MY NAME IS AUGUST
We are twelve. Together we make the year,but why, among us all, do I seem to be held least dear?
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.
We are twelve. Together we make the year,but why, among us all, do I seem to be held least dear?
Behind the scenes she pleaded…I want to go home…
…She dreamed of the far-off world she had known…
For those of us condemned to dream behind invisible walls…
Fragile word that vanished like blown smoke from the street scene, are you lost now?
The nearest I came to the wild, wild West were the singing cowboys…with a yippie-kay-oh and a yippee kay-ay
…in the silver light of that special hour…
Pray do not judge us by our tattered garb, these boots so bruised…
Too many winds have blown from out the North
my gentle knights all slain as they rode forth…
I see your star light brilliant gift for me…