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The problem is people have had it too good, too easy. The days of gratitude and grit became lazy and demanding. Sadly a portion of our country’s citizens has forgotten their blessings. A different part never appreciated our greatness. And worst of all, another group has betrayed us. Throughout the years, America has been a great beacon of hope. People from all lands made the journey to America with a dream of a better life. History has seen nations suffer, ravaged by war and famine. People of those nations have fled to America. We have opened our arms and cradled them with newfound hope. No doubt, there were struggles. People had to learn a new language, navigate foreign land. They prayed to be accepted and sometimes initially were not, but they persisted and simulated as proud Americans until they were. Everyone with this American dream worked hard to build their new lives towards prosperity. It wasn’t easy. Hardship was real. There was a depression, war, plague, but a strong foundation. America was worth the effort, and the place happily called their new home. Different ethnicities built us strong and made a great melting pot. We thrived on Christian-Judeo values, one nation under God. Today, we still have those that make the journey. They do things the right way, follow our laws, work hard, start businesses that build our economy, share their cultures through food, language, art, fashion, trade, building, music, so many essential things we embrace. They are proud to become Americans, and it shows in their ethics. They educate their children, teach respect and gratitude for all this country has to offer. Together, we form a strong community that is the United States of America.

Those who have forgotten, never known, or betrayed us, with hatred and division tear at the fabric of what we are as a people and country. A system of laws, our Constitution of rights, corrupted by insidious politicians that, by greed, turned on their citizens. By selling out our farmers, mom-and-pop stores, technology, manufacturing of all kinds, pharmaceutical, to name but a few things that America was perfectly capable of but got robbed. These politicians, socialites, and their demanding classes have replaced our values for hard work, family, worship, unity, and building dreams, with entitlement, abortion, breakdown of the family, belittling of God, and division, hence creating a culture of hostile demand, while they perch above. They manipulate laws to control a portion of the population and destroy those that will not comply. To line their pockets while collecting votes from those they have fooled. They’d rather people be needy to build big government’s wealth than be self-sufficient. “Let them eat cake!” Their selfish actions have opened the door, like ancient Babylon, to the enemy—With furious souls and jealousy in their hearts, have hated America from the start envious of its successes and wealth. They thrive on our discord from outside of our borders, seeking the opportunity to destroy. Traitors from within fuel the fire and turn dreams into nightmares. Together they have formed a trojan horse.

Until now, it was inconceivable to imagine a less than fortunate life in America because of what our forefathers sacrificed for us. Yes, we’ve had it too good, too easy. Great men and women courageously stood up and defended our liberties, and because of those people, we have our freedoms. Today, they are screaming to our spirits, pulling on our heartstrings, encouraging us to be brave, as they see our great democracy threatened—Save the country we built that you call home! Don’t let the traitors steal your souls! Don’t let the enemies win! Remind those that have forgotten! Educate ones that have never known! Punish and disown the ones that have betrayed! This era of wanton evil is your call to rise, as, without a doubt, this time in history will define us. It will determine the rise or fall of America—land of the free, home of the brave if we defend or give her away. The future of our children is at stake—the future of the world. We mustn’t let them down, those that have fought and died, carried the weight on their backs and built, preached for peace and good, those that have embraced our values. We must not let ourselves down.

—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

2020 Remember Us in History

 

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We are living through a time of stillness.

Our lives are on hold.

 

Waiting. Fearful. Doubting. Hopeful.

For permission—

 

Yet, neither time nor life pause for us.

They remain precious and fleeting.

 

We brace in frustration to save both:

our time and lifeaging.

 

As if either promises to be waiting.

 

The world is rapidly transforming.

Political powers are gaining,

against us!

 

Who is in your head, and their bed?

 

Quietly and patient,

God remains a while more in observance.

 

He weeps for us, simultaneously amused

by our presumption of control, the situation.

 

There was never a guarantee, only our illusion.

 

A bus on the corner out of sight, cancer in the water, 

murder in the night, starvation for some,

a slip in a bathtub, 

or choking on hard candy.

 

So many ways to die! 

 

Despite it all,

we looked away from what might happen,
and took the chance to live regardless,

 

a free life worth living.

 

Maria DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

 

Who remembers going for a Sunday drive?

A treasured memory of mine from when I was a young girl, was going for a Sunday drive after our traditional early afternoon family dinner of macaroni and meatballs. A celebrated family gathering of delicious flavors, and of varied conversations that often included stories, laughter, and debate. After which, my mother often would say to my father, “Freddie, let’s take a ride.”

It was the 1970’s. The sun appeared to shine differently, magically-brighter. Entering through glass panes, it landed on every article in the room with beams of hope, and a subtle but distinct at-ease sense that lingered in the air. It traveled through one’s spirit—a hopefulness down to the feet infused with innocent joy eager to move throughout the day. There’s never been more distinct sunshine. Not for me.

I’d join my parents in my father’s Pontiac for a drive. I was the youngest of seven children. Older siblings opted-out with their own agendas. Sometimes, but not always, my sister, Joanie, and brother, Freddy, would take a drive. The three of us were closest in age in what my father liked to call his “second family.” The split between his seven children—the first and the youngest with eighteen years between them. I can distinctly recall thinking to myself about my oldest brother, “but who is this guy?” when he would visit from college on sporadic weekends, then try to administer authority over me at the ages of three and four years old.

Sunday drives were either aimless in nature in which nine out of ten times we’d stop for Carvel ice cream, because second to my mother’s saying, “Freddie, let’s take a ride,” she’d say, “Let’s get ice cream.” I was in love with all of my mom’s ideas. I also loved a vanilla-chocolate twist on a cone with colored sprinkles. Other times, when the drive wasn’t merely to get out of the house routine and to enjoy a mild breeze through a partly rolled down window while taking in the Long Island sights, it would include visiting my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We’d alternate Sundays, between rides with no destiny but ice cream, to going to dad’s family in the Bronx, then to mom’s family in Brooklyn. Talk about the best of worlds (and food!)

Importantly, I must not forget to include the occasional drive, after relentless pleading on my part, to Palisade’s Amusement Park in New Jersey. “Daddy, can we go to Palisade’s Park today? You said, maybe last week. It’s this week. Can we go, please? Daddy, Palisade’s Park, today, please, the rides… I can chuckle to myself now when I recall my mother’s not so subtle cringing, or eye-rolling upon seeing their commercial air on television.

In Brooklyn, my maternal grandparents lived in a beautiful brownstone that included their own Italian specialty store. Imagine the bread, tomatoes, and sandwiches for a few things. You could enter the store from their kitchen through a heavy Dutch door. Sometimes, my grandmother would open the top portion of the door, and I enjoyed leaning onto the bottom half to peer into the store. I remember my grandfather coming home from a long day of work down a hallway and through that door on nights when I’d sleepover. He always took the time to play with me and my dolls at the dining table. His cigar burned, and there was a nearby jug of homemade red wine that sat on a sparkling Formica table with silver-edging, surrounded by six vinyl chairs. Later, my grandmother would make me comfortable on a pull-out couch to sleep with a blush-colored satin comforter.

In the morning, the backdoor to the courtyard was opened to allow a refreshing breeze. My grandmother nearby in her railroad-style kitchen, which was really part of the whole room. There was a dinged-up large aluminum coffee pot that sat on the stovetop with freshly percolated coffee at all times of the day. I remember her cutting fresh vegetables and the sizzling of meat in a pot filled with olive oil. She was robust in an apron that went over her head and tied around her back.

A black buzzer was attached to the backdoor molding that connected with the apartment above where my Aunt Marion and Uncle Charlie lived with their children, my cousins. They would buzz each other when they needed to speak and communicate by talking outside from one floor to the other. I loved going between each apartment up the grand staircase in the entryway with its gorgeous mahogany railing. When you first entered the home, my grandparent’s German Shephard, Bart, would jump up for a kiss and pat on the head before my grandmother would tell him, “Va bene, basta. Bravo ragazzo. Vai a sederti.” (Okay, enough. Good boy. Go sit down.) My mother grew up in this brownstone with her brother Vincent, and two sisters, Catherine and Marion.

The Bronx. A different story. A different dialect. My maternal grandparents did not even believe that my father was Italian when they first met him with his Sicilian slang. He lived in Harlem and shined shoes to help my grandmother put food on the table. He would speak to me about the importance of eating my potato skins, and never to throw anything out just because it’s burned. His sisters were Lucy (my godmother), Josie, and Mary. His brothers were Tony, Vincent, and Sammy. My father told me of how he swam in the East River and played stickball. He was hit by a car three separate times!

I never met my paternal grandmother. She died the year I was born. Catarina was her name. She was dark-haired, and quite tall compared to my grandfather that stood only 5’1″. My grandfather, more often referred to as Pop-Pisciotta, or Grandpa-Benny was not one to be reckoned with. Despite his height, his stature was like that of a sailor. Think Popeye. He had thin lips and a sturdy nose that took a turn to the left. He was a bricklayer, tough as nails, and as he aged into his nineties, my father, uncles, and cousins would laugh in amazement as he’d start fights with neighbors half his age over one thing or another. One time, when he was elderly, he grabbed a bat and went after a younger tough guy wising-off to him, and the man in total disbelief, fear, and respect, backed-off.

Going to the Bronx was more about visiting aunts and uncles. Grandpa Benny lived with Uncle Sammy and Aunt Mela. My father’s family were seven siblings all together, and there was no shortage of first cousins, each of them with jovial personalities. Our aunts and uncles were great fun and big love. The Sunday drive over the Throgs Neck Bridge was one that I always looked forward to, watching all of the sailboats gather on the Long Island Sound.

Though we had already eaten an earlier dinner, once we arrived, the cold-cuts would immediately be placed onto the table. Everyone enjoyed sandwiches, my favorite was always Genoa Salami, followed by fruit, nuts, and sweet desserts. My aunt Mela had the voice and smile of an angel with magnetic blue eyes when she asked with the warmest sincerity if she could get you anything else. All of the aunts and my mother were brilliant at making everyone feel nurtured. The men were strong and steadfast. There were voices across the table speaking in the Bronx-twang, which is what I like to call it, but soft, and refined by Italian family love. The kids played together in another room while the women talked and drank coffee, and the men played cards.

The ride home on a Sunday was always contented. On the way home from Brooklyn, the Bronx, a Long Island drive to get ice cream, and even the occasional one from Palisades Park, it was quiet and reflective. There was easy gratitude in knowing we were rich in what we shared together.

Sometimes, I’d let my eyes give into their heaviness and close on the way home as the road hummed beneath us. I knew my father would carry me inside, and I’d rest my head on his shoulder. I knew I’d sleep comfortably in my bed, with my sisters and brothers nearby, and parents that loved all of us. I knew when I got out of bed in the morning, I’d smell something tantalizing that my mother was preparing in the kitchen. I could count on, without doubt, feeling loved—magical sunshine, even on a rainy day.

Today, at times when life is painfully still, lacking luster, and there’s waiting, desiring something more, or different, I like to recall the sunshine of the 1970s, even if it’s only in my mind, it carries my heart through hardship. Sometimes in a brief moment, I catch a glimmer of yesterday that feels profoundly real today, and I imagine I can actually step inside of that car for a drive and see them all once again.

Until then,

Perhaps someday in the liveliest sunshine of Heaven—

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

Restricted

I am—

 

Stopped in my tracks,

but not the clock, it continues:

2020 –

12, 6, 3, tick-tock…

 

to use the time, I call,

unavailable.

 

In a big world, become small.

 

Though I have learned to see

outside of me, grass and sky,

 

indeed, to dream,

but not to move, in action, so eloquently.

 

More like trekking through mud.

 

You, in your space, how do you do

with time not right,

the way one wants to control

day and night?

 

Space is given to choose.

On my toes about to spring!

 

Every breath, a birth,

thankful yet restrained.

 

Thoughts that don’t know how to go.

What if this, and that, if only each thing

would fall into place?

I’d lack the excuses for keeping me,

from shining right here.

 

Because –

the aches and pains of standing still,

with passion screaming, please,

 

do not fall back into immobility.

They are agonizing!

 

It’s like the bird I want to soar,

to sing over the world:

I am here to be—

 

Take the unremarkable life, and

drown it, bitter, in vinegar,

 

but not me.

 

A will and way, present yourself,

heal these limitations,

that I should be remarkable,

in whatever space and time available.

 

Inhale, exhale, easy.

Embracing full life—

 

Joy is the ability to make love and peace 

with what is here and now, and to offer it faith 

to grow exponentially for good.

 

Before it is gone, a new season,

opportunity, a distant memory of us.

 

Maria DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

My Brother the Playwright

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Today, I am proudly sharing with all of you, my brother Vincent’s website. He is a playwright, having written an array of exquisite works on different subject matters throughout his years. Several of Vincent’s plays have been performed Off-Broadway, New York, with great success.

–to anybody who’s looking for a new, electric voice in the American Theatre:

https://vincentsessa.org

 

Naked Bud

I wonder what part of me it is, the creative, spiritual, or innocence, that beckons at the same time I look out of a window, not looking at all, but inside of my head, thinking thoughts that bring me to tears. Desperate to control the outcome, and rearrange what has past. Then in a split-second interruption occurs. I see what’s outside the window, outside of me. Wow, I say aloud, stopped in my tracks—splendid beauty! I must capture nature’s perfect story, its thoughts perhaps. Suddenly, I realize all of my parts are on loan and in unison with the Creator, asking I cast the fragile and human, limited ego aside. Dry your eyes. Trust everything is evolving as it should. See the tree rooted in nourishment. Upright, forming intricate branches—each having gone through rough, barren winter, the hopeful new birth of spring, joyous, playful summer, sprouting blooms of love in color, and in fall surrendering its leaves. I am witness to the miracle of existence. Every second, season, choreographed to perfection. I, a naked bud.

©Maria DellaPorte 2020 – All Rights Reserved

Photography by Maria DellaPorte

No one can save me, or you, from ourselves. It’s about vision. Literally seeing. When you can see something differently that’s always been there, suddenly you have the gift of sight, and everything gets simple. There is no set time for this to happen. There are no perfect steps to follow. There is no one teacher. Everyone has a different journey and lives at different energetic frequencies. We’re in the same pot, ingredients if you will, to a perfect recipe. Simpler doesn’t mean easy, either. It’s, in fact, the most challenging work of your life, through every aspect of our lives, but it’s only as complicated as we are blind or oblivious to the truth of our story development’s “why’s.” Once you turn that corner, the lightbulb goes off, the click-I-got-it moment happens, then you’re like, Oh!! Once that happens, initially, so does resistance to acceptance because you can’t believe what you’ve been under the impression was so hard was as simple as under your nose. Seeing…

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte – ©2019 All Rights Reserved

Below – My Logos

I am poetry in motion.

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Pizza for Love

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Julian stood on line along with more people than usual during his lunch hour in anticipation of his favorite pizza. The day was bustling. The holidays were approaching with celebrations underway everywhere.

Today, the chatter in the restaurant was loud, and it competed with Dean Martin’s, Let it Snow playing on the radio. Julian was hungry at 12:15 pm, which is unusual since he typically didn’t have lunch before 1:30.

Suddenly appeared, Sada – a wispy-haired, tall, and slender woman in her thirties. Her hair was the color of a tequila sunset. It was as unnatural as it was natural on her. Julian was enamored. The restaurant then seemed quiet to him as if watching a silent movie.

People moved about busily: Men in business suits with hearty laughter, others in jeans and uniforms, a group of female nurses from the nearby hospital, two secretaries in pencil-skirts collecting long glances for their curved figures, and the moms with distracted toddlers trying to have a decent conversation. They were all muted to Julian. He saw only the woman with tequila-sunset-hair and a perfect pair of painted-lips. Her spacious child-bearing hips swayed beautifully on top of her slender legs as she moved into the line like a wave above the rest.

“I ordered the Sal-Salad to go.” Her voice was assertive over the crowd yet delivered at a frequency that landed softly over the counter to Lorenzo. “Buon pomeriggio signorina. Lo sto avvolgendo per te adesso.” Then he folded over the top of a white paper bag and handed it to her. “Godere. Buona giornata.”

Sada turned to walk from the line and out of the door when, Julian, clumsily stopped her. She looked at him, not unpleasantly. He was tall and easy on the eyes with his waved dark hair and Roman nose. Still, she stared down at her arm and then back up at him in a way that questioned his intrusiveness. “I’m sorry, Julian said. It’s just that… I mean, has anyone ever told you…” STOP, Sada exclaimed! “What, he questioned? Truly, I’m sorry. I only wanted to…” “Seriously, stop, Sada responded. Don’t you know you should never start a conversation with, “Has anyone ever told you…”” Julian mildly laughed, then tried to retract it back into his throat, and suddenly with confidence, asked, “And why not?” “Because it’s typically bullshit. Don’t you want to be original, she wondered? I mean, if anyone else has ever told me this before? Don’t you want to be authentic?” Then she smiled at him wisely. Dumbfounded, Julian stayed quiet. Sada then turned towards the door then back again at Julian and said, “We should get off to a more profound start. Don’t you think? Julian was a combination of stunned, confused, and amused. Sada continued towards the door. Julian then managed to yell across a row of people, “Wait, what’s your name?” Sada smiled and said, “See you…”

The three slices Julian was starved for, handed to him at that moment on a plastic tray, no longer seemed important. He understood on a soul level that he’d just met the woman who would be the love of his life, and he was simultaneously woozy, elated, and terrified.

To be continued…

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2019 All Rights Reserved

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Eileen Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

This is a short story about life sometimes being painfully long, and other times abruptly short. It’s about fleeting-time, death, living day-to-day, year-to-year -the struggles, triumphs, and the people that we love, creating memories and losing them, falling-apart, and finding yourself. It tells of new friends, old places, and the need for trusting strangers. Throughout, there is music, dance, laughter, and madness, sometimes waiting too long-running out of time, broken hearts, and romance. Included are the moon, the sun, the sea, that has often saved us in our coming and going in fear and fury, desperately holding on and simultaneously letting go.

When once we were young and beautiful now growing-old and free – the tears, regret, joy, and walking with God in love. Sometimes you must trust in something, even a dream, each day while losing hope until there’s a miracle.

Finally, it’s about choices – good, bad, and suddenly having none.

Together we are here as if a point on a map has found us equally lost.

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

I am in between love, without life’s old shine, missing a best friend, walking, not necessarily feeling the steps beneath my feet that take me through the day. When sleeping has become the only sanctity, and you end up in an uncomfortable bed — the irony.

Eileen is a woman I’ve come to know. Alzheimer’s is her afflicting disease. We share a strong sense of humor, punching our way through life’s struggles, laughing at ourselves, jointly crying over a broken heart.

In many ways, in different circumstances, two people can find a new foundation to keep them both from sinking.

I cry almost daily for a warm hug that never comes, for a listening ear that understands and won’t judge. I’d like to be able to trust someone. Eileen cries to know how things changed and if she could possibly get back to where she belongs, feeling happy. We agree with finding happiness.

From my first poetry book, The Sum of Something Meaningful

This story is a reflection of you, out there, and of me and Eileen, and what it takes to survive nature’s cruelty. What if anything, is the point? Do love and pain exist as experiences in and of themselves that we merely host like the sky does the stars? Or is each step, day, year, a way closer to healing…

For the past year and a half, I’ve been caretaking for Eileen. I thought I was ready because my mother died from Alzheimer’s, and I had witnessed first-hand the violent storm. During those years, I was losing a caretaker—heart of the home, a warm hug from the person that could always make anything better. I was missing her recipes, stories, clear-eyes with no confusion, advice, unwavering love, her kiss goodnight that I’d collect while she said her prayers, knowing they always included me, and it made me feel much safer in the world, that and the smell of Pond’s cream on her soft cheek.

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My Mother Francesca

Eileen is my friend. I’ve come to know her well, despite the times she does not recognize herself. Unlike the experience with my mother, today, a mature woman, I am learning the soul and heart of another woman. I only wish I could have understood my mom this way, those days, but instead, I later found a gentle glimpse of her romantic heart in her love letters to my father. I have learned how much like her I am.

Letter to my Dad Overseas

Eileen also has love letters from a man she recalls when she was young. Jimmy Wells sung of her praises. From photographs, she has shared with me; beauty did not miss her. Even today, Eileen maintains the same spirit and fights to keep herself!

Young Eileen

Putting on her lipstick with an aching heart, she views the picture of her beloved late husband, Sonny, on the bedroom chest-of-draws. Confused and sad, she wonders why he doesn’t come around anymore? Initially, I explained he was in Heaven. It pained me to see her become angry or hurt, thinking he’d left. Now, she no longer understands the concept of dying the same way she doesn’t always recognize that she’s home.

Sonny and Eileen

“Where is my father,” she asks – A large red STOP sign taped to the front door and an alarm that sounds if she tries to leave to find her way home to the Bronx.

Eileen 2019 – Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

I do a lot of distracting these days – Let’s get dressed-up nicely before we go!

We look for people from the old days on the boardwalk and cope with anger when they don’t show. Often, we go to the nearby beach. There is peace at the ocean hard to find anywhere else. It has a quiet knowledge of everything. We feel simultaneously small and lucky to tread on the sand or boards beneath our feet. The sun offers brilliance on a blue-sky day or peeking through stern-grey clouds. We don’t have to grasp for words to speak but listen to the waves crash and seagulls soaring above. It’s enough, and there’s comfort in that.

Long Beach NY Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

In her last year of life, my mother continuously stated I want to go home! To watch my father make her comfortable, kiss her hand with love, and carry the burden of her being lost from him, broke my heart. I can only imagine the pain and fear of feeling you’re unable to find your home, beneath a roof or in someone’s heart, and oddly enough today, I recognize this feeling in my loneliness. I witness Eileen trying to find her way, and I know sincerely a soul is a home no walls can ever confine but invite a willingness to stay, yes.

My Father and Mother

Eileen and I listen to Frankie Avalon sing his hit songs, Why, Venus, and Beauty School Dropout. Eileen is back in time, young, beautiful, gushing over boys from school, and she laughs out loud while telling me how her mother would tease her, mimicking her young daughter’s behavior. In those moments, she is entirely comforted. Then we take a walk around the corner to find people from that time. They may be near if only we believe.

Recently after taking a couple of days off over two weeks, then returning to work with Eileen, she had declined. She saw me differently. That day I was her enemy. In her words, disgusting and horrible. According to her, I’d stolen her sister and children and now was after her memories. No, Eileen! It’s me, remember? No, she doesn’t. Suddenly, a sinking selfish-sadness came upon me. Everything I did is for nothing!

Then an epiphany – I realize on some level, not only with Eileen but my other relationships, love is meant to save you and in turn, myself. Could I be this powerful, and if I love you enough, if I give more than I can bear, will you stay and remember me? Can we build a forever home?

Long Beach NY - Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

We try to understand this life, turn to God, talk about faith. I admit I’ve turned away momentarily but because I cannot remain that angry, or deny all that is purely magnificent in this world, return. I convince Eileen to return.

Through profound points of personal sadnesses, we can find ourselves on a random Friday suddenly lifted by purple light cast across the sky, and a racing flock of Sandpipers.

We all transition through much over our lifetimes. All of us connect. All of us have our turn to live, to love, to explore, to be brave, to suffer, to celebrate, to be lost, to be found, to challenge the truth, to be angry, to fight for what we feel is right, to walk away, to create, and to die. But I don’t believe we really die. We merely transition our energy into another form. I think we find each other over and over, and that time is only an illusion. Love and pain will see us again.

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Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Lately, Eileen and I dance. We listen to the music that returns a time when everyone we know was alive. Isn’t it brilliant the senses remember so well they can transcend? Close your eyes; we’re there.

Eileen and I developed a second language of gibberish. How it makes us laugh to make no sense at all and at the same time, understand – that we don’t need to.

Over many meals and walks together, we’ve learned of each other’s families, friends, lovers, our dislikes and likes, the disappointments, and been plain silly. We’ve balanced the most serious from medical test results to the simplest, enjoying a chocolate-malted.

She has cried to me about her fears, and I won’t forget. Life, people, nature, time, leave imprints.

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Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Eileen and I are an example of finding what we need at the right time until the next time we need something different, more or less. We’re an example of our human experiences, the frailty and strength, the kindness we all need, and love most importantly.

A Bench Along Our Way

A Bench of Someone’s Memorial along our Way – The Written Message So True

I miss a companion and have become one to another. I recognize we all portray what we need most, and in that, I don’t think anyone of us can truly ever be lost. We only need someone to help us remember, to remind us to live from that most profound part of our soul that doesn’t need explanation; just being is enough.

(YEARS FROM NOW, on the beach, I’m confident, Eileen, will let me know she’s reunited with her, Sonny, and dancing into the Mystic, like my Mom and Dad (Fred and Frances) where someday I’ll join them with a love of my own.​

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte Copyright 2019 All Rights Reserved

PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARIA PISCIOTTA-DELLAPORTE at Long Beach, NY 2019

 

 

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—The days we were fearless and brilliant.

Friend, I can never grow old with you, forever young, in my heart. I love you. Through sounds of rock-n’-roll remember:

Maybe it was a conversation. A Chevy racing anywhere but here! Embracing madness we believed could kill, or save us…A confident moon in July on long summer nights that melted into our souls. The street walked a thousand times; Pair of jeans that knew your name – bandana in your pocket. Late-night pizza. A stale warm, Michelob, shared like gold, the Marlboro cigarette from behind your ear, asking for a light.

We dreamt while awake, lived with no regrets. Had each other’s backs as natural as breathing.

Today, our pieces have fallen perfectly into place – collages of the lives we formed.

Some days are furious twisters, funnels collecting tomorrows and taking them for granted. They hit us in the face with yesterdays, memories that love and hate us—Either way, we keep them: Scream holy hell with regret, or smile gladly for it happened!

In the weather of seasons, city traffic, daily grind, country blues, ups, downs – the pain, pondering, emptiness or joy, is the same here as there, I promise, as is the beauty of our many new layers.

No matter what road traveled the lyrics remain the same, and ours to sing with whomever we choose. Free—Jesus Christ, we could go anywhere!

Forever intermingled, a spiral finds a way to land (or fall-apart) together precisely.

You’ll find us, me, him, her, all, waiting in laughter and love to comfortably make you at home. No secrets or lies, and you’ll know confidently it’s where you belong.

Our collected treasures of a lifetime, and the extensions in love that we’ve added to them – to live, dream, celebrate, die, to remember the places and people that love us most, the ones that know our hearts, and helped to build our souls.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

(This poem was inspired by my friend, Joe, and all of my closest friends through the turbulent teenage years, to young adulthood, and that will forever remain in my heart.  Wherever life takes us, we know those that will always shine a light for the other.)