Nancyducidenofio's Blog

Poetry-Prose weblog



If you never walked in the forest
after smoking green leaves, or
connected – side by side – friend on
friend – smelling sweet sweat. . .

soft sweetness of soil – or rolled
around in high grass, removed
your clothes to swim nude in a
lake, picked dead dandelions for
a friend –

Then you will not dream about it,
or pretend to know.

If you never hitch-hiked on a road
where cars seldom traveled, or never
pulled pack your thumb, back to your
fingers, lowered your arm after a
car sped by, but smiled when your
legs tired, smiled when you were
hungry, smiled at nothing but laughed
at everything you heard. . .

Then, you will not dream about it,
or pretend to know.

If you never knew Whitman’s Leaves
of Grass – or focused on what it told
you. . .

Then, you will not dream about it,
or pretend to know.

It wasn’t a piece of candy or a
delicate slice of fudge, or a box in
deeper shades of yellow, with names
of things to come, but a vision,
a image of knowing and still living.

Then you will dream about it and know.


(C)all rights reserved  Nancy Duci Denofio



You Asked Me To Dance

You asked me to dance, when a child returns to find someone waiting, and they run – play – giggle and bend over with laughter to find a way to bring her home.

Nancy Duci Denofio’s Blog

Prose – Poetry – Chapters of Novel in Draft


Tin Buckets

Mother – today near our yellow
garage I leaned against old
yellow chipped paint, and
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
living inside
no one saving bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – as Grandma.

Are you with me 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 have to
Growing back home, in your home
town – “Middle,” Mother said –
always, Mother said, “Middle,”
not Middle Granville its’ name –
a place near the Vermont border –

Mother – you were proud of those
maple trees – crying like pears on
my lawn, in my home town – proud
when you pointed to 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 when you
finally came home? I cried when you
left our home.

You told me you climbed those mighty
limbs of the maple –
you tied tin to their trunks –
you would hide beneath a single tree
as if a piece of scorned fruit –
well, you did have far too many
siblings to hide from.

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
or hiding from your siblings –

You see mother – now you can fly

yet, resting in peace – never your
style – 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,” Mother, and you laughed –
I believe you protect us – our entire

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.

I know you hear me – you hear me when
I talk. Even my husband, he believes
since you touched his face. I’m

Mother, you are watching me –

You see me, hear me, listen to all
of my wishes, stories, and see my tears.
And you answer in your own Irish way –
we believe you.

That 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, touch faces in
the night – 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

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
1/6/2011 copyright