Tag Archive: creative writing


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

 

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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.”

 

 

 

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

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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

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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

 

5th-dimensional-creation

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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