Her Open Window

Fresh steps in snow
reveal her footprints -
as evening paints her
garage a deeper shade
of yellow – as squirrels
leap over steep banks
of snow – a black crow
circles dried toast, she
tossed from the
second
floor
it was her window…

Small red beans attached
to thorns - her bushes
coated with ice -
crack – letting color peak
from winters coat – the
sun disappears behind the
garage - near tulips
fighting to be born
again - near pears resting
on the ground. . .

Her round pedestal table
is cold, naked without
her special table cloth -
hand sewn flowers at the
edge - dried flowers
on display from last
summer. . .

Her pedestal table near
a second floor window -
now cluttered with
sympathy
notes . . .
A wind enters - from
the second
floor
window –
notes tossed
I rush to gather paper -
another gust of wind
enters from her
window. . .


Nancy Duci Denofio
(c)all rights reserved

1954 BENEATH A PULL STRING

1954 Beneath a Pull String

Your thumb curled back,
Lick it…
Lick it…
Turn pages of your bible
while you sit on garments,
pressing them.
Everything is home made -
curtains above a radiator
move in the night. . .
back and forth, back and forth
your apron covers a navy
blue dress – you must be
going to church – but right
now your are stirring homemade
cocoa –
stir it - stir – stir –

Grandmother’s footsteps reach
the landing on the second
floor, her voice calls out
“Grand daughter, it’s time”
little legs bend as hands help
to climb a twisting staircase.

You sat there beneath a pull string
a string that hit your head each
time you sat to join me for my
morning cocoa. On your back
a red sweater, half buttoned,
holes at your elbow, on the
left side.

You twisted in your chair
back and forth, now I know
it was to get comfortable, and
you smiled.

You were never tall but the
string, the one to pull for
light in your kitchen kept
swinging back and forth.

You would connect a long
tube, but now I know it was
a cord to your radio – every
afternoon and night – listening
to church songs.

Often I noticed your ankles
were never thin? Never did
ask you why?

You would connect another
long cord to a toaster, to the
pull string for light and music.
Your curled thumbs flipped toast
from side to side as you open
up to investigate, to see if the
toast was done.

Strange how a cord so
insignificant would be a
memory connecting you and me.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved 2011

A FRAYED RED MITTEN

A RED FRAYED MITTEN

Few friends knew why I sat
on a snow bank, close to
frozen ice – watching them
skate –

My frayed red mitten would
be covering my pointer finger
as I drew names, houses, on
ice –

Mother wondered why I never
wanted to skate – she knew I
detested brown straps around
my ankles on sparkling white
skates –

We walked up Seneca Street
turned left on Lenox Road and
a few more blocks, there it was
Steinmiz Park, frozen for all
neighborhood children –

Wind blew in my face, coated
nose, Ice stiffened gloves –
then I sat and drew pictures
with my pointer, with frayed
red mittens –

Watched mother skate, and
all my friends. Watched girls
twill as I did when I danced
on toe – or in slippers of pink
or black –

I watched until mother and
my brother were ready to take
another cold - walk home, now
wind against my back –
shoving me –

No one saw the city I carved
in ice, left behind near the
snow bank.

Nancy Duci Denofio
2011 @all right reserved

ROAD to MIDDLE

ROAD TO MIDDLE

On our way to “Middle” -
near the border of Vermont,
mother - is buried - in “Middle.”

The County Fair is over,
land – bare; I begged for
cotton candy - there.

A one - room schoolhouse
need of fixing – missing
wood, broken windows,
brick bruised. You
can hear echoes of children.

Down the road across
a creek, beyond sliced
slabs of slate: A vintage
bar still living, patrons still
sitting on the same broken
down porch.

Past the bar, we take a
sharp right, twisting like
a slippery creek – a gentle
rain slips down slate – hard
rain – a creek grows
moreover, roads closed.

We pass tiny huts with
many children – half clothed -
playing near a rusted car
tires – gone. . .
Clothes of brown hang
from trees.
Mother called them guilders.

