Tag Archive: writing


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

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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

 

 

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.

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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

I miss her

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I miss her—

 

She escaped quietly—a shadow in the shade.

 

Light blues, frolicsome pinks, yellow-mood,

turned,

painful-ash-bones without a song of their own.

 

Delicately, and distant, dancing-treble-keys,

the sound of her heart infused in my memory.

 

Summer-air-breezes, youthful hope, catch courageous dreams.

 

A finely curved silhouette, through the corner of my eye an awakening,

She is there, frangipani-white-flowers, adrift, yesterday’s easier spirit.

 

Oh, the distance we have traveled on empty…

 

I want to capture the powerful freedom in her,

like a butterfly does feminine nectar,

conquer the darkness, implore her—

don’t give-in to fear and wither.

 

If you dare—

Let me disappear with you, jump inside,

and kiss you on the mouth!

 

Resuscitate life in her soul,

 

and like a storm approaching, remind her of me.

 

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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Paper and Tree

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The paper and tree—

 

Ink wandering across the page to find meaning,

 

something.

 

White surface dreams wait to become…

 

The peeling bark is old.

 

Roots sewn into history,

try to form a new flower’s purpose.

 

So many seasons of disappointment.

 

Still, a bird upon its branch flies free.

 

The air, sadly in between, wants wings,

 

hope on a breeze.

 

I am—

 

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved