I Still See Grandmother Wave

I STILL SEE GRANDMOTHER WAVE

Her curtains always yellow
even in winter – she had to
see through them, through
glass – she had to know
everything going on below,
on Seneca Street – when
the street lamps turned on
and Father wasn’t inside –
that’s when buckets of
water were tossed from her
window with yellow curtains
over his head.

Her radiator hissed – and
her thumb curled – way back
and she would lick it as she
turned each page of her bible.
But, it was me – me sitting in
front of that radiator begging
for cookies from her cookie
jar – she continued to pray
aloud and still licked her thumb.

Today, I wish you were still
sitting, facing that window, still
breathing – still telling me to
read “John” from the “New
Testament.”

Instead, everything changed.
I seldom walk up the stairway –
I seldom gaze up to the window –
but every now and then –
I still see Grandmother wave.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

WHERE ANGELS FLEW BETWEEN THE TREES

“Where Angels Flew Between the Trees”

Angels gather there, above trees
behind my home – they told me so –
do you believe me?
do you see angels in my tree?

In the morning I stood barefoot
grass sneaking between toes
morning dew coats our home
our cellar door –

My feet wet – damp
I wiggle my toes – wait
wait for my turn to visit with angels
wondering if I too could fly?

Patience, as I brush back my hair
moistened by the morning dew
as the sun pops out between
a mountain in the distance
now closer to my time…

My eyes stare forward at the tree -
sparkles of light now flicker as
diamonds – yet - it could not compare
to what has entered my being –

A peace, a calm, a life beyond what
I left inside, now inside my heart –
my soul – and I wiggle my toes.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A LAST GOODBYE

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 right reserved

ELEMENTARY SCHOOL 1958

Elementary School 1958

There she was, entering the classroom
her head barely clearing the doorway.
Over six feet tall with feet we called
boats - as she flopped one after another
beneath her desk.

Her shoulders wide like a man,
her fingers so long, as a witch on purpose
scratching chalk on a chalkboard.

Miss Dawson was wearing a flowered
dress on this memorable morning,
me, in the fourth grade, me who she told
to meet her in the cloakroom.

Well, a trip to the cloakroom, alone, would
mean we were scolded for something
we did during class, but the teacher
barely said a word as she whispered – I
knew I did nothing to be reprimanded.

But this trip to the cloakroom
in the fourth grade - was to tell me
I wasn't good enough for her choir.

Can you imagine all those children
in the classroom – waiting – staring
toward the door to the cloakroom,
can you imagine me with tears in my eyes –
a sad face, my head down, being afraid to
glance up, walking slowly back to my desk.

When I finally reached my desk, and sat,
a tear fell onto my cheek and I heard
children chanting, “She can’t sing…”

1958 - I started our school talent show.
Our principal was Miss Hagarson - she told me,
“When you left elementary school they never
had another talent show.”
Guess I had talent collecting all the children
with talent…

Joey played the drums, and Cass sang…
Keith helped with the curtains and directing,
and the girls who could sing, carried on
like the other Nancy down the street, and Patty,
Donna, and Aggie.

I danced, and talked as if I were the
first commentator on stage, introducing
everyone and telling everyone how talented our
school was. When it came to the piano,
I even had the music teacher helping me, she knew
I wasn’t going to sing.

The big mouth kids, the trouble makers, I put
them to work too, everyone was in the show, not
one child left out…

You see – learning is a giant step – believing in
yourself is even bigger – so I turned it around
singing wasn’t the end of the world – it was the
beginning of mine.

Nancy Duci Denofio
(Note - this is a section of a memoir
which I changed to fit into a poetic memoir
for easy reading.)

GRAVEYARD

GRAVEYARD

Life comes to a close
at night as a shovel digs
deep into the earth –
lifting dirt to make a
place for you to live.

At night - she hears a
shovel as sound surrounds
her – her body shivers,
and sweat pours from skin –
moistens her night gown -

It is clear now – as if night
were day – a hole - deep
a man jumps into its’ emptiness
another man tosses a different
shovel which levels the earth.

The land, flat – sides high -
bats fly from tree to tree -
ghosts surround men
digging a space for another
friend.

She glances toward a bench
near the oldest part of the
graveyard. And you sit with
your legs crossed, and boots
up to your knees – your hair
has grown - your nails
painted perfectly.

Are you wondering who is
next - or do you know?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights resevered

LITTLE GIRL LEGS

LITTLE GIRL LEGS

little girl legs
patent leather shoes
walk - she dances on
her way to school

she gazes up
it shines like a
giant yellow balloon
on top of red brick

little girls
bewildered by its'
size, knows a sound
will cause her fear -
her feet, no longer
dance - instead
now dragging feet
across cement

a large yellow
balloon warns of
war - of bombs,
death - no family
left
sirens sound - hurts
small ear - or does
it hurt a mind calling
out in the middle of a
day -

together walk
little girls and boys
against a wall,
down two flights
of stairs to a
basement floor

neat - arms at their
side - straight -
no one laughs,
no one cries

small bodies sit
facing a putrid wall
of green - indian
style; girls bare
legs kiss gray cement
floors - heads touch
cold walls

hot air - inhale,
exhale, inhale on
bare flesh - eyes
closed - arms - hands
wrapped around a child's
head

all clear - a sound
erases fear as smiles
appear, pushing -
shoving - joking -
talking

until another day
unwrapped arms,
uncrossed legs -
hot air no longer
on little girl legs

Nancy Duci Denofio

TEACH the CHILD

TEACH the CHILD


Universe of the mind,
and body
a seed emerges and
wild roots grab hold of

a single child,
a shooting star
trapped in space -
continuous night.

One offspring shoots a
ray of light, dangling
principles - their
dance - multiplying
filling empty voids
where dark lingers -

a brighter light where
silent armies form,
gather strength beyond
a child now pushed, probed
by a single star.

Is this home or a
wild seed wanting to
be free?

No need to conform
no painful words
or trapped by a
darker day in light -

push – push - pain
but no labor

A single seed eats away
at a brain – grows
into webs of their own
ready to explode – as
the mind degenerates.

Train your child well -
seeds grow wild
in a wilderness

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

YOU KNOW HER?

YOU KNOW HER?

does she stare all day
through a cubby hole –
her arm bent, her hand
holding her head beneath
her chin?

She talks on a phone –
tells no one her name –
wearing a shirt that sparkles
as if she were dressed to
go dancing – her lipstick
thick – her eyes painted
green.

She holds a white pen
in her hand – never writes.
She asks questions – and
has no clue about what’s
happening in the world.

She pretends to be sexy,
playing on the phone as
if she were all grown up,
as I hear her whisper

unlike the person she
talks to on the phone –
probably in three times
her age -

Nancy Duci Denofio

A Poem From "WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?"

The Night Before

A glorious red balloon
it's how he told me
my mouth felt.

The night before he left
he stared at flesh -
no words exchanged
he wanted me to think
kissing was good, and
took his fingers, closed
my eyelids, told me
“It was alright to breathe.”

Wondered if men gave
out candy here?

The wrong he did was so...
casual for him -
as if he took apart another
puzzle - so singular -

People say birds are exotic.
He compared me to a bird.
Wondered if I could have flown?

A bird twists silently out from
its nest of twigs.

My body settled into summer.
Birds gathered at a feeder.
I feel stillness all so ordinary,
suddenly you are naked -
thinking, the entire
world sees you pass

It is morning and I am again,
alone.

I think of how birds
flew - out there, in the open.

Nancy Duci Denofio
From What Brought You Here? published 2010
by Dystenium http://nancyducidenofio.limitededitions.com
page 16 - 17

A GROWN CHILD

A GROWN CHILD

she is happy, cheerful
clothes of bright orange
age on her face – tanned

she worried about space
where she and her daughter
would sit

laying blue towels
advertising the Yankees
on beach chairs at the pool

satisfied her - as she
lifted her daughter’s arms
to cross on her lap

a mother claps – smiles
rewarding herself – a
job well done

watched her walk up
a hill empty handed -
knew her hands soon

would fill with pain and
love – as she wipes a
mouth of a grown

child – who doesn’t
know her name – as
she carries around

a heart of glass as
it breaks into pieces
– of love

but she continues
day after day to care
for her grown child

wipes her mouth –
she wants her to live

as her age show
rapidly with each
sunset of her life.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MIND FEED

MIND FEED

On cement steps
leading to our
library -
I closed my eyes -
a face looked
back at me

never knew you
or had you
known me?
Are you dead?

Talking to me
in photographs
deep inside
my mind -

why did I study
your face -
open - close
open - close
these eyes
seeing the same
face -
staring at me.

Your dark hair
short but below
your ears, dark
eyes and pure
white skin.

Your smile not
even slight, not
even a frown -
as if frozen in
time - who are
you?

Were you sending
me a message
or perhaps claimed
the wrong living
soul - you kept
returning,
open - close
open - close,
no way to take
your face away.

Not sleeping
I saw people
walking by me
on the Library
steps. A
public place. . .

Where I am -
I never
saw you here
before -
open - close
open - close.
As if a picture
from the inside
of a book was
projected through
a memory of who?
Yes, I love
history too -
and I am sitting
on the library
steps.

Will you haunt
me now - or
keep coming
back - perhaps
tonight in a
dream?

You want more
from me then
a glance into
the past, I
can feel it.

Are you alone
in heaven?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

LOVE CHILD

LOVE CHILD

See - In this oven,
a love - child.
Outside,
embers scar,
Mama’s heartbreak
PaPa’s dish rag

See - a knife
cuts the cord,
slowly kills a child

See - Mama’s a
milking machine -
and Papa’s
knuckle’s raw

Anger built
these walls,
bruised blood
traveling through
a Child’s heart

See, carved on
skin, red embers -
time after time
a twisted mind -

his children live on
yesterdays bread
inside flea
infested shack,
no shirt
on their back

See - Mama
lost a child,
who sucked its’
thumb

See – Mama
told us no one
asked to abort
a parent -

PaPa said,
“Sweep yesterdays
dirt, across the floor”

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MRS. MOAN

Mrs. Moan


Her wooden porch had
a strange creak as her
feet moved up and down
moving a rocker back
and forth with bare feet.

Back and forth, dressed
in white – she stared at
children in the neighborhood -
she seemed to smile
in a strange way – children
told - not to play near her
home, to keep away from
Mrs. Moan. . .

Soiled curtains blew free
from her open windows -
no screens to keep
insects out.

In daylight a mustard
color light without a
shade held giant spider
webs where spiders
weaved silver threads –
stretched high above a
child’s head.

Children in our
neighborhood
feared this woman,
Mrs. Moan -
who lived alone – told
her heart and mind
turned to stone.

When she smiled
she snickered -
in a sneaky way
yelling out to those
of us who passed her
porch -

"Won't you come and play?"

Death took her sunshine,
pride and joy
some fifty years ago – and
now – rocking back and
forth, she would hold
a bowl on her lap -
telling all the children
playing in the street -

"I have some popcorn for
you to eat."

And every day more
bowls were scattered on
her porch, each filled
with more popcorn –
soon covering her porch.

The little girls of the
neighborhood became
her memory of what use
to be – her daughter met
her death when crossing
the street, before the
seventh grade.

We took her flowers as
she smiled, we watched
her rock – back and forth,
and hid along the side of
her porch, listened as she
talked - but no one was
there.

Ed Burns and his
record “Kookie” – I recall
her calling out to me –

“Kookie, Kookie, won’t
you come and play?

While mom she stood
at attention calling out
my name, “Cookie you
come home right this
minute..” she heard
Mrs. Moan’s song –
as it faded in the distance.

Mrs. Moan kept
singing – asking
me to play – until one
day she left her porch -
her rocker disappeared,
her popcorn and all her
bowls, and spider webs
dancing above her head
were swept away. . .

I knew that day, as I
walked past her home
Mrs. Moan
would never be on
her porch – calling out
my name – already I
missed Mrs. Moan.

I learned she found a
better home. . .

I prayed that night she
wouldn’t be alone.
The next day, I entered
the seventh grade.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

DON'T TELL ME

DON’T TELL ME

don’t tell me –
don’t – I know
you’re nervous
like a cat
touching your
tie - as cats
lick their paws
you – lick your
lips
ready to tell me

don’t tell me
don’t – I know
you haven’t a
smile on your
face or will
you look my
way – I disturbed
your routine
for the morning –
asked your for a
few things – a few
dollars for a
dunkin donut
medium coffee
black with a
little ice -
asked for a few
dollars for a
possible half
sandwich at
just meats – or
half a salad on
the side

your routine of
a meal crossing
broadway – to a
fancy place because
you work nearby
is part of your day

don’t tell me –
don’t – I know
you will glare at
me with dark
eyes – watch my
hands as I hold
my dunkin donut
coffee – black
with a little ice –
so I don’t have
to wait to drink –
thinking I will
spill it on your
car seat

the doors open
at seven and you
kept twisting and
turning all night –
kept me awake –
I tried to lock
knees – touch
your skin – feel
your head because
you were in pain –
you said

you kept me awake
and I worried like
the mother cat –
who cleans the
kitten’s fur –
like the one who
stays home and
stares out a
window –
digging for a
dollar in dimes

don’t tell me
don’t – I know
my heart was placed
in the center
of my chest –
it beats – it cares
it gives – it sings
out – it gives –
it gives – but you
sit there in your
car – taking a
right hand turn
and a quick left
glancing at the
hands holding a
full cup of coffee

you tell me –
to be careful –
not enough cash
for a taxi ride
home – not
enough time for
a kiss goodbye

I turned
I wanted to wave
goodbye –
you never looked
back.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

SUCKING THUMBS

Sucking Thumbs

A cloth wrapped a thumb
in pepper,
Mama said,
"Sucking thumbs not
suitable for a lady."

But, she let a
boogie man
into my room,
windows not locked
on a Friday when
Joe Lewis was
fighting in the parlor

Reckon a boogie man
took note how poor
we were, it's nineteen -
fifty two -

Wonder if he knew
Papa had to borrow
a rich man's car to
deliver his dead son
to his grave?

Nancy Duci Denofio

A WAVE CLAIMED HIM

A WAVE CLAIMED HIM

Six o’clock on a Sunday morning
as the sun rises and peaks out
of the sea – I stand and move
the shade; time to leave.
I must see him -

Quietly I slide the screen door
open to walk along the shore
It is dawn -
those who feel freedom - a
morning on a beach - run across
sand, or walk peacefully; most
nod and say hello.

It is as if this covering of moisture
liberates me, sand between my
toes – tickles – I wiggle them.

Now, I see him – his dark hair,
perfect body - his leg’s taking
giant steps. He continues, appears
to be leaping; his leg’s extend as
he jogs . . . further, and further.

I believe it was this momentary
glance in my direction. He may
be turning from the sun. . .
How could he possibly may see me
through fog?

One more glance – one more.
He leans forward, as if to bend
and find a sea shell, like the
lady carrying her plastic bag
to bring shells home, then toss
them into the trash.

I see a white band of skin, below
his waist where sun has not
changed him; it excites me -

I reach the sandbar, and his body
blends with earth - a wave
claimed him

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

WISDOM

WISDOM

you make people feel
you are filled with wisdom
you are smarter and I
should listen

they haven't seen darkness
only stones of sapphires
glowing - when I stare
into your eyes

a path you paved - one
step at a time,
you placed a rock -
each step you took
for me to trip and fall

you have stopped water
for a way to keep moving -
you have opened up the
dam where I have drowned

where is this wisdom
they tell me to follow?
for I have taken many
steps behind you

have you hidden all the
wisdom they have seen,
from me?
to fear but one more step -

behind -
will be my last

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

LOVE PASSES BY

LOVE PASSES BY


In the meadow I have
found comfort – among
high grass and weeds
yet not alone - did I come
here to be touched as
nature sees

In the forest I have seen
not the dark - but love
of night. . .
It is there I go - but not
alone to taste how
darkness feels - far
from home

In the mountain I go but
not alone to walk paths –
but to follow steps before
me – to wallow in pines –
It’s there I find a hand
clenched tightly to mine

In the streets I go - not alone
but with strangers in my way -
lonely when eyes meet -
where people have no
time to stay –
In streets where music plays

Perhaps - this is why
I stay away

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MY FATHER'S MOURNING

MY FATHER'S MORNING

Grandmother had to be
dancing upstairs in her
kitchen - her radio blaring.
When her friends arrived -
all talking half English -
And, my mother said,
"It's too much noise."
But, the noise never stopped.

Father, he invested in a
bigger radio - more noise,
unlike grandmother did
following the death of his
father - it was tradition
to remove all the tubes
from the big - radio in her
parlor - respect.
So father never listened
to the "War of Worlds."

The day father's father
died, it had to be the
worst day of his life. . .
His father laying in
the marriage bed, his head
resting on a pillow -
a pillow stitched with
grandmother's hands
"I Love You" in Italian.

My grandfather, his head
resting on the pillow
whispered to his son,
his last request. . .

"One more cup of water
before I die."

Grandmother paying the
milkman on the front
porch, and father ran
down the steps - he
had not shed a tear -
yet filled with fear. . .

Father grabbed his
mother's arm, pulled
her away - pulled her
up the front stairs
then to his father's
room.

Father's baby brother
sank to the floor -
near the stained
woodwork in the door
way of his father's
room, and his second
son stood holding
the empty cup of water.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

ONE MORE VICTIM

One More Victim

He has aged –
during the “sixties”
both he and I ran
for a position – he
wanted to be class
President, and I
would have been
his secretary – his
confidant.

Well, he’s still
running – he runs
after ambulances,
the disabled,
fire trucks and
police cars.

The difference –
he never smiles
his advertisement
on your television
in big white numbers
his connection to a
world where every
person cries for help –

He lost the race
for President – and I
became the editor
of a newspaper –
learned about people
who chase flashing
red lights

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved