Tag Archive: writing


I miss her

frangipani-white-flowers

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

 

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When I was a young girl I wanted to take piano lessons. At the time my father worked with someone that explained his wife gave lessons. So, once a week I began going to the Silverman’s house to learn my notes and scales.

At home, I practiced what I had learned from the workbook but couldn’t play without a piano of my own. Understandably, my father was initially hesitant to invest into buying a piano, as it was a big expense and I could easily change my mind. Week after week though, I proved that I truly wanted to learn.

I can still remember the smell of the piano store, my excitement admiring the shiny ivories, and in choosing the right one along side my parents and the salesman.

I practiced every day.

Mrs. Silverman came to our home once a week and drew with different colored markers on new sheets of music. She made sure I wasn’t being lazy with my pinky (that I sometimes tried to be). Don’t rest your wrists! Hold them up!

Each week I was getting big, happy, check marks on successfully completed lessons for a job well done. Then the day came for Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Für Elise. I can still recall the black notes etched importantly, as if poetry, a language of their own. I thought I’d never learn, but in fact I did. Never by heart though, as I did Fiddler on the Roof, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, or my all time favorite, Where Do I Begin from Love Story.

I loved the piano from everything I can remember, and still do. Yet, one day lessons came to a halt.  I was too distracted being a fourteen year old. I didn’t take the time to practice as much. Reflecting back, I wish for my sake that someone would have instilled the importance of continuing my practice, or at the least had been patient with me on the days I was distracted. Perhaps they were, and I simply couldn’t hear the tune of their words with a preoccupied teenage mind.  Today, I might still be able to play as well, or better!

As an adult, I used to sit down at the piano about twice a month to play what I could recall by heart, and of course from reading the music (though rusty).

The last home I moved into had a challenging set of stairs, and I painstakingly came to a decision to give the piano (a gift to me from my parents) away to my goddaughter.  It was the only thing that made sense to me, or that I could find solace.

My hope – is she will learn to play elegantly, and that I may enjoy listening to her while remembering my own young hands – how they once made beautiful music.

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Star Star

s-l1000

Star

Star

Star

Star

Siblings and distant cousins

they are.

Light-years-apart.

Clusters. Strangers.

Falling 

Falling

Where they go…

I do not know.

Cradle them: Tender souls.

Immortal wishes

to burdensome—

Minds their own.

Flee the sky – human scars.

Star

Star

©Maria DellaPorte 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

 

Sufficiently Undernourished

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It is when I’m carrying my most weight that I am profoundly undernourished. I do not speak of the physical, though certainly it factors in. I am talking about enrichment. Soul nourishment. Love. Care. Empathy. I give it away—

 

To him, and her, and them. To all. I feed everyone around me graciously with what I need, and it brings such joy to witness joy, such sorrow to see discontent. To feel gratitude, I want to give gratitude. To be the furnace in winter, wood on the fire, for those coming home with cold toes.

 

I must confess, however, from time to time I desire a return. A warm afghan… Surely sometimes one must want. It is human, and I am not God whom has no worries, but cry out silently from the heart. Hope someone notices: Please take care of me. Not in every moment like a child, or a pathetic Alzheimer’s patient (my fear that’s how my prayers will be answered), but a few scattered generous moments so that I too may experience the pleasure of comfort, feel secure, fueled by a tenderness capable of building strength to go forward. I could build empires on such goodness! Dreams would be awakened into blessed realities, diminish the current status quo.

 

Life could be a country cottage set on a path of greenery. Honeysuckle scented. Wildflowers with all of the answers: Lemonade and butterflies!

 

I am not broken, or by any means defective, but coming-apart, yes, in tainted pieces by way of life’s harsh blow’s. One by one, stories that affect a psyche. As if a bee searches nectar in the snow, the death of a queen—

 

I cried today because the summer is here in all of its glory, and I am not pretty for it. I wished for and waited for it. The freedom of the warm sun would come with resolve. All of winter’s tribulation could not survive a lightheaded month of July. I would not be burdened by wool’s itching to be a pastel, but come alive – a festival. A carousel of laughter, like a rainbow in clearing skies, would distance the remnants of pain and tears. But I waited too long.

I didn’t water the flowers in spring. I watched them grow and die, colors of red and yellow hope. I didn’t know how to sow anymore. Perhaps it was not knowledge missing but heart. A clever excuse to mask fear: Thorns that cut my skin deeply each time I tried in the past.

 

It’s the change of seasons inside of me that are stuck. Like a broken record, I’m listening to yesterday’s music like an aging ballerina in a box, ’round and ’round. Waiting for someone to fluff her tutu. Shine her up!

 

I want to come un-perched and fly to Jupiter, with a smile above my chin, full of wisdom. Leave every regret behind, ablaze, for earth to bury in the soil with my worn out skin.

 

Grow a tree for humanity in my name.

 

©Maria DellaPorte 2016 All Rights Reserved

 

 

Silent Poet

the-wind1

Oh, you mustn’t see the movement of wind,

and portray it a miracle:  Two dancing leaves,

or a linen sheet flowing,  ghost on a line.

 

Remove the eye from light and lens and dreams!

 

You shouldn’t sketch in shades of interest,

intricate detail,

or circles that leave no room for escape.

 

Don’t dare dip your brush into orange,

or paint a captured sunset,

but let it escape unnoticed in the rise:

 

No wiser…

 

Are the people that cannot hear the poet—

 

(See the painted mural. Photo of invisible come to life.)

 

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

 

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Helium Life

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 Dying.

 

Lying

to myself,

trying.

 

Hold onto the string.

Safety.

 

I desperately want

 

to lose

prove

 

Float free from

 

Its weighty foundation.

 

Above clouds of ordinary

feel the success.

 

Traveling feet.

 

Confident quest –

 

The helium life inside…

 

Abounding.

 

Everyday, a different color,

yellow, blue, orange, green, purple:

 

Kiss me beautiful!

 

Oh little shining star, someone etched a

scary face,

frown.

 

You learned

not to trust,

judge

 

natural instinct.

 

Inseparable from

a tied knot,

dependable ribbon.

 

Grounded.

Held my hand, thank you

for security.

 

Now let the air out,

I must go.

Love you from lost worlds,

creating themselves

 

inside the hollow

of an oval-shaped promise.

 

Only I can fulfill…

 

Please remember

our stories,

 

should I return home

for a roof overhead

 

and a buttered biscuit.

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

 

Man without a Moon

Unknown

The moon is gone.

A gravitational pull into black

hole, impossible escape.

Without a home:

You are, man. I’m sorry.

The tragedy—

Narcissistic stars and shallow agendas

traded your worth:

A dollar in a jar.

They gather in the tropics,

speak in fire and grandeur.

Shine on the revenue from which you were sold,

a good soul unwilling to concede.

How you moved the tides,

smiled with a quarter of the wealth,

became full with glow, ruled the evening sky.

They could not accept your change,

coming and going, confidently.

Its affect on them…

Discarded you,

a mirror reflecting truth.

Jealous storms collect their belongings,

tear deeper craters into your surface.

Unfaithful fools!

Loyal to fickle pennies their shinny copper.

Oh goodness, how exaggerated they became.

Self-importance. Gloating dirty mules.

I hear they’ve taken up yoga, and smoking

in certain circles where it’s considered cool.

A manufactured haven, created, where

no one is, “real or at home.”

In the abyss, the residents of forever,

chant poetry about the color blue,

applaud the moon – his gracious dark side,

feminine delight,

remember it shined brilliantly

off a generous sun.

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

Emerge

img122_the-transformation-of-daphne

Q u i e t ~

Long steps—backward,

forward again,

c a u t i o u s l y.

Feel their every breath.

Strain inward. Release asthmatic clutch.

Fulfill the tale with a lungful

of enlightenment.

Haunted-minor-discernments.

Alluring torment.

Little tease.

Secrets want exposure –

the spotlight.

I am listening… listening…

 

To catch monsters in a jar,

build my empire.

The impetus: To realize its hold on me.

First, I will shake the hand,

embrace an old friend: A

colloquy of pleasantries.

Then with upmost politeness,

no offer to excuse myself, however –

Tear its heart out with my teeth,

swirl my tongue in satisfaction.

Lap up the residual effect:

Compensation!

The knowledge of everything

conquering death.

Toss it, blithely, into a miracle

of incandescent awareness.

Become like cherry sugar,

decadent syrup drizzled on the world:

My breast—its nipple heart,

the universe in my cornea,

all the answers grown from follicles,

a planet scalp—beautiful auburn.

Smash the paradox, ozone…

A big bang life!

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved