EYES CLOSED
Sprawled out on
cement steps –
those I climb several
times a weeks to
our library –
today, I leaned my
head against a pole
closed my eyes
to see a stranger
looking back –
a stranger’s face.
Knew - your face I never
knew - or had you
known me?
Did you die?
You kept talking to me
with your eyes – staring
at me, as if asking me to
say something, do
something – so I closed
my eyes –
opened my eyes –
closed – open – closed
open – trying to make you
go away.
I began to study your face.
My eyes remained closed –
You never stopped staring,
I knew you were trying to
say something – I could see
it in your eyes –
I never knew you – but who
did you know? Who knew
you? – someone here, here
at this library?
Tell me the message –
Tell me who it is?
Or - perhaps it was only
your mistake, sending
a message to the
wrong person?
My eyes opened – closed
once more, opened and
closed –
opened -
no way to remove
your face.
Why am I playing
your game?
Strangers passing, holding
books, climbing cement
stairs – those steps – I have
climbed many times, but
never once placed my head
against this old pole –
Will you haunt me now?
Or return in a dream?
I returned, a week or
so later, sitting on cement
closing my eyes –
I’ve never seen
your face again.
Perhaps, you felt
alone in heaven?
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
copyright 2010
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Friday, October 1, 2010
LONELY PEOPLE
LONELY PEOPLE
sad to find no pleasure
from one to smile back –
or a gentle touch –
as fingers swipe across
ones’ face
people - back away
tremble inside – yelling
without telling - please
step aside
lonely for those people
who stare from a window
waiting patiently for a
sign of life
once frolicking inside
ones’ home with friends of
friends and relatives – now
gone
how chasing a butterfly
or watching a grasshopper
made children shudder –
when spiders crawled
life becomes empty
when you are one -
waiting in silence for
one – only one
to return
from dust.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
sad to find no pleasure
from one to smile back –
or a gentle touch –
as fingers swipe across
ones’ face
people - back away
tremble inside – yelling
without telling - please
step aside
lonely for those people
who stare from a window
waiting patiently for a
sign of life
once frolicking inside
ones’ home with friends of
friends and relatives – now
gone
how chasing a butterfly
or watching a grasshopper
made children shudder –
when spiders crawled
life becomes empty
when you are one -
waiting in silence for
one – only one
to return
from dust.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
FRONT STREET 1918
Front Street 1918
Women - complained about the
cold - people crammed inside
one room, sleeping on floors
within tenements, or two room
flats; on Front Street.
But this - is America
where dreams come true.
Women - complained about the
noise outside - in the middle
of the night. Men gathering
outside, in the middle of the
night - around a pail of fire;
like bums.
No one listened to the women.
Men gathering inside of of
saloons, in the back room
drinking home made wine, playing
craps, and smoking old stogies.
Women complaining when they
visited the butchers shop -
about the price of meat, and
eggs costing more, brown sugar
instead of white.
No one listened. Women were
immigrants, can't write, or
read. . .
Men complained those who
delivered coal - then the
strike began and schools closed,
theaters - and half the workers
at the plant, out of work from
a lack of heat.
No one listened to the men.
Near the Mohawk River streets
would flood after a hard rain,
or thawing of winter, and boats
were rowed up and down the street
collecting victims from a second
floor.
Immigrants gathered where customs
were like home, a mountain village
against open fields of wheat: women
shopped, bargained for the best
price as pushcarts rolled through
village streets. But women wore
a golden cross attached to their
sweater - it was a Sicilian way.
Men never noticed.
Men never noticed.
In 1917 war injured dreams of
immigrants, no more peaceful streets,
everyone was touched - even all
the children - when would it end?
On Front Street, near the Locomotive
Plant, and the big plant - known
to light the world, it was the
industrial revolution - but war took
men while women worked with
children at their side.
Women complained about war.
Men came home in baskets. Immigrants
were clueless about their relatives
overseas.
No one listened.
War heroes returned, bringing some
kind of sickness, some kind of virus,
and the sickness crept into a town
taking more lives than war. . .
No one listened as men and women
ached with pain.
America - where people gather under
lamp posts in a winter storm, and
dreamed of a better life.
Remembering wheat fields in the mountains
and the owner of the land - you had to
listen - immigrants remember - they
understood.
Now another white carriage moved
slowly down a cobblestone street,
for every woman, man, and child to
see - inside, wrapped in white sheets
lay the dead, one on top of one.
And on the door of the dead a black
wreath hung, and a sign for those
sick inside, for others to keep away.
Men and women talked about that day
they cheered when paper boys ran up
and down a city street, yelling,
"The war is over, the war is over."
Church bells rang.
But no one knew another knew another
killer would be ravaging the streets.
Some one understood - long before
the illness struck - understood people
needed to compromise and provide health
and education.
But no one listened.
Not until war and sickness killed -
enough to compromise. No one had to
read or write - in plain sight was
all it took to know, and understand.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Women - complained about the
cold - people crammed inside
one room, sleeping on floors
within tenements, or two room
flats; on Front Street.
But this - is America
where dreams come true.
Women - complained about the
noise outside - in the middle
of the night. Men gathering
outside, in the middle of the
night - around a pail of fire;
like bums.
No one listened to the women.
Men gathering inside of of
saloons, in the back room
drinking home made wine, playing
craps, and smoking old stogies.
Women complaining when they
visited the butchers shop -
about the price of meat, and
eggs costing more, brown sugar
instead of white.
No one listened. Women were
immigrants, can't write, or
read. . .
Men complained those who
delivered coal - then the
strike began and schools closed,
theaters - and half the workers
at the plant, out of work from
a lack of heat.
No one listened to the men.
Near the Mohawk River streets
would flood after a hard rain,
or thawing of winter, and boats
were rowed up and down the street
collecting victims from a second
floor.
Immigrants gathered where customs
were like home, a mountain village
against open fields of wheat: women
shopped, bargained for the best
price as pushcarts rolled through
village streets. But women wore
a golden cross attached to their
sweater - it was a Sicilian way.
Men never noticed.
Men never noticed.
In 1917 war injured dreams of
immigrants, no more peaceful streets,
everyone was touched - even all
the children - when would it end?
On Front Street, near the Locomotive
Plant, and the big plant - known
to light the world, it was the
industrial revolution - but war took
men while women worked with
children at their side.
Women complained about war.
Men came home in baskets. Immigrants
were clueless about their relatives
overseas.
No one listened.
War heroes returned, bringing some
kind of sickness, some kind of virus,
and the sickness crept into a town
taking more lives than war. . .
No one listened as men and women
ached with pain.
America - where people gather under
lamp posts in a winter storm, and
dreamed of a better life.
Remembering wheat fields in the mountains
and the owner of the land - you had to
listen - immigrants remember - they
understood.
Now another white carriage moved
slowly down a cobblestone street,
for every woman, man, and child to
see - inside, wrapped in white sheets
lay the dead, one on top of one.
And on the door of the dead a black
wreath hung, and a sign for those
sick inside, for others to keep away.
Men and women talked about that day
they cheered when paper boys ran up
and down a city street, yelling,
"The war is over, the war is over."
Church bells rang.
But no one knew another knew another
killer would be ravaging the streets.
Some one understood - long before
the illness struck - understood people
needed to compromise and provide health
and education.
But no one listened.
Not until war and sickness killed -
enough to compromise. No one had to
read or write - in plain sight was
all it took to know, and understand.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Thursday, August 26, 2010
COMMUNICATING AFTER DEATH
COMMUNICATING AFTER DEATH
A shot glass you once held and gave
to us – a souvenir
has been on display since you
passed away
at parties among gin – scotch - whiskey
and 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 a glass we brought . . .
I told you so
while I talked to you on the porch -
asking, “Please show us you are here
tonight.”
A different week - broken mirrors. . .
not knowing why two broke into
smithereens - then a glass moves
moving dust around - a clean circle,
we knew it was you
a meeting with a glass, he told me
to place inside my purse – so
that night – on our porch I asked
you to please give us a sign –
to know forever more
you are with us
we are sitting among all
who prayed to themselves
to be chosen – but was
it all our words – our talks
which mean so much – I knew
you were listening – I knew you
were following my steps
number one – we knew a medium
came through as she talked -
words of 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 eyes 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.
when she said, “The mirrors –
she didn’t break the expensive one…”
and when she told me not to
soak my feet, it was expensive -
supportive shoes I need. . .
mother’s words continued and
she wasn’t skipping a beat – she
did not want to stop telling
and all she said was perfectly
read -
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
like the good luck plant – a man
gave me – Irish Shamrocks -
on Mothers Day, he gave to me,
a stranger
so we continue – we communicate
without words – your love remains
strong now – as if we looked
eye to eye
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
A shot glass you once held and gave
to us – a souvenir
has been on display since you
passed away
at parties among gin – scotch - whiskey
and 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 a glass we brought . . .
I told you so
while I talked to you on the porch -
asking, “Please show us you are here
tonight.”
A different week - broken mirrors. . .
not knowing why two broke into
smithereens - then a glass moves
moving dust around - a clean circle,
we knew it was you
a meeting with a glass, he told me
to place inside my purse – so
that night – on our porch I asked
you to please give us a sign –
to know forever more
you are with us
we are sitting among all
who prayed to themselves
to be chosen – but was
it all our words – our talks
which mean so much – I knew
you were listening – I knew you
were following my steps
number one – we knew a medium
came through as she talked -
words of 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 eyes 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.
when she said, “The mirrors –
she didn’t break the expensive one…”
and when she told me not to
soak my feet, it was expensive -
supportive shoes I need. . .
mother’s words continued and
she wasn’t skipping a beat – she
did not want to stop telling
and all she said was perfectly
read -
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
like the good luck plant – a man
gave me – Irish Shamrocks -
on Mothers Day, he gave to me,
a stranger
so we continue – we communicate
without words – your love remains
strong now – as if we looked
eye to eye
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Saturday, July 10, 2010
MAMA'S BED
Mama’s Bed
left alone on Mama’s bed –
in Mama’s room -
Grandmother’s feet
black tied
shoes
danced above my head -
behind the old wooden
door – I thought a bear hid
but learned it was a fur
coat handing from a metal
hook -
talked to God – on Mama’s
bed – tears moistened
clean white sheets –
pushing a feather pillow
far from me – it was God
I needed -
asked him – screamed in
silence from the inside out –
asked him – please God
take me first.
I can leave earths
beauty – don’t take those
who love me please -
seven, I knew enough
I could wait - stretched
my arms grabbing at a pillow
sobbing into silence.
her red velvet - an
old worn couch - her
knitting needles
clanging - glasses falling
from her Irish face - now
red blood, poured
out of her mouth - down
her neck - I wiped it away -
thirty days her will
kept her alive -
God -
you never listened
to me
on Mama’s bed -
I pleaded - sobbed,
asking to go first.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
left alone on Mama’s bed –
in Mama’s room -
Grandmother’s feet
black tied
shoes
danced above my head -
behind the old wooden
door – I thought a bear hid
but learned it was a fur
coat handing from a metal
hook -
talked to God – on Mama’s
bed – tears moistened
clean white sheets –
pushing a feather pillow
far from me – it was God
I needed -
asked him – screamed in
silence from the inside out –
asked him – please God
take me first.
I can leave earths
beauty – don’t take those
who love me please -
seven, I knew enough
I could wait - stretched
my arms grabbing at a pillow
sobbing into silence.
her red velvet - an
old worn couch - her
knitting needles
clanging - glasses falling
from her Irish face - now
red blood, poured
out of her mouth - down
her neck - I wiped it away -
thirty days her will
kept her alive -
God -
you never listened
to me
on Mama’s bed -
I pleaded - sobbed,
asking to go first.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Friday, July 9, 2010
GREED
GREED
Your children cry at night
for they are hungry
and their Papa has no job
no one wants a drop out -
the head - of the family, prays.
A child watches as a family
enters a grocery store, and
their PaPa opens up his wallet,
can't pay to feed his family,
so he purchases necessities
and their growing child suffers.
Their child becomes sick, and
a druggist hands them a bill
for some generic medication –
a parent, with a tear in their
eye, leaves it there and prays
Illness will dissipate.
The family tries to sell their home –
to pay bills, to feed a weaken child
and watches when their child suffers
in a metal crib, not their own. . .
No luck, so leave their house without
a place to sleep.
The family begs for food, a place
to lay their heads, a place where a
sick child can cuddle in the night.
They dream about a wooden crib
and wake to find their child dead.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Your children cry at night
for they are hungry
and their Papa has no job
no one wants a drop out -
the head - of the family, prays.
A child watches as a family
enters a grocery store, and
their PaPa opens up his wallet,
can't pay to feed his family,
so he purchases necessities
and their growing child suffers.
Their child becomes sick, and
a druggist hands them a bill
for some generic medication –
a parent, with a tear in their
eye, leaves it there and prays
Illness will dissipate.
The family tries to sell their home –
to pay bills, to feed a weaken child
and watches when their child suffers
in a metal crib, not their own. . .
No luck, so leave their house without
a place to sleep.
The family begs for food, a place
to lay their heads, a place where a
sick child can cuddle in the night.
They dream about a wooden crib
and wake to find their child dead.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Monday, June 28, 2010
TIN BUCKETS
Tin Buckets
Mother, today near our yellow
garage, I leaned against old
chipped paint,
instead of flicking paint with
my finger - I stared at our old
pear tree
crying as if rain coated fur
coats – pears strewn about
the lawn – ants and worms
live inside
no one saves bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – like Grandma.
Are you with Grandma?
You remember Grandma
took care of bruised fruit
tossed scraps from her second
floor window - of our city flat,
to feed blackbirds.
Those maple trees - you remember?
growing back home, in your town –
“Middle” – Mother said – always
said “Middle” not Middle Granville
a place near the border of Vermont -
Mother – you were proud of those
maple trees – crying like the pears
but into thin tin buckets – buckets
attached to mighty strong trunks -
tin buckets filled with maple syrup -
Mother, I know you can see me.
I bet all those trees with buckets
were glad to see you home
you climbed their limbs - you tied
tin to their trunks – you hid beneath
a Maple tree like a piece of scorned
fruit.
Mother, you are not there - on the crest
gazing over rusted train tracks, tracks
twisting around raised stones – tracks
near your brother’s bar – you’re not
laying near trees crying into buckets
You see mother - now you can fly;
resting in peace – never your style
yet I do enjoy you listening when I
talk out loud – you see – I know you
are right here! You told me so. . .
Remember, “I'll haunt you till the
day you die.” Then laughed!
I believe you protect me…
Remember when you turned all the
fans on, and tears ran down our wall –
when pencils were tossed – pictures
fell – and now you’re moving glasses
and you hear me – you hear me when
I talk. My husband believes – since you
touched his face – I’m pleased –
Mother, you are watching me –
You see me, hear me, listen to all
the words – and answer in your own
way – we believe.
The day we placed a wreath at your
grave – knee deep in snow, we noticed
snow inside tin buckets –
Did you notice too?
We talked about the other side, you
told me about my birth – and all those
dead people coming back – I knew
everything by heart. So we talked as
I grew – and I believed – we talked
when you were dying, and I believed
You’re right here watching me as I
tell others!
But why not touch my face?
Mother, you can fly over our pear
tree and watch scraps of food fed
to black birds, and touch faces in
our sleep – guide us in daylight –
So fly mother, fly near the border
where slate resembles slabs of
fudge – where rocks fall into streams
where maples do cry into buckets,
and your talking with all your friends
now resting on the crest.
Fly – Fly – guide us all with your
light.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Mother, today near our yellow
garage, I leaned against old
chipped paint,
instead of flicking paint with
my finger - I stared at our old
pear tree
crying as if rain coated fur
coats – pears strewn about
the lawn – ants and worms
live inside
no one saves bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – like Grandma.
Are you with Grandma?
You remember Grandma
took care of bruised fruit
tossed scraps from her second
floor window - of our city flat,
to feed blackbirds.
Those maple trees - you remember?
growing back home, in your town –
“Middle” – Mother said – always
said “Middle” not Middle Granville
a place near the border of Vermont -
Mother – you were proud of those
maple trees – crying like the pears
but into thin tin buckets – buckets
attached to mighty strong trunks -
tin buckets filled with maple syrup -
Mother, I know you can see me.
I bet all those trees with buckets
were glad to see you home
you climbed their limbs - you tied
tin to their trunks – you hid beneath
a Maple tree like a piece of scorned
fruit.
Mother, you are not there - on the crest
gazing over rusted train tracks, tracks
twisting around raised stones – tracks
near your brother’s bar – you’re not
laying near trees crying into buckets
You see mother - now you can fly;
resting in peace – never your style
yet I do enjoy you listening when I
talk out loud – you see – I know you
are right here! You told me so. . .
Remember, “I'll haunt you till the
day you die.” Then laughed!
I believe you protect me…
Remember when you turned all the
fans on, and tears ran down our wall –
when pencils were tossed – pictures
fell – and now you’re moving glasses
and you hear me – you hear me when
I talk. My husband believes – since you
touched his face – I’m pleased –
Mother, you are watching me –
You see me, hear me, listen to all
the words – and answer in your own
way – we believe.
The day we placed a wreath at your
grave – knee deep in snow, we noticed
snow inside tin buckets –
Did you notice too?
We talked about the other side, you
told me about my birth – and all those
dead people coming back – I knew
everything by heart. So we talked as
I grew – and I believed – we talked
when you were dying, and I believed
You’re right here watching me as I
tell others!
But why not touch my face?
Mother, you can fly over our pear
tree and watch scraps of food fed
to black birds, and touch faces in
our sleep – guide us in daylight –
So fly mother, fly near the border
where slate resembles slabs of
fudge – where rocks fall into streams
where maples do cry into buckets,
and your talking with all your friends
now resting on the crest.
Fly – Fly – guide us all with your
light.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
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