we became part of
nature sharing earth – skin glistening
in sunshine.

Our love – unending - distance causes
us to part, but will not detour love,
draw us apart – we hare love
among the shadows on top of snow,
we melt together, becoming one.

Safe among the trees,
limbs, frozen
no feeling on bare skin -
sky of blue high among towering
trees and below a stream
trickles from snow melting
to make way for ice –
for snow – for love.

Part Two

I made private plans with nature
to share my world with you,
so far away – love – nature
continues as seasons cause
water and forging rapids
leading down – out of our
mountain.

I share my thoughts
among the trees,
of you, and I - alone,
embracing in winter snow -
a stream never ends,
growing stronger - as love,
we connect arms
tree limbs - connect life
in our forest.

So let me share with you,
walk with me among the forest -
our path will meet once more,
its end, when I no longer dream
in winter white - when I melt in
springtime by the power of
natures love.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

This is a section of a long poem


Mother’s Back

All mothers in our neighborhood
smoke cigarettes, and wear Red Indian
kerchiefs on their forehead - to keep
sweat from falling onto their face.

Mothers all wear tube tops - stuff
toilet paper inside to make them - look big.
Mothers send their children to the
grocery store, and to the drugstore -
Mr. Ferro gives tiny brown bags, filled with
little bottles of pills.

Mother looks worried when she runs out
of her little orange pills. She would say,
“I need my pills, now - it’s the only thing
keeping me alive!”

So I grab two one dollar bills she has in
her hand - dash down the block clenching
my fist so hard, not to lose the two dollars,
forgetting about all cracks in cement which
could brake my mother’s back.

I climb the steps of the pharmacy - see
Mr. Ferro; he smiles at me. He takes
two dollars, hands me a little brown bag.
I’ll walk quickly out of the drugstore, down
four cement steps, across Mason Street, to
Avenue A.

I run now, all the way home, picturing my
mother dead, spread out on our kitchen
floor. . .

Later - in the afternoon - mother might
count pennies on our window ledge in
our kitchen for a loaf of American Bread.

She will hand me pennies, so I leave
another trip, across Seneca Street to
Central Market, a bigger grocery store,
unlike Charlie’s Grocery on Avenue A.
Walking across the market lot my feet
slip on splinters.
No cement here to break mother’s back.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

She Told The Governent of the United States

She Told the Government
of the United States


When a child goes to war
your heart breaks
your heart sinks
you do some additional
praying
you pray he makes it home.

I told the Government of
the United States –
something is wrong –
with all that special
intelligence – to find one
man – instead we kill -
and kill some more

our children are like
fire ants – disguised -
no one can see – when
they bite the enemy –
to make them believe.

I don’t believe in war,
and way back when –
if they come over here
too enlist me – I would
have left this damn
country.

When your child leaves
for war – and returns –
takes off his uniform –
we know his attitude
changed, he still thinks
he’s got a gun.

Our Government of the
United States has
brainwashed my child’s
old beliefs.
No more fear –
it’s been rearranged.

I tell the Government of
the United States,
bring back our children. . .
stop bombing cities or
caves where children
live, where children hide
and children die.

No – we won’t know all
about it – our children
never tell – how many
families they have killed.

So your child and their
family try to resume a life,
as if they never held a
gun – as if they never
killed innocent - children,
running

and, no, we won’t really
know about it, nor will
they try to tell – about a
buddy killed – and tears
drenched a soldiers uniform,
friends scattered into
pieces – body parts on
sand, in city streets. . .
Or tell about the man
who smiled before he
pulled a string – destroying
him and all of those
standing too close -

no one really knows
I tell the Government of
the United States of
America to stop the war –
can’t they understand – we will
never change the way
of living there – nor do we
want to change – except. . .

my child is a stranger – he
was only two when I left
and runs into his mother’s
arms.
He looks puzzled when he
sees me – he looks sad –
at night I tell him to pray
extra hard, ask a power
larger then we are, to bring
the war to an end.

Once a leader of our
Government of the United
States of America – he worked
to return to his father’s
seat. Never took him
long to move guards
into play –
Often, I wonder - what really
happened on that dreadful
day?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

ABOVE THE WORLD

One morning on my way to school,
I took the orange pills from our window
ledge – facing Seneca Street where
mother watches me if I run to fetch
something from the big market. . .
I had taken them from the ledge, stuffed
them into the pocket of a freshly starched
pink flowered dress.

Behind grandmother’s bushes near
red beans I used to make mud pies,
I removed the top.

All those orange pills stare at me, like
the eyes of those in our neighborhood.

I chew one - chewed it – then - started to
walk; first past Charlie’s Grocery – he
wasn’t in his rocker - chewing on his
cigar.

I walked down Avenue A toward my
school, noticed one of mother’s friends
beating a rug against the railing of her
porch. She never looked my way.

I took another orange pill from the jar,
and chewed it - glanced back toward
the porch, waved to mother’s friend,
sneaking the bottle back into
my pocket.

I thought I took enough
to live.

“Twinkle - Twinkle Little Star….”

Humming the song to myself, leaning
my head against the push out window
of our Studebaker,

“How I wonder what you are?”

I began to draw stick figures on the window
of our Studebaker - rubbing it clean –
breathing – rubbing – breathing – rubbing
and drawing, erasing it – exhaling,
breathing, drawing, and erasing it . . .

“Up above the world so high.”
I believe it was my first time to fly.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Drifts of Sand

I want you to know -
our afternoons
writing poetry
in the park -
is a world I
often visit…

I heard – you,
still love me?
despite lines on
my face, a permanent
marker of
timeless drifts of
sand…

If suddenly you
choose to climb
into my world,
for just a moment
we could run
through high grass,
you, chasing me,
touch a cold rock
warmed by our
skin in the
cavern of our life,
again…

For just one
moment
you know how it is
your voice
a memory,
which fades into

shadows of orange
light… and night,
a beginning for
tomorrow –
a touch
of your hand still…
Yesterday…

If you pass me
on the street -
I know you would
stop, sweep me
into your life,
side by side,
drenched in sunlight
of tomorrow…


I can still taste
your lips…

You, wear black
ties, travel in
limousines…

my world could
fit into many
spaces…

One Hundred and Ninety Two

I can see you waiting
at Heaven’s Gate…
Your hand’s stuffed inside
your back pockets…
left leg baring all your weight.

You will be smiling, squinting
into the sun,
You’re wearing a cream
colored sweater, suede
patches at the elbow
and if it were your birthday
you would still be
one hundred and ninety two…

When I rode on your shoulders,
you were one hundred and ninety two…
When you held my wedding veil,
you were one hundred and ninety two…
When my children and their children
were born…
you were one hundred and ninety two…

At Yankee Stadium,
Central Park,
on State Street, Park Place, and
Union Street…
Climbing the back staircase,
lugging groceries …
you were on hundred and ninety two…

Some where in heaven
a little girl sits on your lap
and you’re telling her
how old you are.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all Rights Reserved

Mrs. Moan


Old wooden steps
creaked, a broken rocker
a fixture
on a rundown porch.

Soiled curtains blew free
from a window frame,
no screens to keep
insects out.

Odd, a mustard color light
with no shade
held giant webs
where spiders lived,
silver threads
stretched way above
a child’s head.

Children in the neighborhood
feared this woman,
Mrs. Moan. . .
who lived alone.
Hardships turned
her heart to stone.

When she smiled
she snickered. . .
in a sneaky way
yelling out,
"Won't you come and play?"

Death took her sunshine,
pride and joy
some fifty years ago.
Calling out for other children
playing in the street,
"I have some popcorn for
you to eat!"

Talking
to a memory
of what use to be,
before her daughter met
her grave, before she entered
the seventh grade.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

BOILED CLOTHES


Her washing machine
hooked to her sink in
her kitchen; had a long
hose hanging from a
faucet –

The water entered a basket
connected to the side of
her machine, and a second
hose emptied dirty water
into a porcelain tub.

A wringer higher on the
washing machine must
be hand cranked, so she
stands and twists dirty
laundry over and over
again – water dripping
into a porcelain tub.

She twists and holds them
up - inspects for stains.
Clean clothes receive a
gentle swing – other’s
tossed into another
tub, with chips along its
side.

On the stove in her kitchen
a copper kettle filled with
water, boiled And she
watches as those bad clothes
with stains, boiled in a pot
or water. . .

And back to her machine,
her hands twisting cloth,
a gentle shake – clean.
I wanted to clap, she did
It, and it took all day, and
every other day – her pot
boiled on her stove.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

WHY A GARAGE?

A yellow garage with
a padlock – foggy windows
near yellow tulips growing
in our garden –

Told to stay away from
the garage, and never get
to close to foggy windows.

Many times I tried to sneak
up close, but grandmother,
she had eyes – everywhere -

What – exactly was kept
inside, and kept a secret for
a life time?

And, why did we own a
garage, after all - no one
owned a car – back then.

Heard once grandfather
kept bananas safe
away from heat – for
the fruit man.

You told me –
and I remember.

You told me your father -
grandfather - had a job
working - for a fruit company –
he worked for the fruit man.

You told me –
and I remember.

But – you told me your
father – grandfather,
he was killed working
for the fruit man,

The fruit man killed
him -
did – your father –
my grandfather –
kill – all of their bananas?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

CHILDHOOD In The FIFTIES

(This is part of a longer poem)

I am in the school yard and I am flying.
My legs pump harder, faster, harder, faster,
and I see I am higher - almost diagonal with
the limb of the oak tree. Again I pump harder,
harder.

I feel the earth move as the pole holding
the swing lifts - up and out - of the ground
whenever my legs curl, and the pole returns
into earth as I straighten them. The pole lifts
up and down, up and down, keeping the same
momentum as my legs; in and out of the earth
as if the pole too had legs.

The girls, my friends in the school yard, watch
me and whisper in each others ear. The pole
continues to lift up and out. With legs extended
I see my black patent leather shoes are scuffed.
When my legs stretch my head bends forward and my
chin touches the flower pin I attached to my blouse,
the pin I stole out of mother’s jewelry box earlier
that morning, for my school picture.

She won’t know I stole it, wore it without telling
her, not until she buys the picture at the end of
the year.

My legs stretch out so I am even with the weeping
willow; further from the large oak tree. . . and
it feels like I will fly over the steeple off in
the distant sky.

My friends are still staring and probably want
their turn. I will let them - stop fast - scrape
my heels across loose dirt beneath the swing, raise
dust and cover them with sand. It will teach them
to stare.

The children never ask me to play, I have to ask
them. Most days I walk home alone avoiding cracks
in the sidewalk; mother warned me if I step on one
I will brake her back. I try to avoid dirt where
ants have pushed dirt up and out between slabs of
cement making perfect circles, passing weeds, wild
flowers, dandelions leaning over a sidewalk as if
searching for space.

I’ll walk home alone wearing my patent leather shoes
passing the grocery man who sits in his rocking chair
beneath a plate glass window, near a sign with a
giant picture of a fudge pop, and watch as the grocery
man chews the stub of his cigar. He stares... like
the children in the playground.

A few more steps before I reach our corner lot where I
live on the first floor of a two family flat.
Grandmother lives upstairs. I glance toward our front
porch, the closer I get I begin to smell the roses, seven
sisters, draped across the railing. I walk along the side
of the house where tulips, bleeding hearts, and giant
orange flowers cover the foundation.

In the back yard lines of dirt grow sticks with papers
attached identifying plum tomatoes, string beans, and
cucumbers. At the end of the rows of dirt, along the
fence grows Grandmother’s grapes, the kind with seeds
and thick skin. I’ll suck on a grape spit both the
seeds and skin to the ground.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

NOTE This is the beginning of a longer poem

Any comments would be received with open arms!

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 Platos, but
you won’t recall Platos 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 Platos once
stood, and leaps onto a slide
and her thighs burn.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

TO BOB DYLAN FROM ME

I don’t want to experiment or inventory
or participate with your mind -
It’s my wishful thinking
no doctor knows the scores
or did they read all 32 - volumes

however negative or positive -
since it’s a social situation
needing more then one discussion -
because your history of anxiety
and your sensitivity would cause
you - an acute – stress - disorder. . .

Contrary to the negative, however -
positive - due to – desire, you want
it to be true. . .after our discussion
one reason you emerged - 32 volumes
inaccurately characterized
reflected on reaction suggests
evaluations – to provide
harmonius music

however - negative or positive
since it’s a social situation - needing
more then one discussion because
of your anxiety - your sensitivity
would cause an acute stress disorder

and, I don’t want to experiment
or inventory, or participate
with your mind. . . or send you
home and stamp you cured

or distinguish your potential
you’re afraid to be examined
or designed or recognized –
or would I attempt to categorize
you

correctly – fearful of a long acting
medication - startle your
creativity to cause a brief image
to get stuck inside your head,
disrupt the external – clinical situation
and mask your desire –

but with your history of anxiety
your sensitivity – it would cause you
an acute stress disorder. . .
so you get stuck in the external –
clinical situation masked
as desire and you muscles burst
with wanting some damn
explanation for a short interval
of happy - knowing damn well your
sensitivity and longing is a sign of
creativity within the hemispheres of
your brain.

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