Tag Archive: creative writing


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

 

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Letting Go of Daffodils

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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

Wolf and Lamb

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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Hollow –

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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

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

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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