Tag Archive: writing


Understanding Daisies

On a Thursday morning, like any other, they realized she was no longer breathing.

 

When she woke-up dead they poked and prodded.  Aloud, they fretted—insisting she had no more dreams. Time would gather-up everything that could have been.

 

They attempted to delve into her psyche, made accusations – each wrong, and from her tried to steal all secrets.  Three remained anonymous in the room—one screaming for answers!

 

Those least close to her insisted they understood most.  I remember when we…  And she… Oh, pity!

 

A man in the corner of the room faced the wall like a prison, free of restraint.  He gulped on his tears, and the acid coming-up pungently from his stomach.  Her shadow draped-over him warm like blood and tangy like guilt.

 

Separately, a thorn forever in her side wickedly counted cash in his head, already pawned personal items thriving on the attention he’d receive for his loss.  Poor Sir with his stocks and bonds.

 

Don’t touch my photographs!  My words… my words… What you don’t know is a lot!  In my Will I bequest…  There is only one.  Shut-up, goddamn it, with this stupidity!

 

The picture of God on the wall shook his head, “Not yet, my dear.”  But you’ve become like a brother?  God kissed her right ear with a whisper—you know, goodbye.

 

Her heart merely broken, momentarily-reflecting in the space between, not stopped like a nail at the end of a wood-plank.  It was a willing dream no cardiac arrest.  A sad cry from it all couldn’t escape if it tried.

 

A gaping breath filled the room!  The yellow paint on the wall came alive like the mid-morning sun.  All the dreariness like politics was a lie.

 

Percolated-coffee and old-fashioned oats scented the air with business as usual.

 

The one closest held her warm white-flesh, tingling alive like orgasm, and cried: “I’ll lay-out your clothes,” pink spring!  We can be happy again.

 

With no voice to be understood, she secretly wished to be free from it all, like the end-of-season’s daisies, holding-on for dear life to their pretty once-blooming smiles.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

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Ten Years One Eternity

Camouflaged

Ten years.

Ten eggs.

Ten Wednesdays.

Ten times forgiven.

Ten suns.

Ten chicks.

Ten heartbreaks.

fragile

Ten turns nowhere.

Ten pleads.

Ten entries.

Ten cherished.

Ten wounded-soldiers.

Ten dice.

Ten deaths.

Ten menstruations.

Ten witnessed betrayals.

Ten skies.

Ten tombs.

Ten mockingbirds.

Ten calls to patience.

Ten sins.

Ten temples.

Ten acquiesces.

brides

Ten motherhoods lost.

Ten battles.

Ten infants.

Ten prisoners.

Ten ways believed…

—One eternity.

One man.

One pulse.

One God.

—I am without you!

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

The Stairs of Imprisoned Bones

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I am the stairs.

Up, down, —years.

 

Along the banister-prison –

creaking-floorboards, bones.

 

Bury them in the silence they deserve.

 

An empty-window-world above, forever,

taunting a way out!

 

Recollects we were alive:

Struggling momentous-steps

…..to nowhere.

 

An arbitrary shadow

against impenetrable wall

serves our memory.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

Mother to Daughter

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For my daughter – Laura Marilyn,

 

What I want for you—

 

Every. Perfect. Thing.

 

The love of your life that answers to any emptiness,

and vanishes it, dust in the wind.

 

A house that holds your heart to always come safely home to.

 

Children in your lap, looking-up into your eyes

with wonder, trust, and pure love.

 

Arms that wrap around you—wanting nothing

but you.

 

Someone that inspires your dreams, and my hope that you will never give-up on them.

 

Experiences that touch your soul with wonder, and prove there’s something more than what can be seen, touched, or felt…  At the same time, a whish that what you have is always enough!

 

To see the world around you without fear—

 

Dancing. Laughter. Playfulness. Freedom. Kindness.

 

Music, poetry, art, that sings to your soul.

 

Special people around you to nurture, and that they will always appreciate you.

 

Respect abounding.

 

A table your family gathers around, together, with you, sharing stories and food that satisfy hunger, and feed the heart.

 

Christmas joy. Easter Tulips. Summer sunshine.

 

Fall’s crisp and hopeful air with its excitement of new beginnings in vibrant color!

 

Memories that shine—

 

Your parent’s teachings, their immeasurable love for you…a part of everything you become.

 

Wisdom. Prosperity. Excellent Health.

 

Practicality: Enough to keep a solid foundation, but never so much that you forget to take a leap of faith.

 

Worry-free-comfort.

 

Personal expression that enriches people around you, and that fulfills you.

 

Charity. Gratitude.

 

Time enough—

 

Never having to say goodbye to anyone you love.

 

Protection from harm.

 

Some rainy days to allow for you to rest-in and simply be—

 

Feeling pretty! A wardrobe you enjoy.

 

Gifts of love, best friends, a good-good man—

 

The Beach. Sunsets. Sunrises.

 

A comfortable bed. Shoes too!

 

Special family recipes – good bread – good life!

 

Your inner child’s fun spirit, thriving.

 

A journey through this life that you will look back on gratefully without regret.

 

Old age with the one you love.

Grandchildren that make you smile.

A loyal dog, or two…

 

A peaceful place to reflect-upon your day.

 

Prayer. Good Choices. Happy-ever-after answers.

 

A promise—from me, that I will always be with you –

Proud of, confident in, and with an abundance of love for you.

Forever in your heart—for it has lived within my own—

 

And in every lifetime, I shall find you, my child.

 

Your mother, gratefully.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

 

Tempo into Release

This period in time is the build-up—soft tempo eloquently escalating, patiently, sometimes painfully, to reach a point—release into magnificence.   -Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

Below is a poem, author unknown, that my late sister, Marilyn, wrote down and gave to me. For all I know, she could have written it. I kept it tucked-in at the left corner of my mirror for years. She was my best friend. The water marks are my tears, from when I held the paper in my hands to read again for the first time after she died. She was a month shy of her 33rd birthday. It broke my heart knowing she’d never realize anymore dreams.

This time in my life is a different challenge, and there are days I really want to give-up, but a stubborn flicker of belief always remains in my heart, and I want to wake-up dancing. I know my sister would want that. 

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Ps: I intended to put a formal classic ballerina dance video below, but when I stumbled upon this one with its upbeat melody, and the lyrics – home is wherever I am with you (there’s a personal meaning in that for me) and then the girl dances holding a large daisy (daisies were Marilyn’s favorite) I knew it was her telling me this was the one. This was her kind of spirit. I know if I could hear her she’d insist that I also be my playful self, get it done, and be happy.

Wolf and Lamb

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If my nature draws me to the wolf, but the lamb provides all that I need, do I continue to seek in starvation, from the wolf what he truly will never concede? The piece of discovery I am hard-pressed to possess, to conquer—satisfaction. Consequently absorb clarification…worthiness. Within its complications learn there are no answers: The bait its only depth! —Painful joy within its entanglement. Or, do I allow for submission into what really is love: Contained in tender action—with its own self-righteousness. Let the pleasant monotonies lull me into inertia: Content in its peace to dream of, the bite, hell bent on having me.

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

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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

 

No one knows our demons by name or the veracity of our hearts. This is something we would be wise to accept, about ourselves, and everyone we ever meet––Burn expectations of one another at the core. –Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

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From time to time we stumble over ourselves upon answers, and when we do, we claim to have found God, but on the bitter end call it inconceivable tossing faith to chance. –Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

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Drawn innately to those we believe possess understanding about us, on a level we are unable to grasp, but desperately want to behold:

I broke my own heart in order to set it free, that it might find you–—and inside discover me. -Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

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A painful break in time occurred, and when it did all that was known was forgotten. As a result, I was either lost, or I was found. Either way there was nowhere to return to, or to call home.  -Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

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Penny Wishes

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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