FATHERS and DAUGHTERS

You lean over wood
as if dying -
but my arm supports
you – my love
connects - arm to arm
I feel it under my
skin – it flows through
my blood – and this
power I have I share
with you.

Your eye’s talk for you,
and I understand where
you have been – where
you still want to be -
but as you lean on
wood – watch as your
mouth sucks in air – those
eye’s feel the edge of
life – they look smaller
as if – you are
disappearing.

You bring tears to my
eyes - yet I turn, hide as
if a child – not wanting a
friend to see my true
feelings – tears because
I see the man who
pushed my swing – who
guided me as I slid down
a slide – who had tears in
his eye’s when I wore
white, and placed a penny
in my shoe.

Your pain I feel it too
and want to lean on wood
for you – for us – for
all the years you – were
my pillar - of my life
and now I search for help
to make you smile – as
a child searches for a
playmate on a deserted
street.

You know - I know your
friends are gone – left you
alone, but you are filled
by their love deep inside
your heart -
love – never changes,
it only grows deeper,
thicker, stronger, as roots
of a tree – as roots spread
beneath the ground – our
ground – our life – as I grab
your arm – take a few more
steps and search for the
pillar you need -
to stay alive - today.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

AT THE GIFT SHOP

AT THE GIFT SHOP

No fun.
No gifts.
No one smiled at the shop.
Little legs,
never touched the floor,
never did anything but
swing back and forth…
Back and forth.
Little legs.
Little, little, little
legs kept swinging
back and forth…
Never knew back then
those legs…
those little legs
were filled with nerves.
Nerves connected to a heart
A worried heart.

Daddy…
he sat next to me,
both he and I stared,
stared for hours.
Stared, stared; stared
at an ugly witch lady who
carried thick white chalk.
She walked too slow.
Damn slow…
Still see her legs -
spindles, rolled down
stockings, brown sweater
and hair chopped
above her neck.
She made little legs
swing back and forth -
back and forth.

She glanced at Daddy
and me, shaking her head no.
Shaking that ugly head no.

Over and over…
Little legs, swing and swing…
Tired now, yet those nerves,
nerves I didn’t recognize
made them move…

Names were on a chalkboard,
never could read, just knew
where Mommy’s name was
placed. Knew. Knew
what her name looked like –
Daddy pointed it out…
That’s where little eyes stared.

People passed Daddy and I
carrying Milky Ways or
Three Musketeers. Some carried
Whitman Chocolates, balloons,
but I didn’t care….
never asked for candy, not then,
not on those days.
Daddy said hello to everyone,
told them my name…
I smiled,
didn’t want to smile but…
I smiled for Daddy…
Daddy
would want me too.
From the corner of my eye
it was the ugly witch with a
piece of chalk I watched…
Chalk squeaking as she wrote,
sending chills up my back…

Marks appeared.
All those names with two
columns next to them – above
each step Mommy took,
recovery was first, then –
back to her room.
Everyone was getting chalk
marks, but Mommy, she
was always late, always last.

We kept sitting, waiting and
waiting. Daddy was nervous now,
talking little to people passing…
Now… watching a thin lady
carry chalk…

Daddy had feet which touched
the floor, feet that crossed and
uncrossed… Feet that tapped,
tapped, and tapped.
He assured me, soon…
Mommy would be back in her
room… so I smiled, he
always smiled back…
That witch lady never turned
our way, dam it – she knew we
were waiting; waiting for her
and that god awful hunk of white
chalk…

Each time the phone rang,
she stood… slipped over to
the board… and finally the mark
came!

My legs stopped. Daddy –
he stood up and stretched…
I just smiled, because I wanted
too.

Daddy and I - we sat in front
of that gift shop, every other
month, side by side -
together in a love seat,
waiting
side by side - waited as
the years passed us by,
together, until the day Mommy
died.

Even when my legs grew, and I
learned about nerves, I never
forgot that love seat, or the
witch lady carrying chalk…
I will never forget all the smiles,
waiting for love to survive.

Nancy Duci Denofio
@2011 all Rights Reserved
published in "What Brought You Here?" Dystenium LLC

REMEMBER THE MOVIES?

REMEMBER THE MOVIES?

Did you walk with me
on these streets
where cars were once
cluttered, where men
in uniforms and white
gloves - stopped us?

