They met at the cliff’s edge
Where she was still frozen
On a ledge just below the rim.
She had arrived there, breathless,
From a tortuous climb out of the terror below
With only the strength to stand leaning
Into the cliff wall waiting for the courage
To take that one last step into the future above.
He sat down, dangling his legs
Into the open air of the chasm.
Had he come to end her loneliness
To provide the support
For that last surge up over the rim?
For a while it seemed so.
He did not rush her,
Simply kept her company
Cheering her with his humor
And friendship.
Then when she was almost ready
To take the chance, trust him
To be there to catch her
As she made the frightening leap
Into the openness above the cliff edge,
He looked down.
His eyes in that downward glance
Revealed his hunger to know,
To battle the beasts in the darkness below.
He was there to make the journey down.
He hoped she would go with him
As she had been there and survived.
But she dared not return to the depths.
She might not return a second time.
This he could not see
Through his own desperate need and pain.
There they said their goodbye.
She turned away toward the future
Waiting above the cliff edge.
He stepped down to the ledge
She had just left, turning
To let her know
He would never forgive her
For leaving him to face it alone.
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
JUDGMENT
By what measures do you abide?
Is one person greater than another?
Is the person you despise lesser
Than that person you admire so very much?
What determines the value of your measures?
Is your measure more valuable than mine or his?
Does it make you a better person than I
Because your ancestors were lords of the land
While mine were only servants to those lords?
If you find fault with someone’s mistakes,
Is it because of your own secret sins?
Where is it written that you should judge?
Who determined which should judge others?
Are you so really sure of what you say?
How then, justify your constant failure
To forgive someone else’s misdeeds
While you rush to countenance your own?
Again, I ask, what measure do you use?
Is it really so correct and true
That it brooks no other way to measure worth?
Why is your measure so absolutely true
And mine as full of fault as you often infer?
What would you say if told that my measures
Were the only true ones that exist?
They really are, you know.
THE FOOL
Long had he walked
The silent way
Wrapped in thoughts
Too delicate to lay
Before the horde
To let them cry
With derision
And mocking tones
Casting curses
And verbal stones
As they did at his humble head
He could afford
To lie
In peace
With an eradicable smile
On a face
That never knew the vile
Distorting dread
Stalking their own sad mile
THE SORROW OF A CLIFF EDGE
They met at the cliff’s edge
Where she was still frozen
On a ledge just below the rim.
She had arrived there, breathless,
From a tortuous climb out of the terror below
With only the strength to stand leaning
Into the cliff wall waiting for the courage
To take that one last step into the future above.
He sat down, dangling his legs
Into the open air of the chasm.
Had he come to end her loneliness
To provide the support
For that last surge up over the rim?
For a while it seemed so.
He did not rush her,
Simply kept her company
Cheering her with his humor
And friendship.
Then when she was almost ready
To take the chance, trust him
To be there to catch her
As she made the frightening leap
Into the openness above the cliff edge,
He looked down.
His eyes in that downward glance
Revealed his hunger to know,
To battle the beasts in the darkness below.
He was there to make the journey down.
He hoped she would go with him
As she had been there and survived.
But she dared not return to the depths.
She might not return a second time.
This he could not see
Through his own desperate need and pain.
There they said their goodbye.
She turned away toward the future
Waiting above the cliff edge.
He stepped down to the ledge
She had just left, turning
To let her know
He would never forgive her
For leaving him to face it alone.
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“THE FOOL” is included this week for November 16, UN International Day for Tolerance. This poem was found among the poet’s papers.
REFRACTIONS—the poetry by Robert Roxby
“JUDGMENT” is included this week for November 16, UN International Day for Tolerance. The poem was found among the poet’s papers.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“THE SORROW OF A CLIFF EDGE” is included this week for November 17, National Unfriend Day. This poem describes what could have been a love affair once, but one partner could not face again the hell she had finally escaped. Worse, he would not have understood if she tried to explain because she had hidden her struggle so well. Even with her story, he would not forgive her as he had planned on her support. For any who read this and worry about him, he did find a fine girl to carry him through and onward.
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
STOP THE MACHINES
Stop the machines now.
We must be heard. Now!
You have claimed our best:
The young ones, their dreams;
Old ones, broken with grief;
Loved ones, long since lost.
Our smallest cry out
For the food to sustain.
Where are the healing arts
For those in the throes of death,
Breathing air you spoiled,
Drinking waters poisoned by you,
Eating food grown in ground
So tainted it grows only death?
Must we all slowly die
With starvation of the body,
The mind and even the soul
To keep the machines alive?
Stop! the machines now!
Is no one humane in charge?
We can no longer be grist alone.
How long until we refuse?
Why are your needs so great
That we must die just reaching for love,
While you give not one single sign
Or one single drop to show you care?
Will your machines still roar
If we are not there?
Devour us if you will, machines.
We will be gone yet free.
Of course, we will all be dead.
But how will the machines run then?
Who would you operate for?
Come, all my fellow workmen.
Listen well, you machine masters.
Come feed our hungry,
Clothe the naked,
Heal the sickened ones,
Provide for those starved
For some token of love,
Share gracefully in humility.
Stop these machines now.
Stop, stop, stop, stop.
THE WORSHIPPER
The halls of the heart
Have templed walls
Where secret gods abide.
There the soul burns incense
And offers up its prayers,
And only that votary
Knows those halls,
And what strange gods dwell there.