Tag Archive: creative writing


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

Advertisements

Womb—

 

There is a tipi in my womb.

In there is knowledge—

 

Footsteps and memories…

 

A little girl resembling me.

 

A picture of Christ—

 

Daughter’s first cry

(swallowed my heart.)

 

Viola playing sadly.

 

There is a tall mountain,

and pain.

 

A proposal. A recipe.

 

The color yellow,

and my mother’s touch.

 

There is a classic Plymouth,

a walk from school,

and a dark-haired sister.

 

A pouring rain—

Peace. Sorrow.

 

A black and white reel turning –

laughter and endless summer.

 

It’s burned-out, tired.

Alive in a lost river.

 

Spins her ‘round inside its animal hide,

tears down to bony shoulders.

 

A willingness, hope, and time

to let go.

 

Birth to a dead bird,

wings—black velvet fringe,

 

and her name was, Pretty.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

 

Midweek, one ordinary early evening, I watched people shuffling across the street moments after being set-free from their train ride home, from a busy city where they work doing a range of things: technical, in law, banking, construction, in art and fashion…

 

In a time we are all uncertain

 

In high-up places, and downtown, they buzz through the streets in cabs, by foot, on schedule—the clock ticking dollar bills. Between the hours of twelve and two some break for lunch, and sit with a sandwich or fruit by a fountain, enjoy daydreams until once again they return home to our seaside town.

 

The aroma of plum tomato and garlic calls to them from the local pizzeria, as they hurriedly make the green light, cross the street to meet their cars patiently waiting at meters (calculating quarters for the hours they’ve been gone). Others walk home or get a ride. A cabdriver anxiously calls-out to make a living.

 

The streets intertwine like stories and ghosts that we hear on a subconscious level, of years past and days ahead that hold us willingly captive, in love with this city—our home.

 

This particular evening the sky could not decide whether to storm or let the sun shine for its final hours before setting, and it cast-off a mystical greyish-pink hue. Photographers and artists would surely gather on the boardwalk to capture a pre-dusk—hope not to be forgotten—before evening’s ominous newscast.

 

Salt was heavy in the air from a rough surf, and the light-fog swayed like a slow dance, romancing.

 

I turned right at the corner and slowly drove toward the ocean, peace in her waves, on my mind.

 

As an extra-sensory being absorbs everything going on around them like their own movement—I notice most people are asleep or too busy inside themselves to notice the energy around them—until I see Diana.

 

Diana owns a lady’s handbag and accessory store with her mother, a seamstress and bag designer, on the main strip. The boutique is filled with more than fashion trends for her clients, but rather creative details that if you listen tell a story.

 

Pocketbooks upon the shelves, leather and embroidery, fall and summer necessities, earrings in a case of glass with silver trim. —A mirror with a delicate woman’s image.

 

She’ll greet you each time with a beautiful smile and in it you can see her dreams.

 

She didn’t notice me as I recognized her walking—a poem unfolding on a page.

 

I was glad not to interrupt the momentum of her stride. It struck me as being accompanied by song. Indeed flowing as opposed to walking. Her gaze was faraway and reminiscent of youthful innocence. A breeze gently influenced her auburn hair.

 

I watched intently as it seemed she was unaffected by the ordinary surrounding her—traffic, a bicyclist carrying a food delivery, but was captured with the extraordinary—a seagull with dinner in its beak about to land on the edge of a broken fence, as if it were Heaven.

 

I felt less lonely seeing a kindred soul watching, as I do, the world around us.

 

It became understood that not everyone on a Wednesday could be a butterfly or a ballad. Some must be a traffic light or a steal gate. Some are meant to be foundation, solid to land upon, while others fill the air with wonder; and there are those that are meant to notice and call attention to each.

 

In light and in darkness, in times of woe or of joy, confidence or uncertainty – we are all individual movement, our own beat, each a separate story none less important, different by cultures, and yet the same by design.

 

This is our home by the sea, among many different homes under the sky, where people travel to and fro, seeing and experiencing life around them—a rose about to bud—or a shattered piece of glass in mourning.

 

Tomorrow will be another story—each soul a particle in defining its entirety—like sand and a city by the sea.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

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

***     ***     ***     ***

 

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

Screen Shot 2017-07-31 at 6.59.51 PM

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*

55e0f464f9831d318ace2bb1a24ef525--open-season-all-alone

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.”

 

 

 

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!

68e467bc0ada54056964c58ad7f724dd--baby-lamb-zoos

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.

Sum of Pieces

18641543_10154380521722714_2089847500_o

The computation of pieces together and undone,

find sustainable consequence.

This palpable heart—thinking…

Yet, no more or less important than the caterpillar.

Been searching

the beauty in what breaks-apart:

glass, world, stories, images in a kaleidoscope…

Always imagining the dynamics, as a whole, being perfectly suitable.

The focus predominantly on gathering-up,

reassembling what was…

Meanwhile, the fuzzy yellow creature without a spine,

slinks the bark of a tree, and I’m not sure that he thinks,

especially of me.

I ask, is it not the most frightening thing to find

your foundation is quicksand?

Take life—It has infinite possibilities in which to crumble.

I have seen the fragments, rolling frantically like marbles, those lovely,

equivocal streaks of color speeding towards chaos!

As I now pause,

learn to embrace the inevitable impact, allow for the parting of ways;

Fall-apart,

and in-love with the immense offerings presented by the indefinite.

The continuous evolution becoming-one with breaking-to-bits.

Each particle: a new universe,

eye for seeing death as its rightful birth.

Journeying the sum of something—with or without meaning—a part.

(Reflection in a still river questions, “What is tangible?”)

In the beginning is God—

We, the caterpillar and I, you, the sun, a rose…

are in the intentions.

Acceptance

the peace within pieces.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved