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Inner Dialogue –

IMG_0206_WebPhotograph by Arielle Williams – https://www.ariellewilliams.com

Ms. Williams’ fine art photography is featured in my book, Life in Between https://www.amazon.com/Life-Between-Collection-Poems-Photographs/dp/1532002149/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502061932&sr=1-1&keywords=Maria+pisciotta+dellaporte

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Are you quite ready?  I mean have you had enough?

Please, don’t feel you must respond immediately.  After all, it’s only been twenty-one years.

 

          Enough years to assimilate with grief, and your natural wit about it

 

I’m only pointing out the obvious.  You already know which way to go.

The way I figure it, torment has become as easy as a breath mint to youYour ability to simply reach for, and pop one onto your taste buds like bitter remorse.

Are you listening?

 

          To what your direction or my inner voice that knows?

 

Either! But please go already…

 

          It may be too late, although I do feel close to arrival.

          Wouldn’t that be rich—to arrive too late—show up dead or something?

 

Maybe you already are dead.  Ever think about that?

 

          (Thought provoked glare with a dash of annoyance.)

 

You know, I’ve been thinking.  What if you gave-up trying to make sense of everything? There may be no profound reason to anything.  Think about it…

 

          Funny.

 

Imagine it this way.  You tie your shoes because they’ll stay securely on your feet.  It is more comfortable than tripping over the laces, but do you really think about doing it?

Can’t there be an underlying reason that you don’t need to realize, but just do?

 

          Think later?  I like the idea.  But what if I forget what to think about?  It could be a curse.  The onset of Alzheimer’s.

 

But you’d be none the wiser.  Truly, no attempt at unweaving has served you.  You’re like a spider, hanging at the end of what’s left of a sticky web, destroyed by a broomstick.

 

          Some compassion!  Are you calling me a witch?

 

All I’m saying is don’t be so comfortable with the voices in your head.

 

          And you are….

 

Yes… but I’m positive, if I wore the red shoes from that stale closet calling for mercy, and went out dancing, I’d be a star!

 

          Sometimes the voices are the only ones listening to reason…

 

I’m so glad we could have this talk.

 

(To be continued…)

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

Unknown

Penny Wishes

coinjar

 

There are three pennies—

 

A jar under the kitchen sink collects coins:

Nickels, dimes, and quarters—

 

Two more pennies then trade the five for a nickel. 

Jar worthy.

 

Each penny wishes it were worth five-cents.

They want nothing more than to belong, to hear,

to feel the clanking of old-respectable copper

 

(swapped for cost-efficient zinc)

 

against receptive glass,

descending into a pool of rich friends.

 

Oh, the fun that would ensue while mingling at parties,

discussing stocks, wearing the latest fashion,

and inflating egos…

 

I insist the pennies must never apologize for who they are.

Be confident!

 

As a result, they not only buff themselves well

against a cotton rag to shine,

but march proudly—Lincoln soldiers!

 

Still the fact remains,

they cannot buy dinner, diamonds, designer-clothes…

 

Now and again temptation arrives:

Be a big shot!

 

Toss a single dollar bill into the jar,

but it would throw-off balance entirely.

 

Quarters would feel they don’t add-up without three

well-to-do friends. Dimes would become bullies

pushing their way up to ten.

 

Nickels would simply give-up trying,

and form an alliance with the pennies,

waging war on the rich:

 

“Who made you all-deserving copper-nickel, green-paper-presidents?

We are enough for your wishes in a well!”

 

Then comes a revelation:

Release the oppressed coins. They cannot

change worth on their own accord.

 

A force greater together—

 

Take the coins—including each penny—to the poor.

They will be grateful for every cent.

Soon there will be a bushel of fruit or a new pair of socks.

 

Collect grains of sand in finely shaped jars,

and delight in the vast wealth of the seas.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

Peter Gabriel

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I met a man who said his name was Peter Gabriel.

 A musician—

 

Listening intently…

 

He sang:

“Grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.”

 

And I cried with joy that it was done!

“My heart going, boom, boom, boom…”

 

Time drifted like a dream.

We were whistling… 

 

A kitchen painted-yellow.

Three mice hanging daffodil-curtains.

A child inside a clock that couldn’t tell time.

Oatmeal warm on the stove.

 

Peter had a mustache made from cinnamon.

I spun graciously in a music box.

Pink steel-tip slippers!

 

The sky—fresh cherry pie—the rose in my cheeks.

 

Marital bliss on the drums –

“Shock the monkey!”

 

Upon awakening—

 

Head propped precariously in a generous dose of reality,

and not the arm of a knight, but a microfiber-couch.

 

Cold feet, but warm breath—story of my life.

 

Kisses still lingering in the air,

attempting to be caught—slippery bubbles.

 

Almost made it to the other side:

 

“Dressing up in costumes, playing silly games,

hiding-out in tree tops, shouting-out rude names.”

 

The place I call home!

 

A trick:

Fall in love, feel alive,

secure in chiffon-dreams.

 

Peter—making record sales to support an unprofitable poetry habit.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

Winged-Victory-Weathervane-Nike-P

Nike – Winged Goddess of Victory Weathervane*

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A half-mile between now and then the future stands still.

Dream in a vortex—

Screams at the wind: west or east, come true!

 

Awaiting a perfect storm, to know, jump into…

 

Please?

 

Morning’s medium roast should percolate circumstance—sunshine-bliss,

and a front porch made from the intellect of trees.

 

Conquer circuitous shackles.

 

Prepare sweet lemon-sugar to awaken the tongue’s lifeless universe.

 

For there, leaning on the fence, willingly in anticipation:

The soul of a yellow bicycle;

 

feminine wisps-of-straw-weaved-basket,

brimming with wild flowers, and fresh corn of summer.

 

I can be butter and herbs

Sail effortlessly on wheels.

 

No more weathervane captive by nature, deprived of a say in which way to go.

 

That agony standing still—in hope of—

staggering!

 

Life—generous soil—be willing

Produce cups over-filled,

before we become worms that feed it!

 

I beg an exit to the left, from a mind that aught to be placed in a planter, grow thoughts of bitter-green-fear for birds, and insects to digest.

 

The heart—she is country without boarders.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

*From Westcoastweathervanes .com -“In Greek mythology, Nike personified victory, and was also known as the Winged Goddess of Victory. Her Roman equivalent was Victoria. She is the goddess of strength, speed, and victory and was a very close acquaintance of Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Justice. It is thought that Nike stood in Athena’s outstretched hand in the statue of Athena located in the Parthenon. Nike is one of the most commonly portrayed figures on Greek coins and her aforementioned association with strength, speed and victory has made her a well-known athletic logo.”

 

 

I always try to go to different blogs to find and learn about different writers,  and of course read, and/or follow people that have read, liked, and followed me. However, a problem exists. I have clicked on numerous blogger’s photos that I’ve seen through their liking a piece I’ve written, but am then taken to the avatar site with a picture only, and no way of getting to their website/blog.  I get frustrated because I am interested and do want to read their work but cannot. So, if you’re wondering, maybe check to make sure that the blog is listed. I’m honestly not sure how to do that? For certain, I’m not the most advanced on WordPress. I want to apologize if I’ve missed things because of this, and hope to be able to locate the blogs of people that take the time to read mine. I also would like to apologize for when I miss posts by people I am following due to other reasons such as time, being away, work, etc., and I will always try to catch-up! In addition, I can only read English. I am super impressed by people that do this in serval languages. Wow!  I’m actually blown away by how many exceptionally talented writers there are on WordPress, and enjoy so many terrific posts. Thank you. Happy writing! 🙂

Lost Significance

universe-painting1

Lost Significance—

 

A communicator climbing hills and mountains in search of new descriptions,

listens for words you might be willing to share,

 

hopeful to be better acquainted;

understand our predicament.

 

I can recite all of my definitions by heart.

 

          —To you if you like.

Yet you sit silently—stingy vocabulary.

 

Consider sentences beating across the terrain,

between us, and rivers that need denotation.

 

A thorn bush rushes blood to fingertips,

revelation—blooms—a red rose.

 

Of course, I do respect the beauty in silence…

 

…A kiss? A Tear? A Gasp?

 

I want—

to experience you/you to lose your equilibrium

in a stupid thing,

love.

 

Under three thousand stars a quarter moon rests,

mist’s silhouette wanders, a dark ocean tries to catch our toes.

Lost firefly-glowing, wind chiming – Amazing Grace!

Each crystal of sand it’s own story.

 

And you— notice the rupture of a belch,

satisfied with yourself.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

 

Unknown

The bed has a four thousand-dollar sinkhole. That’s okay because it’s made from organic cotton, and the latest luxury foam, so I am told,

 

And sold: A designer’s name assumed, heaven, on a medal base.

 

I maneuver precariously around its mountainsides searching a comfortable groove.

 

Around the clock I go: right hip connected to backbone, shoulder blade connected to neck bone, tailbone—with [all] its rattled nerves—sinks. . .a painful groin!

 

I’ve purchased the softest sheets to forget. Four varieties of pillows travel the night, side-to-side, over and back, onto a stomach hungering for dreams. Finally to the dead-asleep floor, useless!

 

I do not like to sleep in a box, or with a fox, but I’m sure it would be more comfortable—

 

Sheep come in the night and gawk with sinister smiles. The leader is confident, and possesses a salesperson’s face. Going over contracts and stipulations, I cry, “Baaah-baaah…. The gaping hole was not included!”

 

Still, I’m paying sales tax for it beyond a hundred day comfort guarantee.

 

Suddenly, I am terribly itchy. Duped—If only I had the recourse to shear those taunting wooly animals. I’d embarrass them like they have me—

 

Stripping them of their assets!

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Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

 

The Pitcher

I’ve written this piece about PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) that comes from different circumstances, can be moderate to severe, and affects the lives of the individuals and their family members alike.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

handcrafted-tilted-glass-pitchers

The pitcher was full—

 

A sturdy, well-shaped, clear glass allowed for an unobstructed view of fruit. —Tart lemon and lime, sweet orange, refreshing mint. A carving etched along its side said something about its personality, where it comes from, or what it believes.

 

The effortless flow of liquid between frozen cubes, splashing into a craving glass, served satisfaction. —Cheers!

 

Its handle was a comfortable, secure grip.

 

A mid-afternoon excursion out side to the patio, and it was placed sturdily onto a wrought-iron table fused by our dear-departed grandfather.

 

Overall, life, once like steel and easy grips, presented a solid foundation.

 

The surrounding grass was greener than it had ever been due to April showers that became May and June’s endless rain.  It was now a blazing hot July.

 

The birds visiting managed a subtle humming, as opposed to a full clattering song.

Soothing was preferred over cheerful.

 

Someone had been through war, the sort in which you don’t choose your battles, but rather they choose you; and now the time has come that it is over.

 

The remaining soul is propped perfectly back into normalcy, beneath a sky that knows no difference, or of dreadful particulars that one experiences before implosion.

 

Feeling without solid ground beneath their feet, traumatized and raw; It made all good intentions by those that cared to walk them around town, pointing out the friendly neighborhood ice-cream store, boasting of the sun shining poetically in the sky, or of joyfulness expressed by boys and girls passing on bicycles, —fruitless.

 

They earnestly wanted to enjoy, pleasing us by being happy, but every desire for them to be was rather interpreted as painful expectation, fear of disappointing, pressure to be part of a past way of life, that not unlike a dream, could be recalled vividly, however not lived.

 

Their intention to settle down and truly come home, not to simply exist like a plaid chair’s reliable comfort in the living room, or a candle halfway burned down, exposing its wick atop the mantle, was sincere

 

But everything was different now:

 

The bicycle sounds triggered alarm. The ice-cream store reminded them of their brother who was killed. The sun’s glare hurt their wounded eyes. Joyful boys and girls created longing for innocence they’d never again behold.  Too many sticks and stones!

 

The stench of death, while trying to save lives, in many instances their own, remained available to recall.  Chaos swarmed like bees around their queen.

 

A toll was taken upon the strongest warriors causing an impact of fragility.

—A tulip, emerged in the tenderness of spring, deceived and exposed wickedly to frost.

 

Sad, afraid, and stuck— how they want to jump but simply cannot!

 

You need to remember for them, to remind them of love—like their mother’s apron with stains of butter and sweet jams.

 

Be the wife that caresses his torn-up feet, the husband that kisses the salt of her tears in hope of capturing his smiling bride.

 

For those the world looks immensely different to, who suffer desperately wanting to be home in their hearts, but fear a landmine—compassion,

 

like strings building tempo in an orchestra—tries and understands the melody of confusion that riddles the soul—patience.  No limit on time that has stopped, and left creatures of a fragmented past.

 

The pitcher has been shattered, it’s true, but the thirst and recipe remains—

 

The below video has been inserted as it speaks volumes to me along the lines of the words I’ve written.

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A country, wood-screen door, says to me, “Welcome Home!”

 

Family. Friends. Husband. Children. Dog wagging its tail, cat resting on a windowsill.

 

Upon leaving, it says, “All is well. I shall return.”

 

It is capable of smiling for us in any color: red, white, blue, green… In any season…

A natural wreath for spring, pinecones for winter.

 

Peace is its complement to us, captured in breezes that flow effortlessly, through its gracious ventilation. The scent of honeysuckles, or lilacs coming inside; a freshly baked pie drifting outward to a neighbor who might stop by for coffee.

The home is cream and sugar—

 

I want to hear the harmonious squeak, music to my ears, as people come or go, embrace the joy in the sound of wood hitting its base to close.

 

The contentment of my heart—

 

Soft, or scampering footsteps follow onto the planks of a porch.

 

We’ll swing and gather lemonade dreams. Look-upon a wildflower garden while bees buzz daisies for nectar.

 

The sun shines a memory of our nurturing mother’s humming; her floral-cotton hem. The shade from surrounding trees is our father’s whistle, his protection—though we need not any here—

barefoot and free.

 

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

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I swear, it’s all true…

 

I hold the whole world in my heart.

And sometimes, I just want to run, and let it all flood-out.

Breathe in the sum of everything, all at once.

 

Set you free!

 

Paint the lives in my path: red, yellow, green…

Leave something memorable,

to those otherwise blinded.

 

So many words, yet I can’t explain,

furious-wind blowing in my brain.

 

Hear, hear, hear, you…

But you can’t feel a thing.

 I’ve been lighting fires everywhere waiting.

Falling into capture.

Can’t escape it. You know that I can’t.

You can’t…

 

Too many sticks and stones in all these years.

Shattered dreams, but hope remains.

 

One day, I know you’ll recall

all that I may have forgotten along the way,

 

but surely it will be too late. I’ll be a memory by then.

A star in the sky to wish upon.

 

Only don’t expect I’ll answer.

Rather—feel me emerge, a tingle on your skin,

from a humid breeze, or scent of seaweed.

 

The realization I am gone. Your pieces gathered-inside.

 

Hear, hear, hear, you…

But you can’t feel a thing. 

I’ve been lighting fires everywhere waiting.

Falling into capture.

Can’t escape it. You know that I can’t.

You can’t…

 

Remember the day the world was dancing?

Neither can I. But wouldn’t it have been nice?

 

When you pray –

Imagine me thankful, in a pink summer-dress,

with a spinning hula-hoop that cries,

 

heart beating quickly in excitement—

 

Going to jump-free into a parallel-universe

that shines!

Kiss minty-trees, like tall, leafy, men with answers.

 

God and I will celebrate the wanton chaos behind us,

drink wine, move effortlessly to the Psychedelic Furs,

 

a full moon in our grasp.

 

Hear, hear, hear, you…

But you can’t feel a thing.

I’ve been lighting fires everywhere waiting.

Falling into capture.

Can’t escape it. You know that I can’t.

You can’t…

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved