I walked through the only street in town
Looking into every face I chanced to meet,
Hoping I might find a familiar one.
I dropped into the only general store;
Enjoyed that piece of homemade of fudge.
The old wooden church hung a sign saying
The next services would be in two weeks.
I never found the two-room school.
I hiked out toward Old Gobber’s Knob
To find the patch at the top–a scar–
The hill was stripped, barren of trees.
A local, seeing my distressed face, informed
That the local lumber company promised to replant.
I wondered, would they also restore
Those violets I loved so much
And the wild rose by the small spring?
Will there be butterflies, songbirds
And daffodils to greet the early spring?
Perhaps daisies, bluebells and Indian pinks
Will somehow reappear to adorn the hill.
Sadly, I turned away a tear rolled down.
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 2024
FOR DREAMERS BEHIND INVISIBLE WALLS
For those of us condemned to dream
To dream behind invisible walls
Whose every little wish
And half-formed hope,
Like will-o-the-wisps,
Blow willy-nilly away
With every errant breeze
NO LONGER HOME
I walked through the only street in town
Looking into every face I chanced to meet,
Hoping I might find a familiar one.
I dropped into the only general store;
Enjoyed that piece of homemade of fudge.
The old wooden church hung a sign saying
The next services would be in two weeks.
I never found the two-room school.
I hiked out toward Old Gobber’s Knob
To find the patch at the top–a scar–
The hill was stripped, barren of trees.
A local, seeing my distressed face, informed
That the local lumber company promised to replant.
I wondered, would they also restore
Those violets I loved so much
And the wild rose by the small spring?
Will there be butterflies, songbirds
And daffodils to greet the early spring?
Perhaps daisies, bluebells and Indian pinks
Will somehow reappear to adorn the hill.
Sadly, I turned away a tear rolled down.
FOR DREAMERS BEHIND INVISIBLE WALLS
For those of us condemned to dream
To dream behind invisible walls
Whose every little wish
And half-formed hope,
Like will-o-the-wisps,
Blow willy-nilly away
With every errant breeze
When the Poet May Not Dream
(Inspired by poets in oppressed nations)
Perched upon fretted, steel-beamed towers,
the carrion birds wait.
Their long, misshapen shadows seep
from the tower heights,
a creeping dark which tells the hours
of the city where breath alone
may be excuse enough
to die
Slow, in measured meter
the people move
through air so siphoned dry
that
to breathe at all
is pain
Here, in this violated cityscape
where wolf and hawk ceaselessly roam,
the poet may not dream of lyric pastorales,
But only strive to unspeak
the sorcerer’s spell
when with his heart blade
knife, the poet pens
the truth
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“FOR DREAMERS BEHIND INVISIBLE WALLS” is a piece found among the author’s scraps and is likely not quite finished. It is presented this week for Free Thought Day, October 12.
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“NO LONGER HOME” mentions “Old Gobbers Knob” which refers to a location in Punxatawney, Pennsylvania where the author’s father worked for a time as a coal miner. The area is rich in native American lore which he writes about later this month. As a boy he wandered a lot on his own, with friends or brothers and fell in love with the untamed nature that abounded in the area. The poem is offered this week for October 7, UN World Habitat Day, a subject dear to the heart of the author.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“WHEN A POET MAY NOT DREAM” is offered this week for Free Thought Day, October 12. The poem was inspired by the poet Czeslaw Milosz and his fellow artists who protested and persisted under the restrictive regime of the USSR in Poland. The poem can also be found in the Wheelsong Poetry Anthology Four, published 2024.
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 2024
GETTING OLD
I sure hate this disease.
It’s called getting old and aged.
Aches and burning pains every joint
My toes, foot, ankle, knees, hips,
Shoulders, elbows, wrist and my knuckles
Constantly ache and burn
Anytime rainy weather comes near.
Yeh! I really hate this disease,
This getting old and aged thing.
Why can’t I take some of that vigor
With that I had when I was 25?
That would really be nice, wouldn’t it?
Then this wretched disease I have
Wouldn’t be so tough on me on rainy days.
Gee! I really hate this disease,
This getting old and aged that is.