What magic spark invests the minds
Of the weaver, who with common thread
Weaves an uncommonly beautiful cloth?
How does that spark enter the mind of men
Like Socrates, Mozart or Edison?
Would the clay from which these came
Be different from John Smith, farmer—
Joe Joseph—laborer, or Jake the tailor?
Why does some very obscure couple
Produce an Elizabeth Barrett Browning
And no one else that can compare?
How did Edgar Allan Poe know which words
Would make The Raven so eternal?
How do Paderewski’s fingers produce
Such glorious sounds on his piano
When mine sound like hail on a roof of tin?
Is there a single spark coursing
Through eternal time that skips
About from place to place to touch
Whomever it may strike by chance, or
Is it somehow programmed to appear
At designated times and places
To remind us of the fragility of “class”?
PING PONG POEM
Bobbling on currents unseen
Bubbling up toward the waiting hand
Sounds swirl and spill
Into a mind which catches
Then bats them away
Allowing only a select few
To splash across the gridded game board
Up, around, and down, across
Words cascade, collide
Bounce, ricochet, bloody the field
Leaving at last a singular pattern
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:
GRANDPARENTS NEEDED
I do want a grandpa,
And maybe even a grandma.
My friend, Bill, has both.
His grandma is so nice.
She let me sit on her lap.
I felt so warm and neat.
While in his grandpa’s attic,
We saw wonderful machines,
And so many other things—
All of them so strange to me.
My friend Tommy’s grandma
Makes such really great cookies.
Ma, where is my grandpa?
May I borrow your grandpa
For just a week, or so?
I’ll return him unharmed
And just as good as new.
If only there was someplace
We could rent a grandpa,
Or a grandma for a day or two.
Wouldn’t that be really swell
For those of us without either one?
WITHOUT ANSWER
In my memory
There’s a place at river’s bend
Where willows bow low
Over deep, bright cold water’s edge
Why it’s there, I do not know.
WAITING
Sitting in the dark
Waiting for the quiet
Watching the stars
come out
one by one
Waiting…
Waiting for the quiet
Afraid to go in
to the noise
to the little love-demands
Afraid of one more asking
Afraid
Waiting…
Waiting for the quiet
to come
to still the fear
the unreasoned panic
Waiting…
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry of Margaret Roxby
“WITHOUT ANSWER” has been titled and shortened for this release. The author had not completed her thoughts leaving only these words and a few others on the back of a used envelope. The poet spent her childhood and early adulthood a few blocks of the Ohio River which undoubtedly is the river she refers to here.
REFRACTIONS— the poetry of Robert Roxby
“GRANDPARENTS NEEDED” is included this week for National Letter to an Elder Day, February 26. The author’s own grandfathers had died before he was born. It is unknown if he had acquaintance with his wife’s grandfather who also had died before Robert and Margaret married. Robert did know one of Margaret’s brothers as they were high school seniors together and it is possible that Robert did meet Margaret’s grandfather who was still alive at that time. The poem was found in the poet’s notebook.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS— the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“WAITING” is included this week for February 28, World Quiet Day. The poem is another in the series the author wrote during a period of depression, this time referring to one year in her teens.
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 FEBRUARY 2025
SPARKS OF GENIUS
What magic spark invests the minds
Of the weaver, who with common thread
Weaves an uncommonly beautiful cloth?
How does that spark enter the mind of men
Like Socrates, Mozart or Edison?
Would the clay from which these came
Be different from John Smith, farmer—
Joe Joseph—laborer, or Jake the tailor?
Why does some very obscure couple
Produce an Elizabeth Barrett Browning
And no one else that can compare?
How did Edgar Allan Poe know which words
Would make The Raven so eternal?
How do Paderewski’s fingers produce
Such glorious sounds on his piano
When mine sound like hail on a roof of tin?
Is there a single spark coursing
Through eternal time that skips
About from place to place to touch
Whomever it may strike by chance, or
Is it somehow programmed to appear
At designated times and places
To remind us of the fragility of “class”?
THE NEW POETS
The new poets
Employ not rhyme
And barely discernible rhythms.
They tell it like it is
Sometimes, only sometimes
Truth flares
Like hydrogen light.
The new poets sling
Deadly arrows
Straight to the bull’s eye.
When more relaxed,
They paint canvases of dark, light
With colors hot, bold or both.
Through intellectual concepts
They lead our thoughts
Bring insight
That can break a heart
Or twist a stomach in horror.
In language plain or rare
As the case may be
Through intellectual concepts
They lead our thought along
Perception’s path
Draw us with them
Into new realms
Expand experience.
Is that not enough?
But where is the music?