ROSES ON A PILLOW

ROSES ON A PILLOW

Shadows blend with yellow light
a view from my balcony at night.
Figures clustered near a table,
drapes blow free, keeping beat
as the ocean breeze.

Shadows toasting, laughing,
drinking as bone china sings.
A figure brightens
near a yellow, orange flames
disappear in night.

Gazing at roof tops; color lights
of yellow, orange, red.
and eyes concentrate on a single
light multiplies ten thousand
times its size.

Movement slight, wind gentle,
natures tranquillizer hypnotizes
as palm branches kiss, touching
fingers in night. Bodies
clapping, blending together.

Hear the slapping of bare skin?
Not long ago, I recall those black
satin gowns, red roses and green
leaves, as skin rubbed against
satin on embroidered sheets.

Published in "What Brought You Here?" 2010
Dystenium LLC
nancy.limitededitionspress.com

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

You Asked Me To Dance from "What Brought You Here?"

YOU ASKED ME TO DANCE

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
pass 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 reflections of
light on a wide plank wooden floor.

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

You grab my hand - 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 - our toe’s tangle
in weeds,
we roll near apples left beneath the apple
tree.

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,
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
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 @2010

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

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

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.)

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

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

LOST STORIES

LOST STORIES

he was sweeping
in front of the bar
told him my name
his arm’s opened
“Jesus Mary and Joseph”
repeating my name –

two years ago we
stopped to say hello -
he was younger
looked a lot like Mama -
his voice – sounded
like Mama

he said things she
would have said –
we all knew Mama
It seemed she fell
into his body – took
over his voice

took on talking just
like her, even my
husband stared my
way – then he reached
to hold my hand across
the table – he never
reached before -

now his face - hallow
his walk uneven
his pants falling from
his waist – tied with
rope

wore a baseball cap
never saw him in a
baseball cap – but
he still told all his
stories

still swore he knew
everything about
everyone in town –
then told us he was
opening the bar – been
closed for sometime
but for his son – telling
once again his Mamas
wish – he would never
drink

promised her he’d
never drink, never take
a sip – he never did –
but served it well inside
a bar where a bear’s head
was stuffed, and deer’s
eyes followed you

showed us around the
old place, told us he
refused a new sink –
liked the open kind
put cleaning stuff in
clear sight

his blue eyes a different
shade of blue – half
closed as if they were
tired – as if a shade -
closing life in front of him

he called Mama’s
home his – when he
was in the service
took a train and walked
up to the avenue

he called it home
when he reached our
yellow house – before
I was born –
it was Mama who

paid for him – to
send him to college –
going to be someone
someday – she would
say

so he went to college
and Mama paid -
he opened the bar
taught his son to ride
a bike – forgot about
the money Mama gave

did he recall all the days
he popped into the house
and Mama fed him –
and Grandmother
listened as he spoke
of sixteen children –

he talked about his
recent bout with
cancer – we never
knew – showing off
twenty six stitches
in the back of his
head

we never knew he
was sick or had
cancer – he bragged
about how quickly
he healed, he told
us, “no scars.”

he talked about his
wife who doesn’t
remember much –
she’s a baby once
again – Alzheimer’s
she has a brain
disease, he told us
but getting better

he insists on no
nursing home, and
continued to say his
children were coming
home – one to run
the bar – another to
live up on the mountain
where he built a camp

he owns fifty six acres
bought it when he
placed a bet on a horse
and never did bet again –
he told us
he told us he’s got most
of them coming home

his children
he kept telling us how
great his wife was – and
ignored the past – when
she spent months away –
but he loved her, anyway
and brought up her baby
as his own

he seemed to forget
about the gossip
about the time she flew
away like a bird with
his own brother – and
now she removes her
clothes – in the living
room, when people are
visiting

I remember some
brothers of ten forgave
them, and others never
did – and the girls – some
never walked into his
bar – or smiled or looked
him straight into his eyes

he seemed to forget
about the house up on
the hill - Grandmother
lived – when she tried
hard to play a piano –
she thought she was
good

her children listened to
the same song over and
over – the more they
sang the harder she
pounded on those keys –

I watched as my own
Father stared at him,
remembering the days
he spent sitting with my
Mama at the bar

Father mumbled over
and over about how long
he sat, talking – but he
never did give free drinks
to the family – since all
that lived in that small
town, was family.

my Father talked about
the slate from Vermont
and he managed to get
it to the bar, my uncle,
because men would do
anything for a beer

his pool table still
sits in the center of
the room – I recall
the feet of small children
above the bar – back
stairs

his wife – her dark hair
beautiful she was – and
now missing all the
memories she made

he talked about his
cancer and how he
asked the doctors
“so what’s up?”
didn’t get it all,
at the top of the spine. . .

he said, “if I take the
stuff – makes me sick –
what will it do doc?”
he told us nothing –
so he said good bye
he’ll live as long as
god wants him to –

who would think
about his wife –
forgetting life – and
who thought he
probably will die
first – and the children
home, how pleased
he seemed.

he said goodbye with
a grin on his face,
promised when he
died, I would get his
seven books he wrote
about the bar –

his smile grew – his
eyes perked up – and
he knew he had one
hell of a story to tell,
and I asked him –

“Why have you waited.”

he never answered only
told me he picked
overgrown grass
around the grave stones
of all the kids, his Mama
and Papas too. And he
makes the sign of the
cross when he sees my
brothers name at the foot
of my Mamas father’s
grave, he too - talks to Mama

Nancy Duci Denofio

THE CELLAR

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
railroad
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