I recently updated my post, Letting Go of Daffodils, and would love to get some feedback. Thank you.
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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
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.
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.
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
I feel compelled to share this blog. It touches upon numerous important points, but more, as an artist it sinks in on every level.
“They say art never comes out of happiness, but it requires love.”
Meaningful truth–
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 retired—
worn satin dance-slippers on a hook.
Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved
I have been away from WordPress, posting, and reading all of your posts for a good stretch of time. I look forward to catching-up with all of your posts in time!
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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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
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
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