Tag Archive: Poetry


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

The Dying Dancer

Time has forced its hand, made a realist of her.

Despite every effort to balance on a dream,

everything for everything—

 

The story:

Happily ever after, all pieces placed together,

screeching-apart.

 

Above the sky,

toes precariously believed in wings…

 

Clipped by a cruel descent into desolation.

 

Heart hung-up—

worn satin dance-slippers retired on a hook.

Unknown

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

Winged-Victory-Weathervane-Nike-P

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.”

 

 

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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I swear, it’s all true…

 

I hold the whole world in my heart.

And sometimes, I just want to run, and let it all flood-out.

Breathe in the sum of everything, all at once.

 

Set you free!

 

Paint the lives in my path: red, yellow, green…

Leave something memorable,

to those otherwise blinded.

 

So many words, yet I can’t explain,

furious-wind blowing in my brain.

 

Hear, hear, hear, you…

But you can’t feel a thing.

 I’ve been lighting fires everywhere waiting.

Falling into capture.

Can’t escape it. You know that I can’t.

You can’t…

 

Too many sticks and stones in all these years.

Shattered dreams, but hope remains.

 

One day, I know you’ll recall

all that I may have forgotten along the way,

 

but surely it will be too late. I’ll be a memory by then.

A star in the sky to wish upon.

 

Only don’t expect I’ll answer.

Rather—feel me emerge, a tingle on your skin,

from a humid breeze, or scent of seaweed.

 

The realization I am gone. Your pieces gathered-inside.

 

Hear, hear, hear, you…

But you can’t feel a thing. 

I’ve been lighting fires everywhere waiting.

Falling into capture.

Can’t escape it. You know that I can’t.

You can’t…

 

Remember the day the world was dancing?

Neither can I. But wouldn’t it have been nice?

 

When you pray –

Imagine me thankful, in a pink summer-dress,

with a spinning hula-hoop that cries,

 

heart beating quickly in excitement—

 

Going to jump-free into a parallel-universe

that shines!

Kiss minty-trees, like tall, leafy, men with answers.

 

God and I will celebrate the wanton chaos behind us,

drink wine, move effortlessly to the Psychedelic Furs,

 

a full moon in our grasp.

 

Hear, hear, hear, you…

But you can’t feel a thing.

I’ve been lighting fires everywhere waiting.

Falling into capture.

Can’t escape it. You know that I can’t.

You can’t…

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved