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Nancy Denofio Poem
Mineral Baths Saratoga Springs NY
She covers her private
parts at the bath house.
Mineral water fills a tub,
centuries old.
She feels cold until
an old Women hands
her heated sheets...
now, her skin covered.
Brought her clips to lift
her auburn hair.
The sheets cooled as the
tub, now filled.
A stray cat
peers into the window...
purrs, kissing glass.
The old Women
removes the sheet, takes
the hand of a young lady
as she carefully
steps into aged porcelain.
Tiny bubbles
surround her skin.
A soft pillow for her head...
Now, relax. . . she tells herself,
dreaming of the
cat kissing glass. . .
alone, at last.
Nancy Duci Denofio
Copyright © Nancy Denofio | Year Posted 2010
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Nancy Denofio Poem
Skidmore College - Bolton Hall
Saratoga morning mist
naked legs wrestle a
breeze - the living
section of the morning
paper floats freely
across patches of green
grass beneath incredible
pines. . .
Out there, beyond evergreens
drenched in morning light,
a destination, unknown
as pavement stretches
wraps, curled about broken
limbs and patches of ice. . .
A few steps left to climb
and I stip to dream, half
seeing hungry birds peeking
at a single blade of grass.
And, as I glance up
a brass sign tells me
this is Bolton Hall.
Nancy Duci Denofio - 2001
Copyright © Nancy Denofio | Year Posted 2010
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Nancy Denofio Poem
He loves her. . .
her red bonnet
identical
matching strands
of hair. . .
He loves the
way she moves,
dancing. . .
his red whiskers tickle
her freckled face.
She watches him,
while he flirts
beneath his wide brim
hat. . .
She twists her
body to the left,
needing not his
tender touch.
He wraps his
arm's about her
waist. . .
while touching
bows, ribbons
and petticoat. . .
He kicks his
feet as pebbles
fly lifting sand
into the air.
She listens
to a crowd laugh -
reckless as they
clap, cheer, gulp
beer. Wondering
where she will be
in tomorrows midnight
air.
Nancy Duci Denofio - 1997
Written while observing
paintings at the Chicago Museum of Art
And, I am sure you can recall the piece of art?
Copyright © Nancy Denofio | Year Posted 2010
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Nancy Denofio Poem
at seven
locked in a cold cellar
where bulbs hang to dry
in damp darkness of night
sleds posed for winter play
near steep piles of wood,
one on top of one
tin buckets filled with sand
a graveyard for mice
who crept into a wooden trap
garden gloves stiff
yellow paint dry
metal cans left open
newspapers cover a wooden door
near an oval window
up three steps to the outside
a door nailed shut
where little, little feet
feel loose cement
seven
spider webs hang
far above my head
I see it now...
I feel it now...
as if someone locked
me into the cellar
at seven, a hideout
below reality
still smell dampness
feel the cold, see colors...
all senses clear
not that I am blind.
Copyright © Nancy Denofio | Year Posted 2010
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