Look, there was no over-pass
for trains or people hiding
from the rain - kissing.

Remember when we would
cuddle so close together
just past the over-pass
as you parked your Cutlass
behind the State Theatre?
Oh, I know you remember…

Yes – before the over-pass
did men and women our
age hold hands in front of
the Strand Movie House? –
They walked for hours to get
there but for what?

The lines weren’t for James
Bond, or for free candy if
you purchased tickets
earlier in the day, no – it was
for bugs. Bugs – the owner
of the Strand, made children
line up against a wall while

heads were checked, all
the immigrants, those who
couldn’t speak a word of
English, has to prove they
could sit in one of their
chairs with other children.

You see, the man, he
sprayed those children, made
sure they didn’t bring inside
one single bug from -
Ellis Island, or had any
sticking to their tattered
sweaters. Wonder what they
were sprayed with?

Wonder if you forgot those
days?
I will never forget you?
You disappeared as if taken
by a dark shadow behind red
velvet curtains -
Did the man remove you?
Were you an immigrant from
the past?

I know you never had bugs
nor did they check you at the
State Theatre – we were
someones dream back then, but
or those hot nights – on Route 9

when we enjoyed Malta Drive-in
outside movies, in cars, yes -
your Cutlass and yes, bugs
did come through open windows
opened to let some air inside
your Cutlass - remember
the stick you used to drive the
car between bucket seats?

Bugs did fly around us, but
did it matter?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2011

MY FAVORITE DOLL

MY FAVORITE DOLL


Grandmother catches rain in
a rain barrel - near rows of dirt.
I play as my small fingers twist
a dented handle, like those I use
to turn on a faucet in our kitchen,
this one attached to a barrel –
that is, if eyes from upstairs on
the second floor aren’t watching
me.

A girlfriend of mine, from across
a cut off, as to which school we
attend, just across the street – she
came to my birthday – brought me
a new set of plastic plates, cups,
spoons, cups, and a tea pot.

So, she made me so happy, I loved
red and white. I wonder if she picked
them out? I bet it was her Mama.

I fill white and red cups with water
from the old rusty barrel – serve my
dolls a special cup of tea.

In the middle of our tea party my
Mama complains from our side porch
about that clothes line stuck in the
center of our yard. I tell my dolls to
close their ears, not to listen to Mama.

I tell my doll, my favorite – she sits to
the left, with long reddish brown hair
and blue eyes, I talk to her as if she
were my sister – explaining a line of
rope has to divide our space to dry
clothes. She listens through closed
ears.

A few years ago my father’s father
chopped down a cherry tree, and an
apple tree, but we still have the pear
tree – growing fuzzy pears.

Pears are hard, but Grandma slices
them with her hands, her thumb sticks
out, she wants me to eat pears but I
don’t. She tells me, “Come on, they
are good for you,” still I say no.

So my tea party doesn’t include any
pears for dessert. Instead of pears,
we have red beans, like the plates,
I had to learn how to remove them
placing my little hand at the very top
of the stem, quickly pulling down – all
those green stems fall off with red beans
so I am ready, to serve those dolls.

Good thing we live on a corner lot,
where our sidewalk is longer – those
bushes with beans grow from one end
to the other. Grandmother - she sweats
when trimming those bushes, I stare,
watch – her arms opening - closing
holding big scissors.

I know she won’t ruin those red beans
because they just grow and she sweats
all summer, the same thing. Did I tell you
I mix mud from dirt near our barrel into
beans for mud pies. My dolls love mud
pies for a special treat.

Mama watches me from the side porch,
she isn’t complaining about our clothes
line, she is leaning over a yellow railing –
it was loose last week but Papa, he fixed
it. On our front porch Mama leans to snip
roses, “Seven Sisters,” even if she hates
them she snips them – places them onto
our kitchen table. Perhaps, I should have
flowers for my dolls?

When I ask my dolls, they don’t talk, all
they do is stare back, kind of like Mama’s
eyes when she stares at me, I know what
she wants. I think everyone stares in
my neighborhood including my neighbors,
Mama, Grandmother, and especially -
our grocery man.

I carry my favorite doll around to our front
porch, Mama is resting on our metal milk
box, inside I hide my paper dolls.

Next to Mama is her opened bottle of “Schlitz”
beer, some cut cheese, and lotion to tan
her pure white skin. And, her open pack
of “Chesterfield” cigarettes. When she
sucks in smoke she holds it inside for a long
time. Sometimes smoke comes out her nose,
circles her head, and reaches up to touch the
highest rose, those “Seven Sisters.”

Mother was one of five sisters. But, who
knows, she could have had a doll she called
a sister too?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

NEW YORK CITY STREETS

NEW YORK CITY STREET PEOPLE

so, tell me - where did you find
cash to purchase a hummer?
Protecting Madonna, sitting on
The hood – and who are you
really, staring at -I see your back

Are they laughing at the bride
laying on the sidewalk, as a man
places a pillow behind her head...

Across the street two wrecking balls
one painted with American Flag –
three men - tired destroying what
What is left, in their life?

Look at people
lingering at Union Square...
Generations sit together
eat stale chips - smoke -
play chess.
A man in yellow watches
as a child bites their nails,
knowing how to win -
eyes of a child stare
at the older generation -
to study his face.

This is where I live
near that Pepsi sign
near the Empire State Building
near crowds of people on
Broadway, I am I, I am them -

Reading billboards, in a hurry.
Someone told me, "Once -
a cigarette burned - puffed
smoke above Broadway?"

The man to my right
he is talking to his wife -
some people listen, but
most do not give a damn.

The woman to my left
wearing a red coat - she's
in a hurry - going shopping
but split her stocking near
her black shoes, wearing
white lace, short sleeves
In addition, it is only twenty degrees,
perhaps she rides the
subway – day in and day out?

Now I am in the Upper East
Side of the City - where
he sleeps in light, near a
goddess - thinking.

A goddess of marble or
is she a man? A hand beneath
her chin, it’s a her, it has to
be.

A wind blows east, it is Harlem
Lanterns of red balls float
east - in unison – a wind moves
in different directions.
.
Tied to wrought iron rails
old dilapidated chairs,
a familiar host poses
while she waits for a party
to begin on Harlem Streets.


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved@2010

SEASONS GROW OLD

SEASONS GROW OLD

old age -
afternoon naps
peaceful,
asleep without bitterness

his old stove
seldom used
a radio sings him to sleep -
resting now - more frequently

oh - those winter days of old
sweet breads baking on a stove,
his hands…
aren't baking now

silent
alone…
as he stares to his window pane,
tree limbs
bare
a window - covered in frost

dreaming, I suppose

"Will I see another Spring?"

your garden, twisted sticks
those friends, the crows –
have headed south

inside
almost all the time -
no energy to climb stairs
tougher then he ever dreamed.

a finger – reaches to
a frosted window pane
etching as a child
as if - he just touched snow.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2010

FRONT PORCH

FRONT PORCH


Wooden doors, stained - beyond
peeling Kelly green paint…
chipped, splintered wood
slivers to bare feet – as a child runs

Next to giant yellow pillars
stands a box of metal – each morning
bottles sing as they meet side by side
a milkman waves to the child

Crooked steps where marbles roll
children sit side by side cheering
as if colors - rolling marbles -
as if they too were alive
children clap as color touches
flagstone

Green shrubs above a child's head
high enough to hide within, near
red beans thriving on thorns...
one yank below a single thorn, now
just a vacant twig.

Plastic dishes hold colored beans of
red, water coated with mud - for a pie...
sitting Indian style a child
spills dirt on crooked steps.

Those rose bushes grew high
collecting bees near chipped green
paint, made some children sneeze
some fearful of a hive...
small hands rubbed raw – skin as
skin itched.

So large a world around the young,
so grand a simple place becomes
when life slips by, recalling
little things, like golden handles
on stained wooden doors.

Still hear church music play.
Grandma had to entertain the
neighborhood... Mama, beyond her
wooden door sometimes screamed
louder, over God’s prayers.

Never snipped a red rose - if God wasn't
on the radio...or dared to cause
a vine to lose color for a pie.
Mama swore about chopping down the
roses near the milk box –
she never did…

Fifty years since Mama laid flagstone from
Vermont, side by side in front of
our front porch…
age has lifted up its color,
ice and snow cracked perfect
slabs of slate... Mama placed beneath
earth now twenty five years since
that dreadful day

The earth moved those pillars,
leaving memories of childhood.
Another fifty years may pass...one
child will tell stories of naked vines,
while God preached - she created pies.

NancyDuciDenofio
copyright@2010