HERE OR THERE LOVE SURVIVES

HERE OR THERE LOVE SURVIVES


A faint light from a full moon
hiding behind the oak tree near
the barn, lights your face – oh,
you are gone but some still say
you vanished in the storm…

Your eyes would stare into mine
and I would feel the passion, the
appetite to love you. It was here
and yes at times, on the sand near
the sea.

You see no one sees you either,
nor has anyone talked to you here,
near the barn where we first met,
oh, it seemed like yesterday when
you squeezed me so tightly I wanted
to tell you, but not then, not the
first squeeze.

Here or there, your face will never
leave – your face brings me back to
our last day – waves spilling over a
rocky shore – you and I holding
hands as if we were children…

You wanted to roll in the sand, so
I followed, and our bodies were
coated with fine grains of white
sand.

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
apart – our last touch as you
fell away from my being – so
I walked to the barn and you
were there, I knew you would
be, waiting to say good bye,
until my day arrived to live again.

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

Now as moonlight fades –
sun slips into unfriendly water.
I say farewell – once more.


Nancy Duci Denofio
© 2011 all rights reserved

BLIND FISTS CRY OUT

Blind Fists Cry Out

A stranger wraps his arms about
her waist - shivers run up and
down her spine -

"They will save him," she whispered,
"Experts do this all the time."

She fingered sand as it fell through
her fingers, heard sea gulls squawking,
and legs splashing – faint voices
mumbling in the distance.

“Is it day or is it night?
Her body unskilled - slipped over
sand.

She screamed, "I want to know!"
She flung her arms above her head
as if they had eyes – to the wind -
"Is he alive?"

She stood to run, tripped, and fell.
Seashells cut sporadic lines on her legs -
her head bent, she grabbed sand –
squeezed her fists, and cried.

A stranger’s voice, a touch patted her
back and asked, "Are you the mother?"

She reached to feel her face.

"Tell me – what . . . does he look
like - Is he cold? Is he warm
or - is he blue?”

Nancy Duci Denofio
©allrightsreserved2011