A sharp right - I remember –
as if, it was today. . .
fear inside while mother
talked about bad men
Inside massive gates
and towers; men
hold big guns – a giant
building with tiny windows
letting in little sun. . .
And, the closer we get the
larger it grows - more fear
as my feet, kick the back of
the front seat and I feel
my own heart beat. . .

Back, when I leaned my
head onto the window of our
car, pressed my nose against
glass – eyes wide – a tear,
inside – praying to myself –
I will never, ever be bad.

Today, we pass the massive
prison, filled with bad men,
those who murdered kept
inside while men still stand
in towers holding guns.

Behind the prison little
houses where guards sleep
many empty – then visitors
parking lot – filled.

Still we twist and turn as
a creek follows to our left –
houses hidden behind
maple trees – holding buckets
their spine aches - giant barns –
fewer cows roam.

Another sharp left – up a
Hill - Saint Mary’s Catholic
Church. At five – I marched
down the Aisle as a miniature
bride as my parent’s did
so long ago.

Mother said, “Keep those
white patent leathers clean,
and lift your dress – there is
mud around these parts.”

Recalling the aisle, when
I walked front and center
down a red carpet – how
different that would be today.

Mother lays sleeping -
told me inside a bronze
coffin.
Nothing changes in
“Middle” – she was one
of seventeen children,
she – the first girl to die,
today only two survive.

We cross the river with
no name – pass my
mother’s best friends
home across from the
green grocery store
- close to the rivers
edge.

We pass my Aunt’s
house next door to my
Uncle PJ’s Bar – her home
built before the Civil
War – here trees have
grown around head
stones, as if the spirit
climbed trees – looked
in at me, when I was
trying hard to sleep.

Down the road a bit
to the left, my mother’s
home it was once
there sitting high on
a hill – a giant porch
as a child – a stair
way - we climbed and
slid down, when no one
was around -

A hill where I once
played - tumbled,
rolled, pushed on a sled

behind mother’s home
where she learned to
milk a cow.
Where she played
baseball with ten brothers
– where mountains of
Vermont stood close
in the distance –
a short walk where she
would stay – this day.

Now a left, on a dirt
road – approaching a
black gate – locked – we
step around tree trunks -
climb a slight hill –
we pass grandmother’s
stone – grandfather’s –
where my older brother
sleeps at the foot of his
grave.

I make the sign of the cross.
I read - to myself – all those
dead members of my family
resting near Vermont.

A stone path gets shorter as
land fills up with those who
lay beneath ground –
stretching beyond my view
of the mountains.

I see a heart shaped stone
and read the Irish Prayer –
my father’s name,
who is not there.

I stare – I turn – away. . .
talk in soft sounds
alone on a stone path. . .
no one hears, I never stay
to pray at her grave – but
talk to her as my feet
carry me from stone to
stone, so many belong in
this small town.

I gaze up at the mountain,
smile – I know she is
here – today – with me
nevertheless, mother still
travels in
her spirit world –
mother still sees me,
warns me of a rising creek -
listens when I speak.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

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

LOVE LETTERS - My Mother's Lips

LOVE LETTERS - My Mother Lips

World War II



It all began one late afternoon
in October - my Father
handed me a stack of letters,
“For the stamps,” he said.

Well,
I knew different as I reached
out - touched his letters.

Father continued to point toward
stamps, repeating how valuable
they may be.

I never collected stamps but
I am a writer –

I retire early in the evening
turn on my television, switch
a bedside lamp on low, pretend
to listen to “Criminal Minds” only
to fall asleep before the criminal
is captured.

I stacked some of the letters
inside a drawer of my bed side
table – near me – for the first
time, love letters from parents –

I would hear for the first time
the love between my mother
and father -

My heart began to beat strange –
like those times I thought I really
loved someone for the first time?

Then I recognized saying from my
life, familiar things said between
my Mother and Father –

I began to want to read more – in
order since every single envelope
was kept, in order, in perfect piles.

A smile covered my face,
no one would see it, but I knew it,
I even heard myself giggle.
Mother, she always wanted to
squeeze Father – and all those
X’s and O’s – and even lip’s – my
mother’s lips kissed paper, and she
has been dead for so long.

