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


Saturday, July 31, 2010

YOU ASKED ME TO DANCE published in What Brought You Here


A white butterfly. . .
You have come home to dance
on my shoulder, high above daisies
to spin in circles

casting our shadows on a pond
a rendezvous of seasons, and
a landscape covered with snow.
You fooled me.

Your sister’s, sister?
No one noticed when she fell
through ice.
A white picket fence keeps
me away.

I feel your wings.
You flutter toward the barn
passed the statue of the
Blessed Virgin Mary.

We dash to skip over holes
in the floor of the barn.
You grab my hand
we skip over light; reflections on

a wide plank wooden floor.
We pass a broken lantern -
red glass shimmers,
and Grandmother’s wedding dress
hanging near our homemade stage.

You grab my hand, and together
we run to the hillside
we roll into a ball and tumble
“head over heals,” Grandmother said,
on over grown grass.
We roll over clover and our toe’s tangled
in weeds,
we roll near apples left beneath the apple

In winter,
I hear you laugh -
tears roll down your face
you’re laughing so hard
you bend to catch your breath.

Your chin captures yellow of a butter cup,
and again - wings of a white butterfly
leads me to the white picket fence.
The slope disappears.
The apple tree, a twig.
And your face
appears in murky water.
Your laughter still surrounds me.
A stone is tossed, and circles swirl over,
and over.

My eyes close as if captured by the
swirling water,
and you were gone.

Forgive me.

A yellow eye - inside a white daisy
asked me to dance.
We are leaping across summer grass
near tall weeds and wild flowers.
Our dance ends - so,
I snap your stem to take you home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
published in What Brought You Here
Dystenium - Limited Editions Press
2010 - page 5 - 7

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

WINDOW VIEW - Train Ride from NYC to Florida

(a train ride from NYC
to Florida)

cement mountain
parking lots, homes from
eighteen fifty five

blue, plastic train -
river - slime near a
coral fence, ships in
corn fields

giant bridges near muddy
water, beneath
cable cars, run down
darkness stretches shadows

white lace foam
past an island
past cement pilings
near nuclear waste -
cloudy water,
lost its’ reflection a boat
sailing in a murky river
near graffiti, broken

cops and robbers on the
prowl - cafe, bar,
platform vacant...
storage bins, garage -
tires, high wire
acts, tin soldiers
cement birthing weeds...

metal machines, rusted
plows of sunshine
sailboats of distant dreams...
cement castles, red roofs
sea gulls flying high

broken homes near
swamps, a warehouse
empty, a parking lot
a hard hat rests
on a splintered bench,

a bearded man sleeps
inside a railroad car
imagining the ride

Eighteen wheeler, orange
cones, flying lumber
trains... close to a prison
gate, wired fenced,
comfort station closed,
stone arches,
playground panic
disturbing dreams.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Thursday, July 22, 2010


Night a Private Hell

Knew, it wasn't right -
his laughing -
while I tried to signal
fear from blind eyes -
cut communication –
be noticed by a bystander.

door latch
higher then me,
listening to shuffle
of his feet –

where could a blind girl
hide in a strange place?

how long before bruises
tangle with insanity?

Afraid to speak out –
a coarse laugh blemished
pigment of the blind,
tears fall covering light -
how trite I must appear?

insignificant, nondescript -
true, he recorded my
every more...
I had to find a passage,

Hands wrapped - wheels
scrapped on ice - someone
please - read my pain, read my face,
feel cold sweat on my brow.

a friendless world - nightfall
a private hell,
begged for death, to break
his pattern

to melt away as snow.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

Tuesday, July 20, 2010



They gather in a kitchen,
they gather in a parlor,
drinking beer and whiskey
I am glued to a table.

Too young for spirits, but
old enough to know you
didn't want to hug her -
never wanted to touch her
I didn't want to touch you

Watched all of them talking
drinking, laughing -
I stared at you – if eyes
could kill they would have -
I watched you stand, leave
the house, smoke a cigarette
behind the old barn. . .

Your fake sadness,
sucking down beer – shots
of whiskey, just another
drunken day – you see
only a few people really
knew you – they never
came to comfort you –

I watched you hug a
child - shook hands as
If it were just another
day, smiled at friends
and neighbors - even
bounced a baby on your lap,
sitting next to me -

They should have put you
inside a wooden box -
not her!!
Those stark eyes dart in
my direction...
I turn to look the other

You stood above me, touched
my shoulder, as shivers
slid down my spine...

No one in the kitchen or the
parlor, really knew you. All
of them grieving, spilling drinks
on velvet chairs -
enjoying all the food
neighbors brought to share.

Obvious I detested you,
I made you invisible, long ago.
And, God blessed this child,
took her away from you
before she grew.

Your disappearance perfect
and we wanted it that way!
Twenty five years it took
to notice you, a stranger -
tall, slender, leaning into
his own shadow, on her
wedding day.

Sunset to the West,
your nothingness of face
preserved my sanity

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Saturday, July 17, 2010



Same - rustic appearance,
booths lined side by side.
Drab color of wine, worn
at the edges; a shadowy
dingy place – a waitress
serves with a smile. . .

A soda fountain leans up
against a back wall
covered with white sheets
and some black leather
stools where young people in
the fifties had to twist, had
to hear the stool squeak.

Slightly above each booth
a photograph of Presidents
of our past; Presidential
Primaries, those who won,
who lost – framed
photographs - patrons –
tell stories of when, and
laugh. . .

Sipping black coffee, my
head leans against wine
colored torn plastic seats,
and I see a vivid view of
a young lady, pony tails,
poodle skirts and eyes
flirting, as her body
twists on a stool – back
and forth – her hair
brushes against pure
white skin.

Patrons still congregate,
without a poodle skirt of
black leather jackets, and
children have hair pulled
into a pony tail – everyone
sips black coffee from a
cream color ceramic mug,
as the waitress with a
smiles fills each cup. . .

Once it was a newspaper
which occupied a mind –
now each morning men
enter carrying leather cases,
wearing fine silk ties, and
open up their life stored in
a computer, and they talk
aloud, alone.

A streak of sun cuts through
glass from the south window
of the café’ and catches a
sparkle of white hair; still
a waitress smiles, talks of
photographs, and stories
she once shared.
A streak of light crosses
a face, one sipping coffee
and silk ties – lines on his
face – exaggerated -
his voice speaks to the
congregation – but no one
knows what side he’s on.

Patrons listen.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Monday, July 12, 2010


The Cellar

Air moved a trap door
on a brick chimney -
forced heat, opened
then shut -
opened then shut

as if a ghost
pushed on a metal
flap with a thin long
handle -

As a little girl
hypnotized by
clanging metal.

Nearby - on cracked
cement walls were papa's
paintings -
shedding dust, for tears.

Now, I stand in the cold cellar -
for one split second I can
hear the whistle of a train. . .
over there,
on the platform -
brother, he has a
of his own.

See him?
leaning over;
his bare arms just
caught a splinter.

Straight ahead - and a little
to the right -
a bowling ball would travel
over cracked cement
most rolled of course. . .

Boys in our neighborhood
took those bowling balls -
no one wanted
holes where fingers
could not stretch.

Oh, listen to that washing
machine rock back and forth
on a wooden platform -
daddy built it; just like the one
for brothers' train.

Wait, now I hear all the
children in the sixth grade
laughing -
playing spin the bottle -

we paired off,
entering a different part
of our cellar, a "cold room"
beneath the back porch
near the cellar door.

Guess most of us from the
neighborhood learned
how to kiss under spider
webs hanging high above
our heads.

Today, I was told to
investigate - see what is left
from yesterday.

Memories - are never
stored inside a
cardboard box.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

Saturday, July 10, 2010

ECHO of the SOUL

Echo of the Soul

Evident by itself,
obvious in time
you shall be filled
with ecstasy,
spirited by cheer,
intensified with envy
stirred with passion…
yet, you are so small…
a measly weight

I take a deeper gulp
of air, my body spins
an instrument of life –
color coded hemispheres
directing me into
another splice of time
to rejuvenate another
layer of wasted skin….

I see the marble
where gray is prominent.
A train track where
many a drunk slept,
down a hill of clover,
and then I count the
mounds of gray as
before… some new,
some old…

It is cold at the highest
peek, but cold doesn’t
detour me, doesn’t
cause me to shiver…
I flood as a breeze
in a rainstorm,
unwilling to stay,
unwilling to leave…
Unfair, calling on me
in my dream…
I am not ready to
drift here alone,
gray skies are enough
for the warm blooded….

