Tag Archive: poems


I am—


Stopped in my tracks,

but not the clock, it continues:

2020 –

12, 6, 3, tick-tock…


to use the time, I call,



In a big world, become small.


Though I have learned to see

outside of me, grass and sky,


indeed, to dream,

but not to move, in action, so eloquently.


More like trekking through mud.


You, in your space, how do you do

with time not right,

the way one wants to control

day and night?


Space is given to choose.

On my toes about to spring!


Every breath, a birth,

thankful yet restrained.


Thoughts that don’t know how to go.

What if this, and that, if only each thing

would fall into place?

I’d lack the excuses for keeping me,

from shining right here.


Because –

the aches and pains of standing still,

with passion screaming, please,


do not fall back into immobility.

They are agonizing!


It’s like the bird I want to soar,

to sing over the world:

I am here to be—


Take the unremarkable life, and

drown it, bitter, in vinegar,


but not me.


A will and way, present yourself,

heal these limitations,

that I should be remarkable,

in whatever space and time available.


Inhale, exhale, easy.

Embracing full life—


Joy is the ability to make love and peace 

with what is here and now, and to offer it faith 

to grow exponentially for good.


Before it is gone, a new season,

opportunity, a distant memory of us.


Maria DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

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



Penny Wishes



There are three pennies—


A jar under the kitchen sink collects coins:

Nickels, dimes, and quarters—


Two more pennies then trade the five for a nickel. 

Jar worthy.


Each penny wishes it were worth five-cents.

They want nothing more than to belong, to hear,

to feel the clanking of old-respectable copper


(swapped for cost-efficient zinc)


against receptive glass,

descending into a pool of rich friends.


Oh, the fun that would ensue while mingling at parties,

discussing stocks, wearing the latest fashion,

and inflating egos…


I insist the pennies must never apologize for who they are.

Be confident!


As a result, they not only buff themselves well

against a cotton rag to shine,

but march proudly—Lincoln soldiers!


Still the fact remains,

they cannot buy dinner, diamonds, designer-clothes…


Now and again temptation arrives:

Be a big shot!


Toss a single dollar bill into the jar,

but it would throw-off balance entirely.


Quarters would feel they don’t add-up without three

well-to-do friends. Dimes would become bullies

pushing their way up to ten.


Nickels would simply give-up trying,

and form an alliance with the pennies,

waging war on the rich:


“Who made you all-deserving copper-nickel, green-paper-presidents?

We are enough for your wishes in a well!”


Then comes a revelation:

Release the oppressed coins. They cannot

change worth on their own accord.


A force greater together—


Take the coins—including each penny—to the poor.

They will be grateful for every cent.

Soon there will be a bushel of fruit or a new pair of socks.


Collect grains of sand in finely shaped jars,

and delight in the vast wealth of the seas.


Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved




Q u i e t ~

Long steps—backward,

forward again,

c a u t i o u s l y.

Feel their every breath.

Strain inward. Release asthmatic clutch.

Fulfill the tale with a lungful

of enlightenment.


Alluring torment.

Little tease.

Secrets want exposure –

the spotlight.

I am listening… listening…


To catch monsters in a jar,

build my empire.

The impetus: To realize its hold on me.

First, I will shake the hand,

embrace an old friend: A

colloquy of pleasantries.

Then with upmost politeness,

no offer to excuse myself, however –

Tear its heart out with my teeth,

swirl my tongue in satisfaction.

Lap up the residual effect:


The knowledge of everything

conquering death.

Toss it, blithely, into a miracle

of incandescent awareness.

Become like cherry sugar,

decadent syrup drizzled on the world:

My breast—its nipple heart,

the universe in my cornea,

all the answers grown from follicles,

a planet scalp—beautiful auburn.

Smash the paradox, ozone…

A big bang life!

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

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

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)


I’ve come back,


without the shame,

to collect the remains

of who I once was…

Like a Cashew,

out from its’ poisonous shell.

Can still taste the murder

of some unsuspecting victim,


that just liked nuts.

Or was that myself…


it’s not about tragedy

that saves anyone,

but the monsters you forget—

When the sun shines unexpectedly,

on a Monday.

Your steady, even steps,


into the same shit

as yesterday…

Carry you more optimistically,

in direct conflict with


Everything is mysteriously



The curtains,

how they drape,


A female ghost’s silhouette.


the world, today, is a china shop.

A collection of all yesterday’s


The vines,

delicate rims,

curved-handle for nuzzling

a hooked-finger.


The soft whispers of conversation,


with each sip…

Please and thank you,

take me about movement,

oh-so-precise and carefully,

that I should not remember

but remain oblivious,

to all that seeks to remind…


the self-destroyer.

The heavy pieces of burden,

a story told so well:

Fear, caution, control,


and action,

stifles the ability to grow beyond its’ hold,

for your own sake…

To die the consequences daily.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte © 2015 All Rights Reserved



What I need-


to float, at ease,


dare to get ahead.



Forget again…


(Hope it catches you

on an upswing.)

A bonfire for burning memories,

and for watching their essence

become black-smoke-ghosts.

See them dance like swirling twisters,

hot in your dreams!

A guitar,

keys, to play my tune:

God’s mercy

in the lyrics.

Someone or other

to understand

every expression:

It isn’t all a straight line,

but molded


Simple, complicated, or broken,

is as it should be—

(Pain remains only when there’s doubt.)

Arms that wrap around,

thank you, thank you…

A half-moon on the horizon,

its’ missing piece in my heart.

If it all adds up,

or it’s only love I give,

that you’ll remember

some random moment…


what it was…

Smile subtly aware

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved