You were not ever truly welcome, were you?
Too big, too awkward, too loud—
You were not welcome at our table
Unless you could learn not to intrude,
Become a presence easily overlooked.
Too often naïve, or too innocent,
Too inexperienced—
You were not welcome to our secrets.
We never hoped for yours.
Too smart, too talented, too sharp,
Too quick to see
What we never meant to share.
You were not welcome as the mirror
Reflecting back our pain,
Witnessing our shame.
And yet, in spite of all this,
You were liked and even loved by some.
Even so, you were not welcome to be yourself,
But must come to us in some disguise,
Or not at all.
It was our revenge and our defense
To keep you locked outside.
You knew that, and we knew that—
This was our pact, the truce
That allowed us to co-exist.
Through it all we took your joy
For our own,
Borrowed your laughter
When we had none
And gave back as little,
Or as much, as we dared
To nurture the keeping of the pact.
Too silly, too deep, too moody,
Too shy, too kind, too uninhibited,
Too thoughtless,
Too everything we could not want—
You were not and could not be
An intimate, a close friend of ours.
No, you were not ever
Truly welcome, were you?
JOY OF LOVE
I have felt the loneliness of the heart.
It can only be calmed by the presence of love.
Yet she has left me so long ago, that now
I can only hope to some day rejoin her
To walk again across these lovely hills
And feel again the superb joy of loving her.
There is no joy quite like that of love.
Unselfish love that knows no end or boundaries.
We had that once and its memory is with me.
I shall take it with me when I leave here
Perhaps, someone may come across this love
And enjoy it for another life of happiness.
WE WATCHED THE TIRED SUN GO DOWN
We watched the tired sun go down
Grey night strikes across the sky
Where melted the golden butter sun
Just now beyond the forest green rim
Of hills they crouch—
The light beams of departed day
FAMILIAR STREETS
I know these streets
Their names
Which run east-west,
Which stretch north-south
Which of them intersect,
Which die as a dead end
Yet I feel lost
Where are the parks
I knew and played in
So long ago?
And the buildings—
They are no longer
Familiar, full of memories
I know these streets
Yet I am a stranger
In the town of my birth
And I wander lonely
Searching for what
Now lives only in memory
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“WE WATCHED THE TIRED SUN” is a piece found among the author’s papers with a note “failed poem.” It had no title.
REFRACTIONS–the poetry of Robert Roxby
“JOY OF LOVE” was written after the death of his wife in her memory. It was found in his notebook. It is included for August 18, National Couple’s Day.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“FAMILIAR STREETS”is included for August 21, National Senior Citizens Day. It was inspired by a return visit to her childhood home.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
Readers who write in response to one of the prompts listed each month in Splintered Glass, may see their work presented here on the last week of that month. Though poems are preferred, short prose work will also be considered for publication.
Guidelines for submission:
SPLINTERS FOR AUGUST 2025
LOST YOUTH
See this wrinkled face of leather.
Feel these hands worn brittle hard.
Fifty years I have been in the fields
And yet I am just now fifty-five.
At five, I walked by the side of my mother.
Though I did not know it then,
She was pregnant with another girl.
My playground was after hours, at night,
Near the quarters, as they were called—
Raw, unfinished framed buildings,
Even the storage barns looked better.
My mother, my father, my brothers—
All of them called migrant workers,
As I would soon be also called.
No schools, no doctors on call,
Only work, always, always hard work.
My father was already crippled of hands
At only thirty-one years old,
And aged enough to die at forty.
What did my youthfulness lose
On the vineyards to enrich those
Who owned the land and sometimes
Thought they owned all of us.
A RANDOM THOUGHT
Each lonely phoenix must find new skies
From dust-dead days rise replumaged
IN THE GUISE OF FRIENDSHIP
You were not ever truly welcome, were you?
Too big, too awkward, too loud—
You were not welcome at our table
Unless you could learn not to intrude,
Become a presence easily overlooked.
Too often naïve, or too innocent,
Too inexperienced—
You were not welcome to our secrets.
We never hoped for yours.
Too smart, too talented, too sharp,
Too quick to see
What we never meant to share.
You were not welcome as the mirror
Reflecting back our pain,
Witnessing our shame.
And yet, in spite of all this,
You were liked and even loved by some.
Even so, you were not welcome to be yourself,
But must come to us in some disguise,
Or not at all.
It was our revenge and our defense
To keep you locked outside.
You knew that, and we knew that—
This was our pact, the truce
That allowed us to co-exist.
Through it all we took your joy
For our own,
Borrowed your laughter
When we had none
And gave back as little,
Or as much, as we dared
To nurture the keeping of the pact.
Too silly, too deep, too moody,
Too shy, too kind, too uninhibited,
Too thoughtless,
Too everything we could not want—
You were not and could not be
An intimate, a close friend of ours.
No, you were not ever
Truly welcome, were you?
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“A RANDOM THOUGHT”was never published, but found among the author’s papers. It is included for August 12, UN International Youth Day.
REFRACTIONS –the poetry of Robert Roxby
“LOST YOUTH” is the author’s effort to express his understanding of the plight of the migrant worker colored by scenes he witnessed in his youth where children went to work early. It first appeared in his book Reflections on a Lifetime, 2000. It is included for August 12, UN International Youth Day.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“IN THE GUISE OF FRIENDSHIP: THE PACT” first appeared in year 2000 in the author’s chapbook, Paper Doll. It is included for August 12, UN International Youth Day as it describes the author’s experience in her youth.