Wings of an angel
must be floating near
the top of a mountain
as you leave the map
drawn here on earth…
tree tops lean, cry
as mysterious land
is opened to accept
your soul…
you run - not

Today is peaceful
and too I must depart
find reason to fly
back on a single
breeze, to touch
frozen soil, and
dream with you…
My voice, an echo
of your day, my
body a castle you
cannot see – my
mind evaporated
heart, tormented by
a dream like festival,
and I shall never
fear when I am lost.

Where rocks are
pebbles and streams
are scattered patches of
wet leafs from
yesterdays damp autumn
and teased by giant
boulders where fresh
strands of water form
a familiar face, too,
on my return as high
noon carves deeper lines.

The snow is scarce
till a gentle brush of wind
lets time rest on a
human face…
Warned of night,
told of magic in
white castles near a sky…
Still a haunted forest
cries from wolves,
a human mind creates
havoc in the silence.

My legs climb higher
slip on rocks buried
from yesterdays snow…
higher now, as tree tops
bend to greet you, your
strength leaps over
frozen brooks –
you will greet the cold
stone shell I have become
now stretched above
the tallest tree,
on wooden steps, you
want to teach the carving
of a young mans heart.

You have crossed many
a storm in quiet water…
crossed a peaceful
flame of flowers, and
the loneliness near
the top of a mountain…
Your gentleness scares
the wolf…

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved


Walk Alone

No one knows love
until it’s gone…
you took away
a feeling which is
stirring up a storm,
others never knew
you so well…

I learned early on
to forgive you…
Each day, to shield
myself in armor…
surviving with all
my love…

If sound vanishes,
I hear your voice
and want to run…
even in all your
anger, I loved you

Without a closeness
of two hearts, we
flee to other lands…
I guess I never
minded pain, I

If hurt remains
embedded in my
mind, those times
we shared – no one
else meant more..
pain leaves a broken
heart to store…

I want to reach,
touch, kiss, love…
I want to run,
hide, yet I stood
still… confused

A crutch of hate,
laughter, pain –
joy… feeling anger,
why… why have
you forgotten time, it’s
you dying without

I won’t survive as
armor anymore…
I use to smile, love
life, common trees
and all the
flowers… keeping
peace, making each
day worthwhile..
now in pain, I’ve
turned to stone.

I never dreamed,
you would die the
way you did…
committed to your
silence, there I
stood. How brief
our parting had

With years behind
us, now a vacant
stare, no time to share
with you, my love…
the door is
opened – from up

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Friday, July 9, 2010



Oh, to blurt out words of yesterday -
blend them into spaces of your life

to recognize a place you’ve been -
to gather up laughter once forgotten

hear the sound of nature when alone -
not knowing who is near – where – or care;

our mind brings us to places we have
been – once remembered – or forgotten -

photographs brings us back - to the day
we lived within its color . . .

our steps are many – yes – some forgotten
foot prints

tomorrow - fresh imprints – new photos
develop in our mind to recall

to bring joy to our existence.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

Thursday, July 8, 2010


A Child Buried Today

A child buried today.
I listen to women of
rain -
tears covered by veils
of darkness – shadows
of women.

Cyprus, Sri Lanka -
mourn the
prostitution of their
daughters, and
empty stomachs -
deformity, and disease.

A blaze thickens in
a woman’s heart -
Invisible -
imprisons a soul, as
fear saturates their

A brave assault,
motionless - a
life swept past -
ash - beneath a rock.

It’s March - oh
I shall weep as I
see those abandoned -
abused - left on a street.

April. - “I shall
seek not to deliver,”
she spoke – touching
her swollen belly,
sick, and dying.

In May – brave souls
on the edge, arrive to
help those crying tears
and too - doctors
are torn apart by war.

June - I sit patiently
and no one hears
the sting.
She told me,
“I buried my child

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


I wish you were dead.”

crushed between a
bedroom door and a
closet –

rage grabs you, spins
you in a circle – now
you are a doll with large
eyes plaster of pares
hear nothing
see nothing
say nothing

as night draws near
a radiator hisses below
a window –
inside a cage -
a parakeet
rocks on a swing –
without plaster

don’t break the
plaster of pares
don’t shatter the

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

Grave Whispering

Grave Whispering

He died
before me -
one grieves -
grave whispering

pillow case
salt water tears -
as if a child

should it be
only children

pillow case
salt water tears -

fear of night
in darkness
the Blessed
Virgin Mary

Is - he watching?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Monday, July 5, 2010



The familiar path out
of the village of
Aquafacaro - to reach
wheat fields - began at
the square - at the corner -
where men and boys gathered
to greet a rising sun -
peasants - their life
snuggled along a mountain -

Francisco crept up along the side
of his home, on a dusty path.

I would guess - Francisco
rode on his donkey's back,
and each day he began his
climb up a hill - he must
had stopped to gaze to his
right - to see a sun peek
out from the sea, as
another day changed the color
of his face, his life, from
dark purple to aqua marine.

I can see him - a peasant
covered in white cloth, a
hat on his head to ward off
the sun - staring from the
edge of the mountain to lights
fluttering, sparkling like
bubbles in colored water
above the sea - different
shades of pink... soft,
warmer - as a ball of fire
drinks purple water -
a hue - a brilliant shade
of aqua, turquoise - yet
pink wants to survive.

Francisco - must have stood
still – for a few minutes -

as his eyes moved left to
right - watching shades of
light - as life awakes in
his village - a few feet from
a path where his day began. . .

If he gazed further into a
sea of aqua - his heaven,
to see the Aeolian Island -
he may have dreamed one day
his life too – quite, beautiful -
like small pieces of land
surrounded by colors of a

Francisco - picked wheat,
filled sacks, and walked his
donkey to a stone hut - placed
wheat beneath shade.

Back and forth - a sun grew
larger in the sky.

At days end, Francisco, on his
donkey's back - repeated his
familiar path - down a dirt,
and dusty road -

I can picture him glancing - off
to his left, as a sun fell
into evening waters – orange -
violet - as if water painted
geraniums, hibiscus, oranges,
lemons - of this land.

Color soaking gradually into
a sea, tinting a sky - beautiful
shades of purple.

He fed his donkey - walked past
friends selling fish, almonds,
and olives - his smile slight -
home - to his wife, Santa. Now
he rests on his stoop - in front
of his home at the corner of a
square in his village until
morning lights a sea –
another daylight, another
glance over a mountain’s edge.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Sunday, July 4, 2010



Grandmother catches rain in
a rain barrel near the rows of dirt.
I play with the old dented faucet
attached to the barrel – when eyes
are not staring – from the upstairs

I use my plastic plates and cups
given to me by a girl down the street,
at one of my birthdays - cups are red
and white – I fill them with water from
the rusty old barrel – to serve to my

Mother, she complains about our
clothes line stuck in the center of my
play area. A long rope attached to our
house stretched across our lawn and
fastened to the shed near the alley
ways. . .

A few years ago my father’s father
chopped down a cherry tree, and an
apple tree, but we still have the pear
tree – growing fuzzy pears.

Our sidewalk - longer because of a
corner lot, but Grandmother she sweats
when trimming the shrubs, I sometimes
stare, and watch – her arms opening
and closing these big sissors. I watch
to make sure she doesn’t run all the red
beans, I mix into mud near the barrel
for mud pies. Dolls, they love mud pies.
I taught myself how to remove the beans
without being stuck by the thorns.

Mother - on the front porch leaning over
our yellow railing, it’s sometimes loose,
she leans to snip a few seven sisters,
for the kitchen table – but she hates the
roses, complains she is allergic.

When mother’s eyes meet mine, we don’t
have to talk. I think everyone stares in
my neighborhood including my mother,
and her friends, especially -
our grocery man.

Mother’s resting, sitting on the metal
milk box, and inside I hide my paper dolls.
Next to mother an opened bottle of Schlitz
and a pack of Chesterfields.
When mother sucks smoke in she holds it
inside for a long time, exiting her nose,
mouth, then it circles her head
raises up and up to reach the seven sisters.

Mother was one of seven sisters.

(Note: This is a portion of a long poem.)

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved