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Die Today

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Don’t die today with all the stories in your eyes

let me stare deeply into their cave and get lost in

licorice land sweetness pumping from the heart

that doesn’t know its fate those deteriorating insides 

freshly scented summer daffodils bloomed-rotting-bones

parasites crawling from your ears remember your

favorite tune when you can no longer hear but 

songs or sins will burn your tongue swallowing bitter

yesterdays so let it go to hell in the soul of your feet

where we will jump off the edge into dust that

steals your sanity and dreams STOP! This is the

gravitational pull up I am almost home can hear

your mother’s cries the blackness surrounding 

wind at  your back the day was born without you today 

humming your memory—I’ve forgotten the words.

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©Maria DellaPorte 2016 All Rights Reserved

Two Stars

A hundred thousand years—

 

Many millions to ensue…

 

Where we will be, longing.

 

The vast darkness.

          Faithless.

                    Always the same!

 

However, dotted speckles of light

do not question,

 

but are disciplined droplets – A fire-ballet.

 

Delicately skim pedals of

gold horizon, aspiring hearts

willingly innocent.

 

Strongly carved planets,

those immobilized souls,

elongate – calves pulling up onto toes.

 

Spin, spin…

 

The progression of hopeful chords—

 

Symphony of galaxies, continual,

birth new homes, infinite desire:

 

Honey twirling-off edge, a spoon,

light years from the tongue.

 

Two stars, waiting too long…

 

S e p a r a t e

 

Their celestial bodies – gravity,

allow a great fall.

 

Into love become extraordinary,

 

diminish the gap between God

 

          and unabashed fulfillment.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

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Poetry

Poetry – To bring the feelings of beauty, sorrow, love, pain, longing, nature, romance, death… living inside of you that cannot remain still, to life by way of animated descriptive expression; To plant the subject in the reader’s thoughts as if it were their own beating heart. Connection. Make them taste the words on their tongue. The difference between telling someone that by placing a seashell up to the side of their head they will hear their inner ear, or, that the seashell is formed from all souls lost at sea, and if they listen closely will hear oceans across earth remembering their dreams upon each wave. —Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

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little-girl-picking-dandelions

Here I am—flowing microcosmic energy.

Everything you almost see and feel,

unwittingly.

Your mother first captured it for you,

in a blue sky and floral ensemble.

Your father in the wind, surrounding.

Tenderness brought you here in fields

of Blazing Stars. The grass roots

playfully encouraging your wonder.

Discover:

If the day and its sunshine could sing,

what would it, for you?

 

Love, let it be love.

I do…

In a world so forgetful,

be the air

though unrecognized, faithfully

everything in life.

©2016 Maria DellaPorte All Rights Reserved

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Still me.

Though I do not know her personally, I am compelled to share this woman, Vicki Kelly’s, eloquently written true journey. She is brave beyond words. It evokes tears, sorrow, love, gratitude. I am personally reminded of the experiences shared with my sister that passed too young and full of life. This, however, is Vicki Kelly’s story! I am touched deeply by it and ask that we all keep her and her family in our thoughts and prayers.

queenmaynie's avatarVicki Kelly

This is so hard. I usually find writing to be effortless, therapeutic almost. This entry, however, has me procrastinating, starting and stopping and even now as I try once again I am aware I could hit the delete button at any moment.

I know I need to write an update. I have put very little out about my condition since I came home from the hospital a few weeks ago. So, here we go…

Let me start by saying that more than anything, I am a lucky person. Maybe the luckiest. I have the most amazing family and friends who have sent many messages of love in one form or another. If I haven’t written back, or returned a call, please forgive me. Please know how grateful I am and how much your support helps me through these times.

Let me get right into it… my disease has progressed a…

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SONG (a poem)

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The morning arrives late,

and evening, early.

All of the in-between-time – 

Countless efforts, vision and space,

blurred. 

The maintenance of –

Hope…

 

To carry her, delicately,

(fragments to a solution),

 

loses me—

A windmill.

A viola.

A song in the wind.

 

Only the sea and a one-eyed-gull

to understand.

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Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved

 

Road to You (I Am)

www.freepix4all.com

Where does it lead from here?

A question the road directs to my feet.

(Standing, stomping, still.)

 

In a quandary my toes and heels ponder:

How could it be the road not know

where it ends and where it goes…?

I’ve become dependent on expecting that much!

Still, the road doesn’t have a choice.

It is paved in permanency.

The twists and turns of gravel are merely illusion…

In love with the soul in my feet—

They decide which way to go…

 

Free to choose.

And with all the power she asks the road:

Carry me, please, on your back!

I’m afraid of direction, you see.

I will pirouette in position,

fall in love,

give-into faith,

that wherever my feet are, I am,

if not anywhere,

Myself the way—

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—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved


Mocking-Sun

Unknown

The daytime cruelly mocks me with its’ sun,

through every crevice, a beam,

summer Creamsicle spun—

Cascading-waterfalls on drapery summon birds,

their exuberant song.

Reflections…

Another dimensions’ from a gold mirror

cast shadow-tribal-dancers:

Listen for the echo, down halls, a boy’s deer-hide-drum.

Perfect blooms of Azalea-multi-color-smiles,

fill-up on moistened soil’s energy.

An innocent glass perfume-holder sitting blue upon my vanity:

Becomes a kaleidoscope.

Encouraging diamond-shaped-enthusiasm

on an otherwise perfectly content and empty wall.

Why?

Does it not know…

Beauty is strained and the Crows have left their markings.

Hope is out the window—

A neighbor whistling, dropping seeds for grass to grow!

This day should remain indifferent.

Tomorrow may be open to seize possibilities…

But the forecast calls for rain—

—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved

Swing-High (Edited)

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When I was a little girl,

I swung-high and low,

tried to touch the clouds with my toes.

A pair of sneakers with worn-out laces;

Collected memories in dirt-filled-soles—

Mill Pond –

the trees I climbed.

Each winding branch

an invitation:

To soar to new heights,

in the world and my spirit.

The days of tall grass fields, onion-scented,

and honeysuckle sweetness.

Oh, the sun shone loudly—

As if a chorus in the sky:

Not with light but imagination.

Friends challenged one another,

to balance,

walk on white-wooden fences,

dividing us from the street,

and constructed belief.

I learned to stand-tall,

on one leg,

the other behind,

arms like a bird.

The breeze was delicate,

innocence,

could carry you anywhere…

Sometimes,

with a close friend,

you’d simply sit in wonder,

talk secrets,

collect ladybugs that crawled

onto summer-drenched skin.

We had no doubts…

Honored our word.

When I was a little girl,

no one ever told me it’s impossible…

Adulthood:

Older eyes see things not so playfully,

and not necessarily true.

Somehow, somewhere, someone,

tells you,

you can’t,

and being so smart,

you trust,

settle into the misfortune

of doubt.

My little girl’s heart

is alive, in love, creating,

everything that I am—

She calls for me often

to touch the sky with my toes,

even if it seems no one ever has

or will.

“Be the one that tries

rather than a hopeless fool!”

For rigid is the road to devastation:

You may toss your sneakers,

and live your days in shattered bones—

Unknown

Recently viewing photographs of the famous mosque in Iran,

and considering a question as to what the caption could be…
Nasir-al-Mulk-Iran

My reply:

Light lends us the ability of vision should we choose to open our eyes

and see the beauty of color, and shape of the soul,

otherwise felt flourishing in the heart.

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Yes, color, light, darkness, and the gift of sight (from the soul).

I see in rainbows my friend, I see…

Ominpotent—

The world can be a prism or a prison!

Shhh-Large

—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved

(I do not own any rights to the public photographs)