Tuesday, July 27, 2010



Sunlight, dark inside
a wall of light -
sun sleeps at the horizon
Motel Eight – an asphalt
roof begins to shine -

empty chairs of winter
awkward angles -
rippling of water,
Santa Ana winds. . .
a vacuum,
a cleaning woman
a TV on but
never knew about a plane
circling above…
ethnic tongue
shoulders shrug

parking lots lined
with white trucks
morning breakfast

a quarter to eight
a thinning crowd of
women in capris –
sleeveless -
capturing a January sun
a naked pool -
a rap at the door -

bedding held above
her head she
squeezes past a
potted plant –
pot smokers near
a door - past a woman,
seven decades older
with yellow bleached
blond hair…
smoked finger
nails, and toes in need
of clipping.
Wears thick spectacles
of white, and gives

A ball of heat is rising
touching a red tiled roof
flashing specs of white
on top of asphalt
no vacancy
flashes into
the eastern sky
a plane circles
a TV tells about a
missing child
but no one seems
to care.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Saturday, July 17, 2010



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

mother, she knew

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

those 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

medical men entered
her room and mother
medical men warned
her babies this small
do not survive –

mother, she knew –

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

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

a few days passed, and
the medical men told her
again –
a week went by, and she
two weeks, and 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 a 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
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
and onto ice on city walks,
she too 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

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
snuggled up inside pink

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

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

and, there beneath a
Christmas tree – I laid
inside a red wagon –
my older brother next to me
a red bow tied around my
Christmas and I finally
made it home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
Posted by Nancy Denofio at 5:30 PM 4 comments

Monday, July 12, 2010


Individual Patches of Earth

A lip of warm water
crawling up a stomach
one late afternoon
delight, a moment past

earth rejoices in
sprays of light
color blends
perfect, and revolting

paint chipped
on a broken face
forgotten statue
beneath a tree in winter

ripple of water
near, a stench
far away a clearing
in the distance…

heed the humming
of a plane - a bird, as clear
on hills beyond
a vision of vapor

lay tears of time
past, hastily
our evening solitude
our Ancestors dream

familiar spiral spin,
a course of roots
severe cuts splitting
earth is dug

we pass on different
minds, shrewd
dreamers of another
life worth living

A sealed book,
unread, unlearned,
unlike individual patches
of earth.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Thursday, July 8, 2010


Dreaming of a Clown

small hands rest on a
window ledge
little legs kneel
on a braided rug

dreaming of the
cotton candy,
roasted nuts,
a smell of popcorn
midnight air

music playing on and on,
magic lights flash
a merry-go-round.
Sounds of laughter
in a street -
a little girl –
crosses her feet

she breathes on a
pane of glass –
tiny fingers draw
a picture of a clown -
his eyes,
nose and mouth,
she - always makes
him frown

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Waves Disappeared

Waves Disappeared

I recall when people
dumped hypodermic
needles off the shore
of the Atlantic Ocean

I recall the children
at the beach – punctured
skin as needles
scattered along a sandy
beach. . .

no one cared

I recall the trash littered
in the sand - moss green
growing out of the form

no one cared

I heard about the men
who gathered at the shore
for rest and relaxation
from the time of Lincoln

they cared

before needles floated
on a wave –
but the Navy had Wave’s
and they floated –
rested at the shore. . .

And those men in uniforms
were handsome –
women gawked at men
while wearing tight dresses
high heels, a tight bodice
to emphasize the shape of
a nature bosom

they cared

today, everything you see
perfect, is fake –
everything you read about
is a disaster –
the press thrives
talking heads smile
when it should be concern,
don’t they have families!

families who walk on sandy
shores. . .
but the waves and Navy

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved