Saturday, March 26, 2011

The Buzziness of Life``by MysticSilks

"The Buzziness of Life"

The bee had been
about his business
of gathering golden pollen,
carried in bags
on hairy legs.

He buzzed by
a clear glass window
to view his reflection,
or he thought, that of another
perhaps, a would -bee lover.
To his dismay
alas, demise
got caught
in the newly spun web
of a spider, who waited with patience
for supper.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

" Peter"` By MysticSilks

This piece was based on a true story.
I saw an ad in a local paper about a new poetry group that was starting at our local library. I am always interested in having that sort of creative energy around me, so I went to check it out.
The gal who had posted the ad was there early, and I guess I was too.
We got to talking about how writing thoughts and feelings helped to cleanse the mind and soul,".. although, I used to write more," she said.
The poem will tell you , for me, the sad unbelievable story.


"I used to write
more," she said.
Her hands once filled
with happy busyness
of doing daily chores.

she labors to keep
her mind from crashing through
the basement floor, burden to capacity
with questions that no one
seems to have answers for.

Wednesdays are her worst:
The ghost of Peter
haunts her with voices
calling, " mommy,mommy" then disappear
behind each open door
and fade like mist
on every mirror.

How was she to know
a giant eagle
would snatch him away---
And she wonders why in hell
she feels so insecure.

Her two year old son , Peter, fell from a shopping cart in Giant Eagle, hit his head and died.

" I love You"` MysticSilks

I love you,
he says in a whisper,
as if someone could hear
in the middle of nowhere:
He turns to leave forever.

I love you too
she mouths from a distance,
and turns away enough
to cause dew to cry
on rose petals
in the center of a desert.
She wonders if he can
smell their fragrance.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

The Guy Next Door-By Mysticsilks

The guy next door
rakes leaves while
the cold February winds blow.
Shes gone,
back to Burton, he said,
the other day standing at my door
shifting nervously
from foot to foot
not really knowing what to say.

Today, he holds
the cold wood handle,
a slump to his shoulders
as he works at gathering
the scattered leaves,straining his back.

His thoughts run like leaves tossed
and tortured before a February wind,
as he tries to rake them
into a neat pile to burn.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Just Some Poetic Prose`By Mysticsilks

The other day while sharing some journal entries with my grand daughter Rebbecca, she suggested that I get them published. I chuckled , thanked her for her support of my writings but replied, to have writing published is very rare occurrence: I would let that up to her after I left this worldly plane.

But that I would try to get some onto " In My Very Personal Opinion" blog.

Since spring is close by:

" Bluebirds of Happiness"

He talks to her in bird language;it's the nuances
one needs to hear,
and she replies by always starting out with 'dear'.
At times the pitch is scolding--He sits silently
and listens to really hear.
He never seems to argue
but when he wants his way
he speaks to her in soft encouraging chirps
then flutters his deep blue wings
to sway and change her stubborn mind.
How could any female
not swoon and sail to the limb
of life that he is perched upon?

" Cat Gone"

Pewter left the presence
of my cold indifference to cats.
I struggled with that:
I can be so neutral
to cats.
She was a princess wearing a gray and white
fur---with Lynx hairs on her pointed ears;
they added an aura of regal:
Not the average barn or yard cat to be sure.
Was a difficult choice to make--maybe the bluebirds
will come back to nest
outside my door.