DREAM MEMORY OF JAMAICA
I dream…the rivers’ rush, the jungle tangle of bamboo…the blue mist skies and whisper wind of cinnamon nights
Margaret Roxby was an award-winning poet published internationally in poetry magazines and anthologies, in addition to her two chapbooks, Glass Rain, Golden Rain and Medley. She was a fellow with the World Poetry Society International, local chapter board member of the National League of American Pen Women, and active in the California Federation of Chapparal Poets. She was included in the World Who’s Who of Women, Yearbook of Modern Poetry (1971), and International Who’s Who in Poetry (1971-1973). Margaret was often requested to speak on poetry and to present book reviews to local organizations. Her favorite quote was, “God, you have been good to me. You gave me a love of poetry.”
Margaret also dabbled in prose publishing articles in the Sunday supplement for the Long Beach Independent-Press Telegram newspaper, Los Fierros, a publication of the Los Cerritos Docents. She had a long running column for LBCC General Adult Division newsletter. She authored several more articles, short stories and a science fiction novel.
Margaret was a native of West Virginia where she worked through the 1930’s depression as a typist/clerk typing 200+ wpm. After marriage and the start of WW2, she moved with her husband to Long Beach, California where she worked several years as a secretary. Margaret served several years as a Camp Fire Girls leader and was elected the area’s PTA representative to the state-wide convention. When her son was ready for pre-school, she enrolled in LB City College studying psychology and later creative writing with Alice Wright, founder of a popular, long-running writers’ conference hosted in Long Beach.
I dream…the rivers’ rush, the jungle tangle of bamboo…the blue mist skies and whisper wind of cinnamon nights
All day long the slow sun burning bled upon the southern sea. Waves rammed red bulldozers racing down the battered beach…
…Early morning’s buffered light taps softly against the peace.
…the wind becomes a mysterious whisper in the silence…
…I saw her girls march off to unknown foxholes…and wounded, fell in bombed-out shelters
…Why not fairy castles build even though it’s only seeming.
…form there spellbound in trance-like state, enfolded sleeps…
My daughter, oh, my daughter!…But my son, ah my son!
…who could resist the luring call of songs like birds winging time’s span….
The poet’s challenge, despair and strange hope