As he sat there upon the mountain top
Looking out at the native lands below,
The GREAT WHITE SPIRIT strode across the sky,
Trailing a great cloak of fleece-white clouds
Shedding tears onto the desolated lands below.
Oh! How great be his sorrow
With lakes and rivers poisoned by man,
With mountains and plains denuded of trees—
That leafy expression of His great love.
The buffalo no longer stomp over the plains
Filling the sky with a thunder of hooves.
Never again come the great flocks of birds
Darkening the sun with an abundance of wings.
Prairie grass no longer grows high enough
For a man to hide himself within.
There are no quiet woods in which to walk a mile.
No clean, sweet stream from which to drink,
Is the mournful cry of the wolf.
And the upland plains are now turned to dust.
Oh, GREAT SPIRIT, is this how it is to end?
THE INDIAN’S LAMENT
As he sat there upon the mountain top
Looking out at the native lands below,
The GREAT WHITE SPIRIT strode across the sky,
Trailing a great cloak of fleece-white clouds
Shedding tears onto the desolated lands below.
Oh! How great be his sorrow
With lakes and rivers poisoned by man,
With mountains and plains denuded of trees—
That leafy expression of His great love.
The buffalo no longer stomp over the plains
Filling the sky with a thunder of hooves.
Never again come the great flocks of birds
Darkening the sun with an abundance of wings.
Prairie grass no longer grows high enough
For a man to hide himself within.
There are no quiet woods in which to walk a mile.
No clean, sweet stream from which to drink,
Is the mournful cry of the wolf.
And the upland plains are now turned to dust.
Oh, GREAT SPIRIT, is this how it is to end?
A POET IS BORN
A poet is born, not made
Yet the poet must be made
Once born
The leaven and the kneading
And the slow rising
And the heat, the pain
Of the hot, hot stove
Before the hunger-ease—
The sharing—
The time of feasting
When piece by piece
The bread from the heart
Is torn
COAL MINER’S LAMENT
Don’t put me in no hole
No,
Don’t put me in no hole
When I’m gone
When I’m gone
When the sweet, sweet sun
Won’t never no more
Hurt these eyes that will no longer see
Don’t put me in no hole
No,
Don’t put me in no hole
When the midnight days
And the midnight years
Have dyed my breath, my soul
Don’t put me in no hole
No,
Don’t put me in no hole
Let me be where the rain
Can wash me clean forever
Where the sun won’t never let me freeze
No, don’t put me in no hole
Oh, God, please
Don’t put me in no hole
When I’m gone
When I’m gone
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“A POET IS BORN” is included this week for November 24, World Unique Talent Day. It is interesting to note that the author uses the metaphor of making bread which she did not do so herself. However, her mother prepared many homemade loaves for her own and then her daughter’s family. So, the author knew the process intimately and may have participated as a child.
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“THE INDIAN’S LAMENT” is presented this week for Native American Heritage Day, Nov 29. The author developed his respect for the Native Americans while living in the forests of Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia. When he moved to California for work during WW2, this interest expanded as he explored the West during his vacations. This poem first appeared in the author’s book, Reflections on a Lifetime, produced when he was in his late eighties.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“COAL MINERS LAMENT” is presented this week for November 28, Day of Mourning (for workers killed/injured on job). The author’s father, Robert, had a job waiting which he worked that one day exiting with these words, “I’m not going down there ever again.” However, this fact ise not the inspiration for this poem, but a PBS documentary made by a young woman about a then current of miners in the same location of an earlier brutal Harlan Country Strike which occurred in the 1930s. The filmmaker interwove the 1930s’ footage with that of her own. The interviews she conducted are the main source for this poem, particularly one old gentleman who had lost his sight from working out of the sun for so long.
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 NOVEMBER 2024
THE FEAST
Come! Go with me this Autumn
To where the hills light up the sky
With their burgundies dipped into purple mists
As drops of sun light on flightless leaves
Blend into fields of golden pumpkins strewn about.
With apples, as crisp as wafers of ice,
And air so clear and velvety light,
You will think it really isn’t there.
We’ll have corn on the cob at dusk
With apple cider, biscuits, ham and eggs,
And those buttermilk pancakes
Smothered with country butter
And fresh maple syrup,
Because, you see, Autumn is a time to enjoy
All the best there is, or ever was.
And since it is also Indian Summer,
We will go for a swim in that old millpond.
ANTARES
Great Antares
So lately warm
And glowing
With pulsating light
swinging
Copper amulet
On the summer
Throat of night
Palest to cold orange
Stares through
Autumn cloak
A relentless eye
Unwinking.
AFTER THE TELE-FLICKER OF FAME
In this mock-celeb world
Where any random moment
May stream a flicker meteor-like
Across the world in acclaim,
How difficult must be the afterwards
Of a long life for an ever wannabe
Who remains only a once-was?
What pain comes from unrealized
Dreams in that long life outside
The clamor and light?
What anger comes with the permanence
Of an error reported and remembered
Merely for its wrongness
Though each ripple of memory
Tortures the scars left behind?
What anguish comes with the echoes
Of destruction reverberating
Interrupting the otherwise unremarkable.
Repeating every hour, then day after day
Into yearly anniversaries,
Pinpointed in every decade forever,
‘Lest we forget’—
As if the witnesses and victims
Every could?
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“ANTARES” shares some of the author’s enthusiasm for astrology. Fascinated by both the beauty of the stars and the astrology that different cultures applied to their perceived patterns in the night sky, she writes on this occasion about a red giant which she could see (especially in her youth when city lights created less interference and in her last home where she could view the stars from the beach).
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“THE FEAST” is presented this week in anticipation Thanksgiving, November 28. The poem was found in the author’s journal. The poem describes his memories of childhood Thanksgivings, but perhaps gives a nod to later tables with food prepared by his wife.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“AFTER THE TELE-FLICKER OF FAME” is presented this week for November 21, UN World Television Day. The author found inspiration in hearing and reading the anniversary news stories revealing the status of people once caught in dramatic events.