Tag Archive: Childhood


Fractions and picket fences.

A quarter of the time—whole life.


Surrounding what it encompasses…

Compartments. Safe.

Not my pieces


Trying to attain the sum of something.


Paint the days, white-Lilly, strokes-imperfect,

but they’ll do.


Those not brave enough!


Keep the gate closed.

I tell myself running-up hills.


On the outside of comfort, weary.



You ask as if I know—


I’d rather feel soil escaping through my fingers,

as I steal flowers from the earth.


My mother, in her needlepoint apron,

was a promise to keep!


What I became only to let go…

Wounded soldier. A kaleidoscope.


I’ve always wanted to live there—


Sturdy staircase. White stove.

Windows that turn falling rain into musical notes.

If footsteps could carry us backwards…


We could recreate the world, solid-men,

marching-bands in the fields,


swing-free, birds, on a tire-empire,

tug-rope secure over a grandfather-branch.


Put on the coffee!

Hush your nonsense…


I will build blue-steel ceilings,

 no dream can escape

without a price.


Count to ten and breathe.

Listen for a thing called love,

another time—


I am here! Here!


The temperature is changing.

Bring in the wood for the fire.


Exterior chipping,

to the ground falls with leaves blowing east.


A message in the night:

hang the yellow dress—hope

on a back hanger.


Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018


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


Swing-High (Edited)


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,


could carry you anywhere…


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…


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—