SCURRY, SCURRY (A Tour of the Sewers)
…Run, Run into the sewers into the ground away from natural sound….
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.
…Run, Run into the sewers into the ground away from natural sound….
With gypsy dreams the wild heart turns and visions fair of the almost things….
Three straw ladies…their only music a bell that tolls a beat for straw shadows…
…We felt the gentle wind sing: follow follow follow
Where? But we could not know where…
Green hills and sun-drowned valley deep in dreaming. but when the temblor struck…
Softly, softly, the winds wail echo along the mountain sides down through the whispering golden grain. only a memory now—history—to tell…
Light dips into night spooning shadows…
A dreamer tarries…where? Why?
What comes to mind when you think of beaches? This poem might surprise you.
Blood-red cutlasses gleaming bright…