Tag Archive: creative writing


Sum of Pieces

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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

Heroes

 

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The world in all its insanity has grown a certain silence amidst chaos. If you listen it’s there distinctly: Vacancy. God has escaped us.

 

I feel the chill of my skin-aware on a dark morning, sky trying to merge into itself, attempting to revive so many empty eyes, old and young, the collective aching bones and weary hearts.

 

We’ve driven out the light of grace for ego. Now you are my God, and I am yours – our only hope.

 

Oh the stories we tell to save ourselves, pretend: We are not afraid… I am not afraid… Like children lost in the woods.

 

The things we teach as truth to encourage fortitude that we might reach a means to an end follow crumbs, not to be at that fork of realization in the road alone. Only that profound emptiness is the only truth, and we must meet ourselves there eventually.

 

The only freedom that exists is to come eye to eye with your soul. Cut it like wood, an exposed nerve, and let it bleed to full exposure. Every drop of cruel ugliness, bits of purity trapped alive in the mix.  Love it all like a star sets fire to the sky, until you can scream: I don’t feel anything anymore!

 

Then you can fall through the vortex of time. Feel the vibration of blood circulating throughout the world, and the loud gong of the universe reverberating in every cell.

 

Forgive it all — bring God back to life. Together become heroes.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

WITHIN—

 

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Rest assured wherever there is chaos the devil has been.

 

She walked away from her life just like that. Indifferent. Wisdom comes suddenly. After all of the energy spent in thought, worrying, debating, doubting…she came to understand perfectly that fear is merely a trick set to keep you from living your life, away from your faith, empowerment, and the clarity it takes to ultimately have everything you indeed need.

 

She took the burden-off like daylight slips into a setting sun, and discarded it as, yesterday...

 

I’ve learned from that son of a bitch the devil. He’s been there like a close companion, listening carefully, feeling the pain, slapping me on the back with support and laughter, encouraging my will… A real wrenched-neck-motherfucker, you know? All of it only to learn what and how he could defeat me. He’s had his way with me. I’ve gone weak in his presence and given him the pleasure.

 

When the devil is playing a powerful hand in your life, like a hot buttered biscuit in a cold winter’s empty gut, or a vodka tonic to the tune of your emotional sorrow; to fold and give into indulgence is merely momentary satisfaction, side-by-side failure. It fills a need for want…Tricky bastard! To taste the bliss of decadence on your tongue, the sweet heaven it may be, is illusion. To fulfill wanton lust in a ten second climax, or close your eyes to rest from running-up-hill, because it seems too daunting, is merely the pretense of a feel good moment, selling yourself short, the weakness that ultimately ravages you and your life.

 

It’s a simple but brilliant game we play, he and I, self-satisfying sabotage, feeding that bastard what it craves, and it’s all in your head: your failure, and your fulfillment. You ask yourself what is stopping you, or your life from being all that you want. Insist someone has stolen your success, and patented it as theirs. Blame it on bad luck, and/or a bunch of pricks you wish you’d never known.

 

Even if it seems you get what you want in the moment by giving-in, and abstaining by all means feels like hell; it’s hell that you need, if you don’t want to want any longer!

 

Here and now is the only moment to corrupt everything, or not. Evil and hope’s only chance. Only hope is weak. Yes, both will place you in the shackles of fear and pain, to keep the truth from you. You’ll beg and willingly grasp at straws. You’ll think you’re right when you’re wrong. You’ll be afraid to fail when rather you would succeed. You’ll believe everything is going to be okay when it won’t be. All the while, that shit-eating grin cast over your world like a painful sore, compelling you to pick-it until it bleeds in need of a protective scab.

 

An epiphany dawns: It lives inside of you, the ultimate control to feed or destroy it, to empower it, or yourself. It’s that simple. The love each part has for the other, side by side the same, for what you give and take away from each, is a balance that keeps you feeling safe.

 

I found his weakness: The fear I’d get to – know her for who he is… and I did! I turned him upside down, put his shattered bones in a steel pink box, away from my heart, at the soul of my feet. Scared shitless he pissed him self when I took my first steps. Suddenly he was old and decrepit. His grin not so pretty, or persuasive, as he pulled his singed tail between his legs, and howled in a revolting way.

 

She smiled a devilish grin in satisfaction, and thereby was reminded: I am all of these things within, good or bad, and I decide whether to self-destruct or thrive.

 

“You are your problem, and you are your solution.”

 

The cold turned into light, and through it eyes of awareness saw certain warmth. Content, she could finally rest at peace her struggling heart.

 

—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

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Coffin with a View

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Here- nowhere really.

Oddly and intensely feeling everything,

good or bad, in its space.

The good beyond expiration:

Sour milk—

Still, a sip, see

if it can be savored.

Hope

to find generosity in the aftertaste.

Over and over…

hand to the flame. Sun on the horizon.

There- sturdy ground.

Unshakable. Tangible things.

Impervious to my fickle.

Dream- up ahead: 

A yellow balloon, aimless amid peaceful air.

A curled red ribbon– vivacity,

bouncing gracefully from its tail.

It is free as its helium gut

to land anywhere but here,

upon a nail –

Rusted and cold. Tip dented

by past hammering. Ready to

clasp-down freedom, and drain it

like a slave in the fields.

Time for escape, like fog in the wind.

Too goddamn tired now, a broken bone.

Prepared to welcome its restraint, a relief—

Coffin with a view.

©2017 Maria DellaPorte – All Rights Reserved

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God, The Tree, and I

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One— God the tree and I —

Feminine and masculine nature. 

In love become branches, stories…

Honey to the bee.

Sting of death: A sincere part of everything,

mountains, galaxy…

The way it transforms, reestablishes connections.

Earth, flesh, fish in the sea.

Universe – A trunk full of treasure.

God —the wind before the tree:

Color me, please, an orange leaf —

I want to fall into seasons,

veins accelerated with the blood of life,

though never into time’s unending cruelty.

M e m o r y

You in the womb—

Heart beating.

Soil’s rich history, nutrients,

enthusiastically expand our roots.

When I am the bark, hardest on, “Myself,”

forgetting…

Grow a forest inside of my heart.

Remind me I am you,

to be soft sapwood beneath.

Innately understanding generations,

external, internal.

Home to a bird, a squirrel rushing

to safety along my waistline.

Let it all be a rainstorm. Stars.

Grass green with wisdom beneath.

I am all of these things…

Gravity’s soul – A blossom

Crown sturdy upon her head.

Boy taking cover in the shade,

about to climb his destiny.

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

Star Star

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Star

Star

Star

Star

Siblings and distant cousins

they are.

Light-years-apart.

Clusters. Strangers.

Falling 

Falling

Where they go…

I do not know.

Cradle them: Tender souls.

Immortal wishes

to burdensome—

Minds their own.

Flee the sky – human scars.

Star

Star

©Maria DellaPorte 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

 

Sufficiently Undernourished

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It is when I’m carrying my most weight that I am profoundly undernourished. I do not speak of the physical, though certainly it factors in. I am talking about enrichment. Soul nourishment. Love. Care. Empathy. I give it away—

 

To him, and her, and them. To all. I feed everyone around me graciously with what I need, and it brings such joy to witness joy, such sorrow to see discontent. To feel gratitude, I want to give gratitude. To be the furnace in winter, wood on the fire, for those coming home with cold toes.

 

I must confess, however, from time to time I desire a return. A warm afghan… Surely sometimes one must want. It is human, and I am not God whom has no worries, but cry out silently from the heart. Hope someone notices: Please take care of me. Not in every moment like a child, or a pathetic Alzheimer’s patient (my fear that’s how my prayers will be answered), but a few scattered generous moments so that I too may experience the pleasure of comfort, feel secure, fueled by a tenderness capable of building strength to go forward. I could build empires on such goodness! Dreams would be awakened into blessed realities, diminish the current status quo.

 

Life could be a country cottage set on a path of greenery. Honeysuckle scented. Wildflowers with all of the answers: Lemonade and butterflies!

 

I am not broken, or by any means defective, but coming-apart, yes, in tainted pieces by way of life’s harsh blow’s. One by one, stories that affect a psyche. As if a bee searches nectar in the snow, the death of a queen—

 

I cried today because the summer is here in all of its glory, and I am not pretty for it. I wished for and waited for it. The freedom of the warm sun would come with resolve. All of winter’s tribulation could not survive a lightheaded month of July. I would not be burdened by wool’s itching to be a pastel, but come alive – a festival. A carousel of laughter, like a rainbow in clearing skies, would distance the remnants of pain and tears. But I waited too long.

I didn’t water the flowers in spring. I watched them grow and die, colors of red and yellow hope. I didn’t know how to sow anymore. Perhaps it was not knowledge missing but heart. A clever excuse to mask fear: Thorns that cut my skin deeply each time I tried in the past.

 

It’s the change of seasons inside of me that are stuck. Like a broken record, I’m listening to yesterday’s music like an aging ballerina in a box, ’round and ’round. Waiting for someone to fluff her tutu. Shine her up!

 

I want to come un-perched and fly to Jupiter, with a smile above my chin, full of wisdom. Leave every regret behind, ablaze, for earth to bury in the soil with my worn out skin.

 

Grow a tree for humanity in my name.

 

©Maria DellaPorte 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

 

Silent Poet

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Oh, you mustn’t see the movement of wind,

and portray it a miracle:  Two dancing leaves,

or a linen sheet flowing,  ghost on a line.

 

Remove the eye from light and lens and dreams!

 

You shouldn’t sketch in shades of interest,

intricate detail,

or circles that leave no room for escape.

 

Don’t dare dip your brush into orange,

or paint a captured sunset,

but let it escape unnoticed in the rise:

 

No wiser…

 

Are the people that cannot hear the poet—

 

(See the painted mural. Photo of invisible come to life.)

 

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

 

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Helium Life

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 Dying.

 

Lying

to myself,

trying.

 

Hold onto the string.

Safety.

 

I desperately want

 

to lose

prove

 

Float free from

 

Its weighty foundation.

 

Above clouds of ordinary

feel the success.

 

Traveling feet.

 

Confident quest –

 

The helium life inside…

 

Abounding.

 

Everyday, a different color,

yellow, blue, orange, green, purple:

 

Kiss me beautiful!

 

Oh little shining star, someone etched a

scary face,

frown.

 

You learned

not to trust,

judge

 

natural instinct.

 

Inseparable from

a tied knot,

dependable ribbon.

 

Grounded.

Held my hand, thank you

for security.

 

Now let the air out,

I must go.

Love you from lost worlds,

creating themselves

 

inside the hollow

of an oval-shaped promise.

 

Only I can fulfill…

 

Please remember

our stories,

 

should I return home

for a roof overhead

 

and a buttered biscuit.

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Man without a Moon

Unknown

The moon is gone.

A gravitational pull into black

hole, impossible escape.

Without a home:

You are, man. I’m sorry.

The tragedy—

Narcissistic stars and shallow agendas

traded your worth:

A dollar in a jar.

They gather in the tropics,

speak in fire and grandeur.

Shine on the revenue from which you were sold,

a good soul unwilling to concede.

How you moved the tides,

smiled with a quarter of the wealth,

became full with glow, ruled the evening sky.

They could not accept your change,

coming and going, confidently.

Its affect on them…

Discarded you,

a mirror reflecting truth.

Jealous storms collect their belongings,

tear deeper craters into your surface.

Unfaithful fools!

Loyal to fickle pennies their shinny copper.

Oh goodness, how exaggerated they became.

Self-importance. Gloating dirty mules.

I hear they’ve taken up yoga, and smoking

in certain circles where it’s considered cool.

A manufactured haven, created, where

no one is, “real or at home.”

In the abyss, the residents of forever,

chant poetry about the color blue,

applaud the moon – his gracious dark side,

feminine delight,

remember it shined brilliantly

off a generous sun.

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved