Tag Archive: Poetry


2020 Remember Us in History

 

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We are living through a time of stillness.

Our lives are on hold.

 

Waiting. Fearful. Doubting. Hopeful.

For permission—

 

Yet, neither time nor life pause for us.

They remain precious and fleeting.

 

We brace in frustration to save both:

our time and lifeaging.

 

As if either promises to be waiting.

 

The world is rapidly transforming.

Political powers are gaining,

against us!

 

Who is in your head, and their bed?

 

Quietly and patient,

God remains a while more in observance.

 

He weeps for us, simultaneously amused

by our presumption of control, the situation.

 

There was never a guarantee, only our illusion.

 

A bus on the corner out of sight, cancer in the water, 

murder in the night, starvation for some,

a slip in a bathtub, 

or choking on hard candy.

 

So many ways to die! 

 

Despite it all,

we looked away from what might happen,
and took the chance to live regardless,

 

a free life worth living.

 

Maria DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

 

Restricted

I am—

 

Stopped in my tracks,

but not the clock, it continues:

2020 –

12, 6, 3, tick-tock…

 

to use the time, I call,

unavailable.

 

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

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

Gut Instinct

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Plain English –

In a place you don’t want to be,

and can’t escape from,

is not a poem to write,

but in this case true.

Orange-rage,

and wilting power, 🥀

fight,

in a locked-box about to explode!

Maria DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

(Short and sweet because, Baby, it’s cold outside and that’s what it’s all about.)

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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

 

Ten Years One Eternity

Camouflaged

Ten years.

Ten eggs.

Ten Wednesdays.

Ten times forgiven.

Ten suns.

Ten chicks.

Ten heartbreaks.

fragile

Ten turns nowhere.

Ten pleads.

Ten entries.

Ten cherished.

Ten wounded-soldiers.

Ten dice.

Ten deaths.

Ten menstruations.

Ten witnessed betrayals.

Ten skies.

Ten tombs.

Ten mockingbirds.

Ten calls to patience.

Ten sins.

Ten temples.

Ten acquiesces.

brides

Ten motherhoods lost.

Ten battles.

Ten infants.

Ten prisoners.

Ten ways believed…

—One eternity.

One man.

One pulse.

One God.

—I am without you!

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

The Stairs of Imprisoned Bones

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I am the stairs.

Up, down, —years.

 

Along the banister-prison –

creaking-floorboards, bones.

 

Bury them in the silence they deserve.

 

An empty-window-world above, forever,

taunting a way out!

 

Recollects we were alive:

Struggling momentous-steps

…..to nowhere.

 

An arbitrary shadow

against impenetrable wall

serves our memory.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 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

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