Tag Archive: Creative Wrtiting

Road to You (I Am)


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—


—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved



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.


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.


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)


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—


Recently viewing photographs of the famous mosque in Iran,

and considering a question as to what the caption could be…

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.


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

I see in rainbows my friend, I see…


The world can be a prism or a prison!


—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved

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

Behind the Retina


The sadness bellows

with every ice droplet,

falling from the winter sky:

A grey solitude,

too cold for the heart’s survival.

Here in a room of yesterday—

All the distracted shadows,

on lonely walls,

search a soul to attach to,

to become whole,

to live in warm flesh.

A promised future,

her fingers like magic,

painted propositions,

in yellow and pink.


Wanted. Waited. Wished.

Until the expectancy gave way to letting go.

They died together and apart—

Suddenly, one night became an eternity,

a lover answered the longing…

And a day promised endless sunshine.

Then like the stars appear with the moon,

everything became a mere visitor—

Doused like fire,

it went down like poison:

All the miraculous highlights-

The dances of flourishing energy-

Now harsh-jagged-complications.


and choke-upon the sweetness

that was:

a bitter ending,

to death do us part.


She woke-up crying inside her lover’s eyes,

where she wished to remain,



behind the retina,

the color,

away from the visionless-vampires,


Where she could see inward,

drowning-out the darkness inevitable in the light.


Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

© 2015 All Rights Reserved




This short space,

long in endurance,

has an abundance of fragments,

pieces to pull-apart and reassemble.

Where once there was:

A singular motion.


Awareness and identity.

(Perhaps awareness was illusion.

Identity, a guest.

Motion, stillness in disguise.)

Come and stay for a while.

Here in this is your refuge,

Be this innocence, this joy,



(From an otherwise negligent existence.)


Oh, but it was a life!

It had a road to follow.

A perfect wisdom—

(Little beating heart,

You always were so trusting.)

It shattered.

The foundation a quicksand

Damn it all to hell!

With a lullaby why don’t you…

“A pocketful of posies”


For the death of it all:

Scattered broken-delights,


into a world-unfortunate.

For experiencing less than perfect,

it is blessed all the same.


capture the taste, sweet like a blossom, on your tongue,

before everything dissipates,

and you become a shadow to it all—


Life’s meaning


l o v e


what makes sense,

and doesn’t.

Comes or goes.

Touches tender the spot,


stings irreparably.

On, and on, and on…

We live and die

pleading for its capture,

to render our hearts helpless.


Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

©2014 All Rights Reserved



Everyone knows,

has been here and there…

Seen what has passed—

And Monday always gives way

to Tuesday.

But not everyone always remembers,

nor do they feel…

That everything is different but

the same,


And I have this heart

that tells me,

And dreams that remind me—

Somebody, though, is going to tell you

it isn’t real.

Make you question,

and give it away like an illusion.

That will save the world,

and them!

Oh, but the story is a song,

playing on your emotion,

And all eyes opened or closed,

recognize it the same:

Dying to live again,

live again…

That one spectacular moment

(Whether it ever existed).

It’s the only practical

way to sanity,


That you did,

He loved,

She was,

They came like rain,

And went like wind on a Saturday.

That there was a place

and time,


Where it all came together:

How a kaleidoscope forms a butterfly,

          of all its broken pieces.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2014 All Rights Reserved


Everybody has something to say,

you know,

but when I write my mind,

I believe every thought is singular.

In the moment, why,

I am about to fall-off the edge of my seat,

painting each word that gathers me-up

in childlike-fascination.


I am dancing on the page in my finest shoes,

arms in flight,

toned like a ballerina’s,

and the object is to fly—

Into that place I am:


or burdened,


or magic,


or, oh so young again…

I am.

When I can have things uncomplicated,

or nail them down like a tombstone.


Death and Daisies—


The way it shakes me sometimes!

Realizing the reality…

I’d rather be a raindrop,

falling-upward like

treble keys on a piano.


The pink little girl in me 

Swirling like cream in a cup.

A dancing statue in a jewelry box!


Before jagged-edges…

Still, there always was sadness:

Born that way,

searching what’s missing.


I fell from a star,

the dark, vast universe,

where there is always noise,

sometimes frightening,

but you are a part of this living entity,

not separated by birth.

Then you become a dream to yourself,

with a family,

and a brass bed.


Experiences count themselves plenty.

It’s your birthday,

first day of school,



learning to drive,

lost virginity,


sister’s cancer,

a daughter’s birth,




revolving door…

But never home to my lover,

with whom I’d live and die!



This is not my perfect skin,

The supple kind everything rolls off of

I’m sad!


a princess and brat,

brave warrior.

What is the point?

To create a movie life—

On and on and on…

Though now, I am remarkably tired.

I can’t climb

around myself,

always in the way.

Promise me you’ll try?

Because after all there must be meaning—

Yes, yes…

But to be safe,

feel loved,


to give…

B e l o n g.

Those are all okay things, I guess.

Not to be a penny tossed—

(Or a wish lost.)


Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2014 All Rights Reserved