It was just an old red brick house
With its curtained windows staring
At the squalid world without.
All of it like its replicas in red brick
Except for that bright green door
With the vivid scarlet bow tied thereto,
Which somehow extended a welcome
From those within to all of us outside,
Or, at least, to someone they might love.
When the young lovers knocked on the door,
They were cheerfully greeted from within.
Sounds of gay talk drifted through,
Accompanied by squeals of delight
And the cheery sounds of happy laughter.
The table was piled high with gifts so bright,
All wrapped and tied in ribbons tight.
When the door closed, I turned away,
Left with my drab, ugly, unkind world.
But my life would be changed forever
By vivid memories of another world
Behind a bright, beribboned green door,
Part of an old red brick house
As drab as all the others, except
For that green door with scarlet bow upon it.
#Christmas #ChristmasandWelcome #ChristmasMemories
TWO DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS, 2020
The presents are all unwrapped
And gifts stowed away
In their rightful spaces:
Closets and drawers
And other special places.
The Christmas meal gobbled
And vanished,
The table has returned
To everyday dress.
There are no guests
To be lingering on.
This is 2020, no guests allowed
For safety’s sake.
After-Christmas sales are few
As the stores are closed.
Traffic near the mall
Is stalled by overflowing
Cars from restaurant take-out lines,
Because those seeking a change
From the food at home
May not dine inside or outside.
All this is a gift of 2020.
Parks are attended by very few—
Maybe one, two or three
For a little time—
Kids with a new toy,
A dog with its owner—
Then the park is once more open,
Dormant and waiting
Like spaces long unexplored.
Here and there a few people
Are seen about on sidewalks,
Wearing their masks of choice.
It’s been a sad Christmas season.
That’s all too clear.
Now, except for a pyramid of tree
With its fading fragrance of pine,
And the lights on the house,
All signs of Christmas are gone.
#ChristmasandCOVID #ChristmasandRestrictions
HANDS OF THE OLD
Caught in a dream
they clutch at the light
beyond the edges of dark
They search for answers
with small flutterings:
Who was it, really,
who lived this life?
Hands speak the unspoken
the silent questions pile up
like uncollected mail
Browning like pages
from an ancient book
they fold
fragile as moth wings
Dried leaves
falling through the night
#OldAge #Aging
The Pinochle Game
Pinochle was the game they played so well.
It often lasted far into the early morning hours.
Every time they could all get together,
All four were brothers and card sharks all,
Just four bold heads around a table.
Those heads shone brightly under the ceiling light.
They would play each card of every hand
By slamming it down hard upon the table
As if to emphasize the value of that card.
All were so evenly matched in skills,
No two partners would consistently win a hand.
So the hands on the face of the kitchen wall clock
Have sped through four whole hours on this game.
The stakes in the center of the table seem paltry
Indeed for such a great effort to win,
Just a big pile of large wooden matches.
Perhaps, each match represents some special prize?
Suddenly an unexpected run of good cards
And the East-West team is about to win the game.
Now we will see what is that fabulous prize.
All the loud shouts and friendly jesting
Soon let us know that the matches there are just matches
And the real prize is just to win
And to enjoy the pleasure of shouting and jesting
At their brothers for having lost this game.
#Pinocle #BrotherLove #CardGame
Author’s Notes
GLASS RAIN – Poetry of Margaret Roxby
“HANDS OF THE OLD” was found among the author’s papers. It was inspired by her aging mother who “wrote” messages with her fingers on the arm of her wheelchair during a period when she suffered dementia lasting just over a month following a hospital stay for the flu and a broken hip. It is included this week as we contemplate time passing and the ending of another year.
REFRACTIONS – A poem by Robert Roxby
“THE PINOCLE GAME” describes a recurring event in the author’s family home during the 1920’s and 1930’s. It is included this week in honor of National Card Playing Day (December 27). The poem was first printed in the author’s collected poems, Reflections on a Lifetime.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—a poem by Kathleen Roxby
“TWO DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS 2020” was written during the first year of restrictions due to the COVID pandemic.
ANOTHER SPECTRUM SPECIAL
“This Is Bigamy,” was originally published in Southland Magazine, the Sunday magazine supplement of the Long Beach Press Telegram.
THIS IS BIGAMY
The Splintered Glass prompt which inspired the work below is: The subject of immigration has been a hot topic in recent days. Has this issue touched your life personally? How?
Years ago while still living in a section of West Virginia highly populated by delightful immigrant folk from Poland–proud, enthusiastic people anxious to learn the language and ways of their new country–we were often affectionately amused by their stumbling but determined efforts. One such instance forms the basis for this story.
The corner drug store aside from being the purveyor of its natural goods, was a common gathering place for discussions of events of the day. There one evening, several young people listened in rapt wonder to one of their midst–admittedly well along the pathway to the goal–read the evening paper! As he came across the headline, “Valley Man Guilty of Bigamy,” listeners besieged him to clarify this fascinating new word–bigamy.
Clearly enjoying his position of pre-eminence, the reader gave some not unimpressive consideration, and suddenly, with the glow of perfect understanding illuminating his features, he enlightened the unenlightened.
“Der was a guy wot had two wifes, and nyether ’em knowed about bot’ of ’em–dat’s bigamy!”
#Bigamy #Humor #EnglishLanguage
SPLINTERS FOR DECEMBER 2021
SPLINTERS FOR DECEMBER 2021
THAT CHRISTMAS EVE
He wasn’t there
(I know).
The jolly fat man
In the red snowsuit.
He wasn’t there.
My mother told me later
He couldn’t have been there
Bending over near the chimney
Straightening up the toys.
He wasn’t there.
And he didn’t turn and nod
To me standing barefoot
In my nightgown
Chilled and thrilled
At the kitchen door.
I must have been dreaming.
I know.
The presents are all unwrapped
And gifts stowed away
But in the joy of a memory
In the heart of a child,
The four-year old me—
I know
And will forever know—
He was there.
#Christmas #ChristmasandChildhood #SantaClaus
AWAKENING
On frosted window
early light—dawn striking sun pearls
It’s Christmas morning
#Christmas #ChristmasPoetry
RED BRICK HOUSE
It was just an old red brick house
With its curtained windows staring
At the squalid world without.
All of it like its replicas in red brick
Except for that bright green door
With the vivid scarlet bow tied thereto,
Which somehow extended a welcome
From those within to all of us outside,
Or, at least, to someone they might love.
When the young lovers knocked on the door,
They were cheerfully greeted from within.
Sounds of gay talk drifted through,
Accompanied by squeals of delight
And the cheery sounds of happy laughter.
The table was piled high with gifts so bright,
All wrapped and tied in ribbons tight.
When the door closed, I turned away,
Left with my drab, ugly, unkind world.
But my life would be changed forever
By vivid memories of another world
Behind a bright, beribboned green door,
Part of an old red brick house
As drab as all the others, except
For that green door with scarlet bow upon it.
#Christmas #ChristmasandWelcome #ChristmasMemories
Author’s Notes
GLASS RAIN – Margaret Roxby
“AWAKENING” describes a scene familiar to the author who lived for 30 years in West Virginia where snowy Christmases were frequent.
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“RED BRICK HOUSE” first appeared in the author’s collected poems, Reflections on a Lifetime.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—works by Kathleen Roxby
“HE WASN’T THERE” recalls a memory from when the poet was four years old and awake in the night of Christmas. The poet penned this short memory when inspired by Rod Stewart to write something new for family and friends each Christmas.