Those who like to scare and dare
Say that on certain foggy nights,
Pirates will return
To the glen in the woods
To dance and fight around
Their pirate treasure hoard
And sing their pirate chant,
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
One summer night
As the fog horns in the bay
Began their wailful moan,
A young boy left his bed
To travel into the forest.
There he climbed a tree
At the edge of the glen
To see if the tales were true.
The sea mist, like the tide,
Slid across the glen
And into the trees beyond.
Then the clouds rose
And boiled like the ocean
Waves that crashed off shore.
When nothing could be seen
Of the empty grassy floor,
Small lights appeared
In the trees, bobbing
Like lanterns carried,
Until they entered the glen
And circled around
One, two, three, perhaps
Five in all arranged in a circle.
Then in the center, shadows
Began to move; though indistinct
They resembled men gathered there.
Into the silence came the clinking
Of coins and the clashing of metal
As the faint moonlight flashed
Upon the circle as if on a cutlasses raised.
As the reflected slices of light
Circled around the glen,
There came another sound
Low, from deep within the earth.
It was the pirate’s chant:
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
The boy could not remember
Afterward how long he watched
From his perch high in a tree.
But his clothes began damply
Clinging to his skin and he began
To quiver with the cold
(or fear or both)
Before the fog slid down the trees
And sifted back the way it had come
As though called by the sea away.
The small and eerie lights
Followed the receding gray mist
Down the path to the coast
And drifting back came echoes
Of the pirate chant:
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
Clambering down to the ground,
The boy searched the glen
For evidence of the pirates—
But there was none.
Following the failing moon
He returned through the wood.
Whenever he heard the tale
In later years, he would say,
“Nay, that cannot be. ‘Tis only a tale.’
Yet, he kept a record in a journal
Of his night sitting high above the glen.
A record for later generations
To find and ponder on.
Those who like to scare and dare
Say that on certain foggy nights,
Pirates will return
To the glen in the woods
To dance and fight around
Their pirate treasure hoard
And sing their pirate chant,
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
#PirateTales #GhostTales
A TIME OF AUTUMN
The scorchless fires of Autumn winds
Sear trees in scarlet, tan, russet and gold.
The hills seem consumed with flames
That leap and bound about the hills,
Blending maple reds into aspen golds.
A scarlet sumac accents evergreen firs
Covering the broad valley floor,
Suggesting the fine old faces on elders
Delicately tinted in love light.
Finely sculptured lines of living
Adorn each and every elder in our midst,
Yet shining through the everyday living stress
Is an inward glow of eternal youthful life
That whispers like the Autumn winds
Of joy and the courage to face their fears
And greet each day with eagerness.
Author’s Notes
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“MEDITATION” was found among the poet’s papers.
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“TIME OF AUTUMN” first appeared in his collected poems, Reflections on a Lifetime, 2000.
LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“LATE AFTERNOON” is a recent poem by the author.
SPLINTERS FOR NOVEMBER 2021
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:
THE TALE OF THE PIRATE’S GLEN
Those who like to scare and dare
Say that on certain foggy nights,
Pirates will return
To the glen in the woods
To dance and fight around
Their pirate treasure hoard
And sing their pirate chant,
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
One summer night
As the fog horns in the bay
Began their wailful moan,
A young boy left his bed
To travel into the forest.
There he climbed a tree
At the edge of the glen
To see if the tales were true.
The sea mist, like the tide,
Slid across the glen
And into the trees beyond.
Then the clouds rose
And boiled like the ocean
Waves that crashed off shore.
When nothing could be seen
Of the empty grassy floor,
Small lights appeared
In the trees, bobbing
Like lanterns carried,
Until they entered the glen
And circled around
One, two, three, perhaps
Five in all arranged in a circle.
Then in the center, shadows
Began to move; though indistinct
They resembled men gathered there.
Into the silence came the clinking
Of coins and the clashing of metal
As the faint moonlight flashed
Upon the circle as if on a cutlasses raised.
As the reflected slices of light
Circled around the glen,
There came another sound
Low, from deep within the earth.
It was the pirate’s chant:
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
The boy could not remember
Afterward how long he watched
From his perch high in a tree.
But his clothes began damply
Clinging to his skin and he began
To quiver with the cold
(or fear or both)
Before the fog slid down the trees
And sifted back the way it had come
As though called by the sea away.
The small and eerie lights
Followed the receding gray mist
Down the path to the coast
And drifting back came echoes
Of the pirate chant:
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
Clambering down to the ground,
The boy searched the glen
For evidence of the pirates—
But there was none.
Following the failing moon
He returned through the wood.
Whenever he heard the tale
In later years, he would say,
“Nay, that cannot be. ‘Tis only a tale.’
Yet, he kept a record in a journal
Of his night sitting high above the glen.
A record for later generations
To find and ponder on.
Those who like to scare and dare
Say that on certain foggy nights,
Pirates will return
To the glen in the woods
To dance and fight around
Their pirate treasure hoard
And sing their pirate chant,
“Yo Ho! Yo Ho!”
#PirateTales #GhostTales
ILLUSION
Sly as a naked beggar beguiling,
The moon, spilling silver lies
Down chiffon skies,
Implies
That the slightest blinking
Of the eyes
Could strike the night into transparency
ABRACADABRA!
Lo! Infinity.
#PoetryandMoon #MoonPoem #MoonMagic
HALLOWEEN MONTAGE
When I think about trick or treating as a child, the memories slide through my mind like the rapid images in a montage as I age before my eyes. The film moves from my youngest age when I wore my regular clothes through to years when my costume was homemade of bits and pieces—aprons, scarves, Dad’s shirt, Mom’s skirt—to the older years when I wore a few that were store-bought. This reflects the improving finances of my family.
I was seven the first time I had a ‘real’ costume, one I was proud to tell my school friends about days before Halloween. I never wore it. That day at school I broke my arm. I remember how unhappy I was that the costume sleeve would not, could not fit over my cast. I would rather stay home than walk around in my own clothes, wearing a cast (and being in pain), explaining to any friends I met why I was not wearing the costume I had bragged about. That was the worst Halloween ever. I did not even care about the candy. I just wanted to go home and feel sorry for myself. The worst Halloween ever.
Within the blur of memory there are some treats that stand out. My mother’s friend who lived at the back of a lot and at the top of a narrow hall stairway made special treats just for the children of her friends. I went home sometimes with popcorn balls and other times with candied apples or peanut brittle. The last two I tried but never really liked. My mom loved them, so I gave them to her. She and my grandmother also shared the popcorn ball which had a flavor less strong than caramel corn. I preferred my popcorn salty, though the sweet variety was okay.
My mother always urged me to share my Halloween hoard with the family or my friends at school. I do not remember being really bothered by letting go of some bits of the treasure—the pieces I did not really like any way. What did I like (and keep)? Bubble gum was always good.
#Halloween #HalloweenandTrickorTreat #TrickorTreating #HalloweenTreats
Author’s Notes
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“ILLUSION” was found among the author’s papers. The poem appeared under two titles, “Illusion” and “Deceiver,” with minor differences between the two.
REFRACTIONS—an essay by Kathleen Roxby
“HALLOWEEN MONTAGE” is a new piece written for this October.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“THE TALE OF THE PIRATE’S GLEN” is a new poem inspired by a story idea the author was developing from a dream and tales of pirate treasure troves that people still seek to discover. The ghost element seemed perfect for Halloween.
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 OCTOBER 2021