TWELVE MEN

TWELVE MEN

Twelve men moved
their seats – grasping
beer mugs, wing sauce
dripping from their
fingers – left a sloppy
place to sit among
crumpled napkins

As they passed few
smiled, to more for
two, me and you.
Few smiled as they
wiped lips on shirts
left crumpled napkins
behind.

In front of me a view
of Lake George from
the deck at Duffy’s
where music from the
sixties kept playing
even he could sing.

Twelve men sat in front
of the band, received
two free pitchers of beer
that made them smile,
some others smiled.

I told my husband - we
will probably pay double
get less -
He told me, our wings
might be left over from
a previous customer -
a table with crumbled
napkins.

When wings arrived,
cold – when his sauce –
extra came – wings
were hard – we knew
why.

Two men of twelve
walked to our table
asked, shoulder to
shoulder
asked, “are you
drunk yet?”

EYES CLOSED

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

1850 HITCHING POSTS

1850 HITCHING POSTS

Hitching posts line
cobblestone streets.
Awnings.... open - close
to brick, reveals iron floating
in air, near entrances as
proprietors lean
against brick facades.
Roads twist, turn
between blooms on
a dogwood tree.

At Center Street a
wooden box, reads
deposit trash.
A horse, upset. . .
swings a wooden wagon
upside down.
Youths in knickers,
run to fetch
fruit, bouncing on
uneven ground.

A proprietor stares
as the horse - defecates
in front of his property -
knowing summer heat
will keep his front door
closed -
until he, makes
piles inside the iron bucket
clearing the air, clearing his
space –
it might be a quiet
day.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

WHEN DARKNESS COVERS THE MOUNTAIN

WHEN DARKNESS COVERS THE MOUNTAIN

We must sleep as a sun slips behind
our mountains to the north -
as if time is light and dark.

We must hope for dreams at night -
dreams which pull me up and over our
mountain, into another space and time.

Here the sky is blue - although below
a black sky hovers over land - drenched
by a blast of showers; four inches Mama
told me.

Mama, she doesn't know I am - in a new world
where I can play in light - leaving darkness
of my past - she, doesn't know...

Against the color blue MaMa would be smiling
but, not every day - she would feel yellow
here with sunshine below her -

Because it is here where I need nothing
but my soul to lead me - my lost friends to
smile and show me, teach me what MaMa lost
in time forgot to do.

Here I can protect - be kind, and recall only
what brought happiness - what brought me
closer to those I had seen in darkness.

Our mountains in daylight - I return to wet
fields behind our home to see a sun begin
to rise to my east between two mountains.

Now the rain is gone - people mill around to
begin a new day and I am happy - I smile
to feel their love - no matter what I knew -

And, tonight when I slip away from darkness -
I will grow stronger soaking up the colors
to carry in my heart - back home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MARYLAND TO NEW YORK

MARYLAND TO NEW YORK

You felt liberated as a pink
pajama sleeve fell from your
shoulder to reveal a Victoria Secret
bra.

You were flirting with the man
seatedin seat number thirty-two.
You hugged your pillow
when the train rocked to your left.

We watched as a fat man’s stomach
deflate as air exited his mouth -
again his stomach filled with air as
his head jerked - his mouth now wide
open, his belly moved in and out,
in and out - hesitating - and he
leaned left toward seat number
thirty five - his head jerked right
he closed his mouth.
Air entered his nose as he began to
snore, his stomach sinking into his
seat - now seat number thirty-four.

The two men directly in front of us
kept changing directions,
leaning left - then right, and left again.
I elbowed you to keep watching when
both men simultaneously reached to
scratch fleshy scalps.

As the train twisted left - then right -
and left again - whells of metal continued
to hit the back of seat number forty-two
- heard brakes squael, your chair on wheels,
rammed against a woman exiting the ladies
room - rolled back to her - clipped her
knees, hitting the back of seat number
forty-four.

Glanced out of the window – so, not
to make eye contact with the woman
as she squeezed through the asile . . .
Instead, I watched the sunset - it
reminded me of the morning when you
spilled orange marmalade onto the uniform
of our waitress, when we were both
seated in booth four - your wheelchair
was neatly folded next to the front door.

November - brings night early. You - ready
to position your body for sleep - asking if
I would twist you like a tootsie roll.
My arms and hands pulled your lifeless body
toward the window of the train; your jeans
fell off your hips, you lost it - Miss
perfection - instead of laughing as heads
popped over seats, eyes watching us -
Never looked them square in the eye, besides
everyone was laughing - because you did.

You kept turning your eyes toward the wheelchair.
I knew it was new - paid way too much. But,
you ignored me when I told you not to worry,
pushing on your bare shoulder, holding up your
head, keeping you away from seat number thirty-two.
The train rocked back and forth, I held your head,
your shoulder too - so you wouldn't fall side
to side, or forward - refusing any kind of belt.

Your wheelchair rolled back toward the restroom,
back, hitting seat number forty-four.

You still wanted me to adjust your jeans.
The man began to snore - your chair rolled -
a train rocked - I had no idea how far we had
to go.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

1950's - TELEVISION A LONG POEM - Memoir

Memoir – Long Poem TELEVISION – 1950’s


My memory of Christmas begins with my father sketching Christmas on our windows in the parlor. Following a sketch in white paint, he began adding all the vibrant colors of Christmas. One window would have Santa, another, an idyllic scene of a horse and sleigh in the woods, and for sure a religious scene with angels and God in the sky. Every room he painted windows, including my bedroom and my brothers.

One memory which remains until this day is washing all the color away. I do know what its like to give a drawing, painting, or piece of art to anyone, while you create - your become a friend, like anything else it becomes part of you. But my father took a picture of my brother and me in front of every window, those little square color photos, and then the last thing about Christmas, was scrubbing the windows clean.

There was no question that my father is and was an excellent artist. While attending high school he learned he was the recipient of a scholarship to Pratt Institute in New York City. Unfortunately he had to turn down the gift because, being the oldest of three boys without a father since he was the age of ten, working and helping the family became his future. Dad began working for the General Electric plant in Schenectady. During his free time he went to Union college where he received a degree in Metallurgy. His long career at GE came to an end when he was elected the first Italian American mayor of Schenectady New York. You see, dad was never selfish; he gave whatever he had away. But dad never gave up drawing. Every political function every conference every president he managed to see he made sure he had a drawing, for their signature. He has drawings of IKE and Nixon, Carter, Kennedy’s, Rockefeller, Roosevelt, Truman and many more. He often told the story of shoving the piece of paper, with his drawing, beneath the nose of Ronald Reagan, and in the other hand a picture of Reagan when he came to Schenectady for the new WRGB Theatre. Reagan smiled, posed for the picture with my father and signed the drawing.

All of his work has some story such as this, some human part of Dad that made him the best Dad in the world. So, he kept most of his work, except for those drawings on the windows during the Christmas holiday, it was time to put Christmas to sleep, for another year. I don’t remember when Dad stopped drawing on the windows, I do recall playing with new toys and posing in front of them, my brother blowing on some trumpet, or wearing a space helmet, and me banging on a drum, pointing to the window with a big smile on my face. He never knew how sad I was when they washed the color away.

Yes, growing up in the fifties was different, but exciting. We learned about dishwashers, automatic coffee parts, color televisions and learned who was rich and who was poor. Even in the early 60’s very few television shows were in color. Gunsmoke and some other show where Elvis and the Beatles came to life, Ed Sullivan, that was it, and in living color, right in our living room. Dad, Walt and Phil once posed wearing a wig resembling the Beatles and pretended to strum one of our old play guitars and began moving around like Elvis, or singing like “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” I guess they really weren’t too sure if Elvis or the Beatles had longer hair. The room, the living room, or the parlor, whatever you want to call it, was so active and full of life.

Mom would sit on the old red velvet couch, knitting. I can still see her hands moving so quickly and hear the rubbing of two metallic sticks; every once in a while mom took a break to take a puff on her cigarette which she placed in the glass ashtray shaped like the first electric light blub from the GE - it would burn away, because right then and there it was the sweater she was knitting that meant more. The smoke from the cigarette slowly crept up and up to reach the ceiling. Everyone in those days, smoked.

I remember sitting on the linoleum covered floor, it was red and white and squeaked when crossing in rubber shoes. I would sit cross legged on the linoleum, sometimes my thighs cold, other times, hot and sticking to the floor, but I was one of many sitting and staring at this square box, a new television. The room would be packed with people, and the sound on the television so loud as an announcer introduced all the players for one of the Yankee games. Mom, she kept box scores of every game, and always sitting on the left side of the sofa, and Walt on the right. Uncle Phil, from upstairs, sat in the middle of them on that old red couch. And Dad, he pulled a chair into the doorway from the kitchen, his arms stretched, touching either side of the door frame as if to allow only certain people into this arena. If my brother was home, he would occupy the chair that never matched the couch. I never lasted on the floor sitting cross legged for the entire game - I lost interest. I would slip beneath Dad’s arms and run my fingers across the wanes coating in the hallway then head to my bedroom - the bedroom off the kitchen where everyone gathered except when the Yankees were on television. Then, and only then was I in a quiet place.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

SOLD TO A PEDDLER

Sold to the Peddler

Sold you to a peddler
on our street, and
he took his time -
examined you, and all
our junk…

You were too old, worn
out - cracked ceramic
skull - nails bitten,
fingers missing, dress
torn, and missing shoes…

Needed some cash back
then, and you seemed so
worthless - needless,
useless, stored inside
a cardboard box -left
in the dark.

I begged for you - as
a child – to hold you –
feed you fake milk from
a magical bottle. I
burped you too – small
hands gently patted
your back - tipped you
forward when I wanted
you to cry, and combed
knots from your hair.

You made me cry one
day when you would
not open your left eye.
Mother, she oiled you
with Crisco, and took
time to sew your torn
dress.

Now - I want you back –
but I let you go with
the peddler, in another
cardboard box.

Nancy Duci Denofio