Between letters I repositioned myself
my leg moving nervously about
as I lived their world, felt their fear,
love, desperation, and dreams.

Nothing could be better,
nothing could compare to this night.
My mother said, “One day we may have
a little girl, and when she’s grown she
may want to read all we have said.”

Mother died far too young, but
I recall all her words, and now
in black and white – as I neatly
fold them back inside an envelope
with special stamps.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2011

DREAMS

DREAMS

She awakes as beautiful
as she was when she shut
her eyes
She strolls a wooden deck
barefoot - large sweatshirt
hangs below baby doll
pajamas

Her eyes half closed
Her hands brush long
black hair from her
fair face

She stares between
trees now shadows from
a moon - out toward
the lake to dream of
a winter four hundred
years ago

Its on this land
she was born - when
dreams have carried
her, spoken to her,
brought her back to
this very hill -

still

she sees those once
her lovers killed by
arrows
those hidden by large
trees in woods
she wipes a tear from
her face
no reason now to cry

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

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

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT


no one came with flowers
no one came with pink
balloons or candy
no one brought pink dresses
to fit a new born.

Mother, she knew.

No one believed
or wanted to see a child
who entered this world
a little over a pound -
medical men told her,
“She won’t survive the
night.”

Mother, she knew -

she knew when two men
visited
knew only one – but
knew of the other
one man sat to her right
one man to her left.

These visitors did not
bring balloons or candy
or a pink dress for their
new grand daughter –
a baby who would fit into
their palm -

a baby with tubes in
temples –
a body to small and
needles too large

both men died before
the birth of her child

her father spoke to her,
her father in law
listened. . .

“Don’t worry she will
survive and make you
proud.”

Medical men entered
her room and mother
smiled.
Medical men warned
her – “Babies this small
do not survive.” –

Mother, she knew.

Daddy entered her room
she smiled.
told him their little girl
would survive
he pulled a chair up to her
bed, held her hand, and
listened. . .

He probably smiled back
he must have warned her
to face the truth -
mother, stubborn,
she believed.

A few days passed,
the medical men told her
again –
a week went by, and she
smiled -
two weeks, the medical
men stopped talking of
death –

Mother peered through
glass at her baby –
lying inside a metal box –
inside with tubes and monitors
with no one to touch a child’s
grey skin.

She watched as a chest
was forced to expand
she prayed to herself –
she waved good bye -
thanking the Medical men –
telling them she would be back

every day – to watch a child
who barely opened her eyes.

There was no touching,
or cuddles, no wrapping
of tiny fingers around her own,
no legs kicking, or laughing
when a child yawned, thinking
it was a smile

no one talked about their
little girl –
no one asked about the color
or her hair – her eyes or her
personality
no one asked if she looked
like mother or father . . .
no one talked.

Mother, she believed.

Every day – from summers
end into dead leaves of fall
onto ice on city walks,
she walked up a hill
to the hospital to stare
through glass –
her walk home - eyes filled
with tears, she recited an
Irish prayer.

Every day after work
father walked up the hill
to stare at his child he
could not hold –
laying naked inside a metal
bed with tubes still
attached to her forehead.

He watched as nurses
tapped the soles of her
feet – to keep her awake
to suck on a miniature
bottle – she began to eat . . .

It was the day before
Christmas - a snow
filled sky – when news
arrived – she could come
home.

Three months and ten
days after her birth
she weighed five pounds -

nurses wrapped her
in tiny booties
a white undershirt
a small pink dress - now
snuggled up inside pink
blankets

with open arms - mother
held her little girl
peered into her open eyes
pinched her little hands
and feet.

Mother, she knew

On Christmas day inside a
neighbor’s car they brought
their little girl home.

Mother looked at my father
and said, “I told you so,
she would survive.”

It was beneath their
Christmas tree – I laid
inside a red wagon –
my older brother next to me
a red bow tied around my
forehead -
Christmas and I finally
made it home.

Mother, she knew.

ANGELS FLY BETWEEN BRANCHES OF A TREE

Angels Fly Between
Branches of a Tree

Angels gather above trees
behind my home – I told friends –
do you believe me?
have my friends seen angels
between the branches of my tree?

In the morning I stand barefoot
grass sneaks between toes
wet from morning dew,
grown ups call it dew. . .they
say dew covers grass –
our cellar door – where I sit –
is wet, covered in dew.

I walk bare foot – feet covered
in dew – I wiggle my toes
wait for the angels to return –
wonder I could learn to fly?

I push my hair away
from my face – damp hair
filters between each
tips of my fingers -

a sun begins to peek
out from the mountain. . .
spreading orange into
a fog.

Now – stare at the tree
I whisper aloud - now
sparkles of light flicker as
diamonds – entering my
skin, my soul, magnifying
day – as transparent
as a sky of blue above me
as a sudden state of light
of different colors paints
the sky. . .

I tell people, “I feel different,”
but no one believes me – or
will they join me in early
morning when words do
not illustrate how articulate
a mystery is –

I know what I left inside
is a blank canvas, unpainted -
outside a sprinkle of angel
dust has unclouded my
mind –

So I wake up early each
morning to feel damp skin –
to wiggle my toes.

ANTI AGING A TRIP TO THE DRUGSTORE - MORE Magazine

"Published in More Magazine 2010"

ANTI AGING AND A TRIP TO THE DRUG STORE You look into the mirror and there it is! You really are...

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A STORM BREWING

A STORM BREWING

I don't what them to see me,
here beneath the side porch
where I hide when they skip rope -
play beneath a maple tree.
I know the big one, she stares
talks, soon she will point at me –
I’ll start to cry.
I never hurt her or pointed –
never asked her to play, she
would say no.

So what if she's bigger - she lives
right across the street; still stares
at me beneath her maple tree –
at me, under my steps.

It was normal, I kind of got use
to her until the day clouds
gathered above that tree, and
all the children skipping rope
stopped skipping. All the people
on sidewalks near my steps –
walked faster. . .

Why I wondered – staring up over
the tree. Then – the big girl yelled
over, “A tornado soon – you better
hide.” I thought she was teasing
me, but I did hide in storms. I was
petrified in storms. And last week
a storm tore roofs off houses, Daddy
he hid beneath a tree on the golf
course and Mommy yelled. I guess
no one should be near a tree.

The kids, they were standing beneath
the maple tree, and had to be telling
fibs. As the cloud grew darker, I
began to believe her – all the children
scattered, so I ran up the steps, opened
the screen door, and sank to the floor.

What to do? Mommy and Daddy
were shopping – what if the tornado
hit the store? I called information –
asked for the phone number,
dialed it, and asked to talk to my
parents.

I guess they called their name over
some load speaker. The woman told
me they paged them.
What was paged?
I only wanted to talk to them –
tell them about the storm.

Finally I heard them talk, as
they said, “Don’t worry.” Telling
me no storm was coming – I had
nothing to hide from.

Well – I never did tell them
about the big girl, who skipped
rope under the maple tree –
or me, crouched beneath our
yellow steps.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A STORAGE GARAGE

A Storage Garage

Our yellow garage
a padlock – foggy windows
near yellow tulips growing
in our garden –

Told to stay away from
those foggy windows
I tried to sneak through
the flowers – tip toeing

Where was Grandma?
She wasn’t in the window
watching me play…
she would be yelling now

My shoes covered in mud
Grandmother watered every
morning.

What – exactly was kept
inside our garage?
What – exactly was kept
such a secret for a lifetime?

Asked Daddy why did you
own a garage - no one owned
a car – back then…

Heard grandfather once
kept bananas safe for the
fruitman, away from the
summers sun…

You told me –
and I remember.

You told me your father -
grandfather - had a job
working for a fruit company –
for the fruit men.

You told me –
and I remember.

But – you told me your
father – grandfather –
he was killed working –
for those fruit men…

You told me –
and I remember

The fruit men killed him -
Did your father –
grandfather –
destroy – all of his bananas?

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

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