Tag Archive: love


Lost Significance

universe-painting1

Lost Significance—

 

A communicator climbing hills and mountains in search of new descriptions,

listens for words you might be willing to share,

 

hopeful to be better acquainted;

understand our predicament.

 

I can recite all of my definitions by heart.

 

          —To you if you like.

Yet you sit silently—stingy vocabulary.

 

Consider sentences beating across the terrain,

between us, and rivers that need denotation.

 

A thorn bush rushes blood to fingertips,

revelation—blooms—a red rose.

 

Of course, I do respect the beauty in silence…

 

…A kiss? A Tear? A Gasp?

 

I want—

to experience you/you to lose your equilibrium

in a stupid thing,

love.

 

Under three thousand stars a quarter moon rests,

mist’s silhouette wanders, a dark ocean tries to catch our toes.

Lost firefly-glowing, wind chiming – Amazing Grace!

Each crystal of sand it’s own story.

 

And you— notice the rupture of a belch,

satisfied with yourself.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

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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.

Indifference

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Love is not the answer… It never has been. Indifference that is your saving grace. Trust me. Love is a poet’s dream, verse, lyrics on the page, or on the tongue of a voice like an angel. It is painted strokes of violet and amber, by a temperamental artist. Don’t believe in the dreams of those dreamers! I have awakened from such a plight. I have danced frivolously to the song, read the verse with great motivation, and dreamt in magical color, free and innocently, believing… Therein lies the death of everything. It is indifference that keeps your heart in tact, your life situated – a novel’s happy ending.

–Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

God, The Tree, and I

mighty-giant-tree

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

Lavender Garden

norfolk_lavender_garden_653_jpg_originalLetting go.

Your hand—a ghost.

 

The love: warm blood remains.

Will continue to pass through me.

 

Thump, thump…

the pounding empty chest,

swallowed down a burning throat.

 

Hold her willingness to stay. Please!

Nurture it like sweet breast milk.

I may become your solid foundation,

stone woman. Perfect waistline.

 

No heart.

 

“For what do I feel with purpose”,

you’d ask?  The pain mere inconvenience.

 

I want to build a Lavender garden,

land softly, a butterfly to its scent.

Smile—the perfect yellow.

 

You can sit on a throne of clouds

that cannot hold your influence,

 

let it fall, sorrowful grey rain.

 

The dawn or dusk can find us:

 

A silent consequence.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

© 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

 

Two Stars

A hundred thousand years—

 

Many millions to ensue…

 

Where we will be, longing.

 

The vast darkness.

          Faithless.

                    Always the same!

 

However, dotted speckles of light

do not question,

 

but are disciplined droplets – A fire-ballet.

 

Delicately skim pedals of

gold horizon, aspiring hearts

willingly innocent.

 

Strongly carved planets,

those immobilized souls,

elongate – calves pulling up onto toes.

 

Spin, spin…

 

The progression of hopeful chords—

 

Symphony of galaxies, continual,

birth new homes, infinite desire:

 

Honey twirling-off edge, a spoon,

light years from the tongue.

 

Two stars, waiting too long…

 

S e p a r a t e

 

Their celestial bodies – gravity,

allow a great fall.

 

Into love become extraordinary,

 

diminish the gap between God

 

          and unabashed fulfillment.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

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little-girl-picking-dandelions

Here I am—flowing microcosmic energy.

Everything you almost see and feel,

unwittingly.

Your mother first captured it for you,

in a blue sky and floral ensemble.

Your father in the wind, surrounding.

Tenderness brought you here in fields

of Blazing Stars. The grass roots

playfully encouraging your wonder.

Discover:

If the day and its sunshine could sing,

what would it, for you?

 

Love, let it be love.

I do…

In a world so forgetful,

be the air

though unrecognized, faithfully

everything in life.

©2016 Maria DellaPorte All Rights Reserved

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The Pancake

americanpancakes

It is said you are what you eat—

I’d like to bid farewell

to fifteen pounds,

but oh how bittersweet their memory…

And with that:

The griddle sizzles.

Little water bubbles

spritzed from my fingertips,

hop about, hot, in joyfulness.

It is a Saturday past,

long past—

The sun shining is a 1970’s toss,

between innocence and change.

It is a different brightness,

unscathed by disappointment,

and a thousand types

of death.

My mother’s apron is colorful fruit,

a vine of commitment,

tied decidedly around her beautiful waist,

(expanded and retracted,

seven times giving life).

The butter’s sweetness fills the air,

like lilacs scent a summer’s field.

A table waits with triangle-folded napkins.

Maple’s woody-amber flavor

will drizzle swirls with all the answers.

My father’s seat, at the head of the table,

seems larger than the rest.

He serves and is served.

Respect—

There is buckwheat,

vanilla,

eggs and milk,

golden-brown.

A batter churned,

and family…

My sisters enter,

each with their own style:

hippie, humble, tough, dreamer, conceited,

blue-eye-shadow—

The two boys: dark-haired princes.

Protectors.

Adventurers.

Learning…

Sometimes pleading for no sisters!

An AM/FM radio, sturdily

on the Formica kitchen counter,

plays mellow-rock,

matches the mood of a Long Island breeze,

swaying-gently sheer-white curtains.

Our dog, Pinky, sits upon a window seat.

watches for bicyclists,

setting-off her Beagle’s bark.

Quiet!

(Soon to be indulged with scraps).

Oh, how I love a good pancake—

Sweetness.

Love.

A loyal-pup.

My sister’s sass.

Brother’s bravery.

My beautiful mother’s nurturing…

Father’s lessons…

Saturday morning’s sunshine,

hopefulness.

All of it…

Because I am what I eat:

The nostalgic pancake.

Stacked,

a circle of heaven.

Cut-into,

and delightfully consumed.

Satisfy a space for

peace and happiness. 

What once was in every bite—

 fulltummieshappyfaces2

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

©2015 All Rights Reserved

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***

 After thought – I discover in myself a revelation, that, the “pancake” in and of itself, in fact, is not an evil weight-inducing-conspiracy against me and my goals toward fitness, but rather what I seek in eating it is: the fulfillment beyond its flour-mix and fluffiness… What leads to much more indulging than I should, in an attempt to consume more than the meal itself, but that of the security of love and nurturing it was once served with on its porcelain plate. For as a child, the buttery-sweet pleasantry never created an extra pound. The meal ended where it was, with nourishment, energy, eaten together as a family. It wasn’t until later that the search for more than “its…” (not just the pancake) caloric nourishment, would lead to a less than gratifying experience, all while ingesting the heavenly bites in hope towards a fulfilling and happy life.

As an aside thought – Food is life’s source for survival. Love is the emotional source that gives way to great things: accomplishment, courage, charity, fortitude… Sometimes, the two sources become entangled and confused.

 Image

I’ve no inclination for writing a story, not today.

The day feels more like scattered feelings.

Everything is moving in the gray mist,

with hopeful shadows of green love,

escaping—

Fast as a locomotive that I want to be on,

dreaming,

going forward…

Into the moment where the world opens her arms to me,

like a mother-angel, or a lover,

covering all doubt in the glorious abundance of receiving.

Good!

I can shout aloud in that moment up to the heavens,

stay!

It will be a covenant and I shall abide by all of the rules of peaceful satisfaction.

***

For there is no place I want to be,

neither in a home, or on a mountain,

viewing a beautiful painting or emerged in a book,

at sea with blue perfection, above the sky and moon,

not in the wind or a memory…

or world

without love and you.

***

When love is no longer a promise but a given,

I can see to the end of time,

to know there is in fact none,

every beautiful glimmer of life, revolving.

Resolve it—

Even pain becomes magic you can hold onto and nurture,

or set free to give to new birth.

It is my power to sense,

and feel all of these things,

and

to stay or go…

I choose neither,

  without you.

***

If there is one gift I could

implant into your heart,

it would be trust—

What I need most.

And the only way is unwavering.

***

I am free from all fear

when understood:

All I have

is love

and everything is

an empire

built

on love

Maria DellaPorte©

Copyright 2014 All Rights Reserved

Thank you – Led Zeppelin – “If the sun refused to shine I would still be loving you, If mountains crumble to the sea it will still be you and me.”

Still Consciousness

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It is not the years that put on age but the predicaments we travel through…the slicing and dicing of our hearts and souls…draw deep lines of regret on our faces and weigh down our breasts in the gravity of despair…adorn you in white turbulence…remove your hair in literal losses…Eventually give-up your mind most willingly, though subconsciously, to dementia, deafness, going blind, because the safe-havens built as the foundation of your life have always been but mere illusion, a formed quicksand.

If everyone remained as his or her innocent child, in his or her natural state of potent life force, birthright, the sunlight in us would never stop enriching each cell with exuberant flow, the bodies we host. The light abounding in the universe would cup us in stunning perfection and peace.

It is when we separate from our Source that we succumb to the cruelties of nature and life outside of ourselves, foreign to our natural state and whither in its grasp. We become the earth in all its beauty and frailty, giving way to changes that are purposeful and significant, if you are a rock or fields of grass, the tide or seasons, but we are not…

We are the stillness of consciousness that never dies and always knows inherently all that is and isn’t present in perfection.

This beautiful lesson here on earth, poignant in pleasure and pain, is magnificent as we leave grateful to have experienced every tingle of emotion. Back to the place we came…we are…and never left…never born and without death.

It is glorious intellect, sensory, source, and movement,

God—

One heart galaxy in love, all there is, ever was…

Being—

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

© 2014 All Rights Reserved