Category: Uncategorized


I am the pen at his right side.

 

Dark ink—waiting.

 

A strong hand, course, from winter’s dry,

cold air. Immobile. My heart in mourning—

 

Education in his knuckles, protruding,

a few stubbly hairs.

 

They recall a touch on the cheek,

catching a pink bottom-lip, open,

to hope for more than a melancholy spring.

 

Unequipped to read his mind.

The pure paper, wanting…

 

Give us a story. Etch I love you.

 

A house on the hill with daisies,

 

Lavender dreams,

 

A picket fence in need of painting,

 

Iron skillet with a sunny-side-up broadcast.

 

Imagine our heels soft on the upswing,

a perfect seat for two, catching a breeze from the east.

 

Push the lose flying hair behind my ear, quickly,

before it gets away, wise like a bird.

 

A porch of yellow pine housing ants

with stories of their own.

 

His hand reaches for the pen.

 

I brace for impact from what I am yet to know.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

porch-swing-aar

 

Advertisements

Rewrite and Request

I recently updated my post, Letting Go of Daffodils, and would love to get some feedback. Thank you.

Letting Go of Daffodils

daffodils_aa51e27f4aab07409494_11303

 

Succulent berries captivate a young man.

A handful of Daffodils—

 

Breaths gather together,

then are lost in waves,

his soft brown hair.

 

Through the smudged window – a dove

intently it peers inside.

 

Precariously on the edge— 

She is.

(A frail branch trading fall’s exuberant color for winter)

 

 

Two smart black eyes make contact

with hazel, recalling,

still tender in the moment.

 

Telepathically an understanding:

They are about to go south… 

 

A grey painted wing matches the sky’s light.

Evaporated sound.

 

A tear sluggishly down her right cheek loses meaning.

 

Oblivious—a determined soldier

searches for his manhood.

 

Inside the walls of a peach colored room,

he climbs the mountaintop for knowledge.

 

Never to release her secret:

A silk dress inspiring on hip,

bouquet of Daffodils,

sunshine in her smile,

the gospel of yesterday’s youth –

power like money, and beauty is the firefly,

emerged!

 

Disappeared

in tragic lines—every one a story.

 

The crow appears,

lands higher upon the branch with a loud caw.

 

The dove gives-up its innocence for flight.

She closes her eyes in acceptance.

 

Time is ageless, as death is inevitable.

Goodbye.

 

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

Tempo into Release

This period in time is the build-up—soft tempo eloquently escalating, patiently, sometimes painfully, to reach a point—release into magnificence.   -Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

Below is a poem, author unknown, that my late sister, Marilyn, wrote down and gave to me. For all I know, she could have written it. I kept it tucked-in at the left corner of my mirror for years. She was my best friend. The water marks are my tears, from when I held the paper in my hands to read again for the first time after she died. She was a month shy of her 33rd birthday. It broke my heart knowing she’d never realize anymore dreams.

This time in my life is a different challenge, and there are days I really want to give-up, but a stubborn flicker of belief always remains in my heart, and I want to wake-up dancing. I know my sister would want that. 

IMG_4293-1

Ps: I intended to put a formal classic ballerina dance video below, but when I stumbled upon this one with its upbeat melody, and the lyrics – home is wherever I am with you (there’s a personal meaning in that for me) and then the girl dances holding a large daisy (daisies were Marilyn’s favorite) I knew it was her telling me this was the one. This was her kind of spirit. I know if I could hear her she’d insist that I also be my playful self, get it done, and be happy.

Wolf and Lamb

f8f941c81ab26f07b815fd7044f1ca27--big-bad-wolf-beauty-and-the-beast

If my nature draws me to the wolf, but the lamb provides all that I need, do I continue to seek in starvation, from the wolf what he truly will never concede? The piece of discovery I am hard-pressed to possess, to conquer—satisfaction. Consequently absorb clarification…worthiness. Within its complications learn there are no answers: The bait its only depth! —Painful joy within its entanglement. Or, do I allow for submission into what really is love: Contained in tender action—with its own self-righteousness. Let the pleasant monotonies lull me into inertia: Content in its peace to dream of, the bite, hell bent on having me.

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

bf9689f56586af6a34d7744c2294ad72

 

 

I feel compelled to share this blog. It touches upon numerous important points, but more, as an artist it sinks in on every level.
“They say art never comes out of happiness, but it requires love.”
Meaningful truth–

irevuo

art_life_love“It is good to love many things, for therein lies true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.” – Vincent van Gogh

I see a lot of artists who just want to become artists. They believe novels simply get written, or that somehow they’ll magically get better at this. Many are reluctant to explore new possibilities or try new techniques… but that doesn’t make much sense.

I believe art to be the only reasonable way for us to venture beyond the limitations of our own world, and by doing so we reach the very essence of our humanity. We always feel close to figuring out some elusive answer to life’s most profound questions. Of course, we never do so, and that’s what keeps us going.

View original post 638 more words

The Dying Dancer

Time has forced its hand, made a realist of her.

Despite every effort to balance on a dream,

everything for everything—

 

The story:

Happily ever after, all pieces placed together,

screeching-apart.

 

Above the sky,

toes precariously believed in wings…

 

Clipped by a cruel descent into desolation.

 

Heart hung-up—

worn satin dance-slippers retired on a hook.

Unknown

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

 

Fellow Bloggers –

I have been away from WordPress, posting, and reading all of your posts for a good stretch of time. I look forward to catching-up with all of your posts in time!

No one knows our demons by name or the veracity of our hearts. This is something we would be wise to accept, about ourselves, and everyone we ever meet––Burn expectations of one another at the core. –Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

*

From time to time we stumble over ourselves upon answers, and when we do, we claim to have found God, but on the bitter end call it inconceivable tossing faith to chance. –Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

*

Drawn innately to those we believe possess understanding about us, on a level we are unable to grasp, but desperately want to behold:

I broke my own heart in order to set it free, that it might find you–—and inside discover me. -Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

*

A painful break in time occurred, and when it did all that was known was forgotten. As a result, I was either lost, or I was found. Either way there was nowhere to return to, or to call home.  -Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

*

 

 

 

Hollow –

What_fearful_shapes_and_shadows_beset_his_path_-_The_Legend_of_Sleepy_Hollow_(1899),_frontispiece_-_BL

The sound of a hollow wind—

Not unlike the troubled mind.

 

How it searches for peace:

In love and whisky…

Over the land and mountains.

Taking the tides in-and-out.

 

On the outskirts of reason—

All answers cease to exist.

Still, we jump-in,

search what cannot be found.

 

Victims

to necessary confusion!

 

Safer –

The possibility:

Discovering—us—insignificant,

too staggering.

 

Painful truth is solid.

 

Wind,

better on the run,

whimsical tones on wanting chimes.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved