Tag Archive: writing


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

 

My Brother the Playwright

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Today, I am proudly sharing with all of you, my brother Vincent’s website. He is a playwright, having written an array of exquisite works on different subject matters throughout his years. Several of Vincent’s plays have been performed Off-Broadway, New York, with great success.

–to anybody who’s looking for a new, electric voice in the American Theatre:

https://vincentsessa.org

 

No one can save me, or you, from ourselves. It’s about vision. Literally seeing. When you can see something differently that’s always been there, suddenly you have the gift of sight, and everything gets simple. There is no set time for this to happen. There are no perfect steps to follow. There is no one teacher. Everyone has a different journey and lives at different energetic frequencies. We’re in the same pot, ingredients if you will, to a perfect recipe. Simpler doesn’t mean easy, either. It’s, in fact, the most challenging work of your life, through every aspect of our lives, but it’s only as complicated as we are blind or oblivious to the truth of our story development’s “why’s.” Once you turn that corner, the lightbulb goes off, the click-I-got-it moment happens, then you’re like, Oh!! Once that happens, initially, so does resistance to acceptance because you can’t believe what you’ve been under the impression was so hard was as simple as under your nose. Seeing…

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte – ©2019 All Rights Reserved

Below – My Logos

I am poetry in motion.

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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! 🙂

 

 

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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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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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

Mother to Daughter

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For my daughter – Laura Marilyn,

 

What I want for you—

 

Every. Perfect. Thing.

 

The love of your life that answers to any emptiness,

and vanishes it, dust in the wind.

 

A house that holds your heart to always come safely home to.

 

Children in your lap, looking-up into your eyes

with wonder, trust, and pure love.

 

Arms that wrap around you—wanting nothing

but you.

 

Someone that inspires your dreams, and my hope that you will never give-up on them.

 

Experiences that touch your soul with wonder, and prove there’s something more than what can be seen, touched, or felt…  At the same time, a whish that what you have is always enough!

 

To see the world around you without fear—

 

Dancing. Laughter. Playfulness. Freedom. Kindness.

 

Music, poetry, art, that sings to your soul.

 

Special people around you to nurture, and that they will always appreciate you.

 

Respect abounding.

 

A table your family gathers around, together, with you, sharing stories and food that satisfy hunger, and feed the heart.

 

Christmas joy. Easter Tulips. Summer sunshine.

 

Fall’s crisp and hopeful air with its excitement of new beginnings in vibrant color!

 

Memories that shine—

 

Your parent’s teachings, their immeasurable love for you…a part of everything you become.

 

Wisdom. Prosperity. Excellent Health.

 

Practicality: Enough to keep a solid foundation, but never so much that you forget to take a leap of faith.

 

Worry-free-comfort.

 

Personal expression that enriches people around you, and that fulfills you.

 

Charity. Gratitude.

 

Time enough—

 

Never having to say goodbye to anyone you love.

 

Protection from harm.

 

Some rainy days to allow for you to rest-in and simply be—

 

Feeling pretty! A wardrobe you enjoy.

 

Gifts of love, best friends, a good-good man—

 

The Beach. Sunsets. Sunrises.

 

A comfortable bed. Shoes too!

 

Special family recipes – good bread – good life!

 

Your inner child’s fun spirit, thriving.

 

A journey through this life that you will look back on gratefully without regret.

 

Old age with the one you love.

Grandchildren that make you smile.

A loyal dog, or two…

 

A peaceful place to reflect-upon your day.

 

Prayer. Good Choices. Happy-ever-after answers.

 

A promise—from me, that I will always be with you –

Proud of, confident in, and with an abundance of love for you.

Forever in your heart—for it has lived within my own—

 

And in every lifetime, I shall find you, my child.

 

Your mother, gratefully.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

 

Tempo into Release

This period in time is the build-up—soft tempo eloquently escalating, patiently, sometimes painfully, to reach a point—release into magnificence.   -Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

Below is a poem, author unknown, that my late sister, Marilyn, wrote down and gave to me. For all I know, she could have written it. I kept it tucked-in at the left corner of my mirror for years. She was my best friend. The water marks are my tears, from when I held the paper in my hands to read again for the first time after she died. She was a month shy of her 33rd birthday. It broke my heart knowing she’d never realize anymore dreams.

This time in my life is a different challenge, and there are days I really want to give-up, but a stubborn flicker of belief always remains in my heart, and I want to wake-up dancing. I know my sister would want that. 

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Ps: I intended to put a formal classic ballerina dance video below, but when I stumbled upon this one with its upbeat melody, and the lyrics – home is wherever I am with you (there’s a personal meaning in that for me) and then the girl dances holding a large daisy (daisies were Marilyn’s favorite) I knew it was her telling me this was the one. This was her kind of spirit. I know if I could hear her she’d insist that I also be my playful self, get it done, and be happy.