INDIAN STYLE

INDIAN STYLE

the porch, in front
near roses,
near metal milk crates
above colored slate
from Vermont – is where
she sits – Indian Style,
on top of pieces of
wood, warped, and
gray paint peeling

the porch near two
doors leading to
two families in a
city, on a corner lot
in a city filled with
children who played,
played – as she watched.
where she
smiled when a friend
walked by, a friend one
day –

sitting Indian Style
she smiled once more
if another friend walked
by – near hedges
lining the property,
her feet
touched cement, her head
looked straight ahead –

legs crossed Indian
style on the porch
where fingers picked
at pieces of wood
covered in gray paint,
a smile on her face
a stray tear rolled
down her face,
caught the edges of
her lips, where a
smile – remained

scooting over to the
right, toward the
metal milk box,
she opened the lid
and there – inside
where paper dolls
were stored inside,
she saw her friends
smile back.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
@2010

PLATE OF BONE CHINA

PLATE OF BONE CHINA

The plate resting near
our kitchen sink became
her missile, as her hand
gripped bone china –
bone china from her
mother’s china closet;
what power – behind her
left hand with a twist
in her wrist she made
bone china fly – red roses
with delicate leaves flew
into thin air.

Bone china barely missed
his head and slams into
a wall covered in wanes
coating, above our radiator
near a box of Kleenex, and
a large magnifying glass: you
see, she hardly saw what she
was aiming at and if she
missed. . . it was a glass
framed clock, and her
favorite plant; a hanging
spider. Above the radiator,
bone china split into
smithereens – a few feet
from our green parakeet
hanging upside down,
clinging to a wire cage.

Our birds head bobbing
upside down. She never
tweeted on those days,
when mother did – but all
in all we knew, five mintues
would pass and mother
would be singing a Frank
Sinatra tune: Tweety now
on her swing, and I come
from behind my bedroom
door. In the fifties, it was
a mood swing..

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserverd
@ 2010

MOTHER RETURNS - AFTER DEATH

MOTHER RETURNS
AFTER DEATH


A shot glass you once held and gave
to us – a souvenir
on display since you
passed away
at parties among gin – scotch - whiskey
there - a Schlitz shot glass
peers at us with eyes unseen.

A simple token of you brings back
laughter – stories - tales of when you
too were here embracing life -
it was this glass we brought -
I told you while I talked to you on
the back porch, asking,
“Please show us you are here, tonight?”

It was a week before - broken mirrors -
not knowing why two broke into
smithereens - then a glass moved -
moved dust - a clean circle,
we knew it was you.

You planed the meeting, a chance
some people take – to hear a loved
one who left so long ago – it was
you who told me to place a shot
glass inside my purse – so that night
on our porch I asked you to please
give us a sign – to know you have
been here with us, through life for all
those years.

we sit among all who prayed to
themselves to be chosen – but was
it all our words – our talks
before you passed away? When
you told me you would be here -
you would show me so, all my life
it was the same, I will return, I will
be watching over you – so you have
we all know it – we have all seen it
since that cold windy March day
when you passed away.

I knew you were listening – I knew
you were following my steps.
Everyone sat, hoping they would be
chosen; first a child came through
as an entire family began to weep.
Words spoken like a child – what she
held inside a coffin – what she
wore to sleep – who was the last
one to hold her hand. . .

Next - a woman deep in depression –
another needing surgery – and
finally the girl in the blue blouse -
our eye’s connected.

She said, “I see two – a paternal
Grandmother pushing to be heard
first and your mother – holding
a baby in her arms.”
Every word connected us – but
when she held up her hand and
said, “Your mother is
talking about a little glass” my
husband nearly collapsed.
Then said, “The mirrors –
she didn’t break the expensive one…”
it was true, it slid down the bedroom
wall - but how would she know
I soaked my feet for one week in
front of our television? She said,
"Your mother wants you to know you
don't need to soak your feet, you only
need better shoes."

Mother’s words continued and
she wasn’t missing a thing or making
a mistake, everything was too personal
and too secret for anyone but my
mother to see.

Now I know for sure your
with me – between us as we
ride – you said so, knowing I
do not drive. . .
you told us you were listening
whenever I rode in the car.
Remember a good luck plant – a
stranger, a nice old man
gave me – Irish Shamrocks -
on Mothers Day.

So we continue – we communicate
without words – your love is so
strong it is as if we looked eye to eye.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2010

NOTE: Read – No One Came To Visit
which will explain a great deal about
this very poem. Thanks.

GRANDMOTHER'S BLEEDING HEARTS

GRANDMOTHER'S
BLEEDING HEARTS


That damn radio
blasted
day and night with
church songs -
she sang
with the announcer
blessing Jesus for
everything, she had.

Pray tell,
what did she have?
Same old
formica table,
white with red-chipped
paint.

One over sized basin
for a sink -
soiled dishtowels
hanging; drying
draped over one
piece of wood.

A dented white
metal cabinet
half filled with
foggy plastic glasses.

Ceramic cocoa bowls -
cracked.

Every other day
she held this ice
pick in her aging hand’s
defrosting her old
refrigerator – those
knees had to be raw –
knelt on linoleum
day and night
praying - praying
- half crying, saying -
"Thanks, thanks..."


Her slippers worn
her apron dingy -
she never wanted
anything new - God
in heaven
wouldn't like it,
she had to sacrifice,
sacrifice...

I still see the old
black iron pan,
resting on a stove
without a lid;
scolded herself
holding it in place.

Her pantry had a liner -
little frills -
red and white flowers,
cups, saucers
lined perfectly in
space - no one touched
a single item in her
pantry.

If the old door
creaked, or the
calendar shook which
hung from a nail
on her pantry door -
Grandmother appeared
wondering
what it was you took?

A pull string
hung in the middle of
her kitchen – it would
hit her head when she
stood – a string – a
cord connected to her
damn radio
connecting life.

As she aged a hassock
placed at her feet,
lifting them…
her knees too old,
too frail, to hold
her as she prayed.
Those home made
curtains - blew in the
wind.

Grandmother ached
inside, ached to reach
her window sill to
stare out a pane of
glass - old and aging
rapidly.

She never - never
wanted to cry, but
I felt her tears,
her aging heart.

She never gave up
old "Zebra Bread."
a toaster -
she flipped two sides
with her curled thumbs,
testing, to see if
her bread was done.

Every morning, into
her cracked ceramic
bowl she tossed,
dried old Italian Bread,
Dandy Crackers,
Ritz, Graham -
Rice Krispies, Corn
Flakes, and
cookies - from her old
antique cookie jar,
a bear – it smiled at
her – remained in the
same spot on top of her
chipped formica table.

I loved her Cookie Jar -
filled with striped
cookies from "Woolworth’s"
Those cookies made
me happy.

On Tuesdays Grandma
climbed the staircase
to the second floor
holding a brown
paper bag -
I followed.
She filled the old
antique cookie jar
with cookies from
"Woolworth’s."

Patiently I sat near
her pantry door,
waiting – as she
handed me one -
her gold tooth shinned
as she smiled -
I waited, squirming
in the chair, begging
with my eyes for more.

Now I wonder why
Grandma’s pans hung
from nails in her pantry?
I wonder why her
bread box was nailed shut?

The cookie jar, I
remembered most -
Yellow, green with
eyes that stared from
a funny bear.

But those damn church
songs embarrassed me,
her homemade curtains
blowing in the wind -
echoes of how God
would turn our world
around.

I played beneath her
opened kitchen window -
near Grandmother’s
plants -
her bleeding hearts.

Nancy Duci Denofio
(c) all rights reserved
1-14-2011

YOU VANISHED IN A STORM

You Vanished In A Storm

A faint moon lights your face -
Although some say you vanished
In a storm -

Still I see your eyes as you
stare into mine - passion - our
appetite to love -

Has not been taken in spite
of certain death.
Perhaps no one sees as we do
here?

Your face will never leave –
your face brings me back to
our last day – waves spill
over a rocky show – you
and I embraced while
sand coated our bodies -

You see - I would not let you
go - I held you – whispered
in your ear, kissed your ear
lobe - but a force stronger
pulled you from me.

I recall our hands slipping
and at last our touch of skin
falling from one another’s
touch.

This place where I stand -
I shall return no matter the
distance I must travel –
Your face will still be alive
in the sea at moonlight –
Your face an instrument of
life after death - keeping
me alive.

And now as moonlight
fades and a sun slips into
distant water.
I say good bye –
once more.


Nancy Duci Denofio

A BIRD WITHOUT WINGS

A Bird without Wings


Spring is dry this
year in our forest –
a bird has a broken
wing and cannot fly –

You have walked beside
me within this forest, on
a scanty path – it leads
to a brook – while a tiny
bird will hobble on its
way down to a brook
but not stand tall or wash
it’s wings – spread them
wide to dry.

Stones have been tossed
my way, so we keep
our distance on this
path where dust flies
upward, covering shoes -
covering a bird’s wing.

A broken heart – a
broken limb – similar with
mending, brings together
security to each – for when
a heart breaks, it no longer
wants to fly.

If a small bird – still touched
beak to beak with it’s
mother bird, could she too
fix a baby bird – mend a
tiny wing?

This spring the ground
is dry, no water flowing
over its’ bank, no flood,
so a broken wing is covered
in dust as we lift our feet
take slow steps - kick sand. . .
dry – lip of our lips remain
as if lips were sand at a
brooks edge –
our lips have no spring.

I have no skill to mend a
bird’s wind, who once flew
now wallows on dry hollow
ground - hope is gone.

Remember, you gathered
stones for me – emptied
edges of a brook took water
from a stream – dried soil of
spring -

Each stone came to fly away
with a whisper, from your
lips – a stone to build a home. . .
we tossed stones higher,
further – into deeper water.

Each stone we hold is unlike
the other - yet means our
future, as we touch lips – as
we watch a single stone splash
softly into still water.
We built a wall at a paths
end - one you will never climb –

You are simply a bird
without wings -

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
c - 2011