Tag Archive: creative writing


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

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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Fuck you! I didn’t do anything wrong. FUCK YOU!

 

I was fast asleep. Dreaming about details. You know? I wasn’t dreaming about Paris or the Amalfi Coast. No. I was dreaming about a list that I had to write: The shit details of my life…

 

I heard breathing. In the noisy sleep that I was experiencing I heard loud breathing. It was dreadfully close. Someone with his jaw dropped-open and head hung back. An exhausted pulling of air in and out in counts of threes, then a whistling through narrow airways until it gasped for more and saved itself from choking.

 

It was close I tell you. Caterpillars with their sixteen legs crawling upon my skin, I could feel a thick presence—A humid sweat caught by a chilled breeze.

 

As if we were on a train, or that he was at one point, alone. Traveling east through a foggy mountainside. The curves around stirring nausea in his gut from one shot too many of whisky. I could smell it, and sweat through a damp, dark trench coat. So slovenly, and my naval began to pull inward hoping to find the womb in which I could crawl back.

 

I was aware of my bed, the permanent hip-imprint, and unraveled sheets like unsettled sleep. I was aware of the stranger in my bed breathing down my neck, and I wondered why I had to be aware of his travels. I imagined papered-tulips on old plastered walls covering sounds, yet I could not stop the noise!

 

My entire body was begging for quiet rest. Only, good sleep comes when I need to focus. In the numb zone! One day, Alzheimer’s will come and take the focus like a bird to a land of thoughts, and I will be left a shell. Somewhere in my confusion, I know I’ll feel relief.

 

Yet, another detail to get done. I always cared about each one too until the broken pieces of the world around me built a cage, and I couldn’t pass beyond, or find myself. Ah, that fog and fucking breathing!

 

Eldin, was looking at pretty young girls with firms asses, middle-aged women with full-fallen tits, thin, full-figured, dikes, druggies, and dumb bitches. I wondered why each one, not fair or smart enough to shine my shoes, made me feel disfigured in my own skin? I hated them, and him for his weakness. His profoundly firm arrogance initiated a want for him—to ravage and engulf that persona until it became my power to crush him to death!

 

The rain began to splat down in sharp speeding darts. I could hear each one bouncing back upward off of the asphalt. I knew sleep would not come but at least solitude, a most valuable commodity helps assess the loneliness.

 

I’ve been thinking about breaking into pieces leftover ceramic tiles from a shelf in the garage, and painting them then puzzling a feminine sculpture—torn-apart and gathered back together with all of her scars. I’ll prop it against the happy green dining wall so that it stands-out and screams: I am here! I am here!

 

My skin begins to itch. Blotches between dry-aged lines connect thoughts to an overwhelmed brain, between two swollen red ears. Perhaps I listen too well—Things you do not know…

 

©2019 Maria DellaPorte – All Rights Reserved

(Me to my dear friend, Amanda – What do you think? It’s amazing! You are so talented. Thanks, but do I sound insane or scary? Not at all! I love it! I love to write, Amanda. Ideas come to me a lot in my sleep. Out of the blue it’s like someone is telling me a story. I then incorporate my own emotions, but I worry: What if people can’t tell fiction from reality? For instance, I’m done writing today and going to the gym, but someone may think that I’m Annie Wilkes. Who is Annie Wilkes? Yes, let’s go with that.) Have a nice day everyone! 🙂

 

 

Silent Heart

Words are dead—

 

Trapped:

 

inside fat cells,

boarders,

armed-guards-surrounding.

 

Love’s silent war…

 

I will take her prisoner.

A sledgehammer to the heart!

 

Before.

 

A soul can see. Touch.

 

Her bare.

 

Tears.

 

Confiscate fuel from the remains…

 

a heart.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

©2019 All Rights Reserved

Pink Flower

 

original

Actions speak louder than words, but oh… they are sweet.

I received them in my willing mouth—victim to their honey.

Aspiring…

 

Build a foundation, the nuts and bolts.

A sturdy-soldier for the battle of perfect humdrum—

 

Call me a pink flower!

 

Apples in a wire basket by the window,

Mother’s blue plates – memories of Easter’s birth on their rims,

Fresh bread rising in the oven,

Your heart’s beat, like a goat, resolute.

 

Seed planted in the heart – Oh Father!

 

Despite it all, and a dream, a house of cards.

 

Smoke blowing from its chimney a chicory wind.

 

See the Queen of Hearts, crying, at the window

…that wants to be.

 

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserve

 

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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.

 

Why?

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

Illusory Silver Lining

Conceptual Art Credit Claudia Perna

tenor

Silver lining—

I am trying,

in love and despair,

to find you.

 

Reds, blues, heavy-anchors,

every which way…

 

I look, see a resemblance,

a flicker-beautiful, eyes, calling to –

yesterday’s:

confidence in motivation.

trust in a means to an end.

 

The universe, time,

tick-tock… mocking!

 

Climbing.

Fighting.

 

Lies.

Exhaustion.

 

The day comes with its bread and water,

its sun, molding vertical lines,

invisible, free-air, mind trapped inside.

 

Dare not speak the truth…

that it might find me,

once willing—unprepared.

 

In the pain I am with you,

razor-sharp reality,

 

creating colors that do not fade

impervious mysteries,

 

but that hold onto a heart.

 

There… its fragility,

saves the God inside us.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

 

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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I am the pen at his right side.

 

Dark ink—waiting.

 

A strong hand, course, from winter’s dry,

cold air. Immobile. My heart in mourning—

 

Education in his knuckles, protruding,

a few stubbly hairs.

 

They recall a touch on the cheek,

catching a pink bottom-lip, open,

to hope for more than a melancholy spring.

 

Unequipped to read his mind.

The pure paper, wanting…

 

Give us a story. Etch I love you.

 

A house on the hill with daisies,

 

Lavender dreams,

 

A picket fence in need of painting,

 

Iron skillet with a sunny-side-up broadcast.

 

Imagine our heels soft on the upswing,

a perfect seat for two, catching a breeze from the east.

 

Push the lose flying hair behind my ear, quickly,

before it gets away, wise like a bird.

 

A porch of yellow pine housing ants

with stories of their own.

 

His hand reaches for the pen.

 

I brace for impact from what I am yet to know.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

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Letting Go of Daffodils

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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