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 DOOR OPENS
The destroyer waits in all of us.
Some never know the black night
When all of joy and love is lost beyond remembering.
Yet some wander into that murky darkening,
Never to return.
Others, blindly searching
From some other world, more perfect,
Stumble into that abyss of ever hate and fear
Only to quake, shivering into sanity shuddering?
When kind fate lifts twilight mists
To reveal the mirror of hell—
The image of what we can become.
If we have seen the hell we are,
If we find hell within ourselves,
Can we not perhaps find here, too,
The door to paradise?
May we not find there, perhaps.
The door to paradise?
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“SOLITUDE”was never published, but found among the author’s papers.
REFRACTIONS –the poetry of Robert Roxby
“HOSPITAL STAY” is the author’s description of his near death experience.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“A DOOR OPENS”is included for August 8, National Happiness Happens Day. It touches of the author’s own experience with depression.
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 AUGUST 2025
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?
FOR JESSIE
Chilling, wailful
Screaming
Railroad distress
Call—
Its fateful rhythm
The fused, muted sounds
Of the valley drifted
Up to the top of the hill.
Jessie
The icy, cold
Of the little hill streams,
Sparkling over sometimes
Sharp-edged,
Sometimes rounded rocks
Jessie
The unbelievably sweet laughter
Interrupted calls of the voices
From far across the river.
Jessie
Pure, warm, sunshine
Days—lying on the pebbly beach
Listening to the haunting call
Of the ghost-like, toy-like
Trains whistling mournfully
Of their endless pursuits
Jessie
THE GESTURE
I was awakened
perhaps by animal sounds
outside our cabin
perhaps by the brilliance
of the full moon
lighting up the room.
I lay there listening
to the whispering breaths
of the others sleeping.
Then in the nearby bunk,
My friend turned
And her breathing harshened.
The other sleepers began to stir
Disturbed by the sound,
The noise, of her breathing.
As I touched her, just enough
to break the pattern,
the moon slipped behind a cloud.
She awoke in the dark,
turned and reached out blindly,
laying open her hand for me to take.
I placed my hand in hers
in answer only.
She held it as though
I had asked for companionship—
comfort in the night.
When I lifted away my hand.
she turned back into her dream.
In the morning
She would not remember.
But I had lain awake, listening
to the night quiet sounds
to the soft gentled breathings,
pondering the truth
of that one simple
unconscious gesture:
a reaching out…in the dark
offering…opening
so generous…so trusting
…so vulnerable…
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN – Margaret Roxby
“FOR JESSIE” is possibly the author’s attempt to capture the day she, as a child, witnessed the tragedy of the death of a young boy who had been running along the tops of the freight cars (a common game) as the train slowly took on speed through town following a water stop. It is included for July 30, International Day of Friendship. The poem had no title when found.
REFRACTIONS – Robert Roxby
“THE INDIAN’S LAMENT” is included for July 31, World Ranger Day. The author always was fascinated by American Indians. His interest began from living on their native lands along the Ohio River with his coal miner father. This poem appeared in the author’s book, Reflections on a Lifetime.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS – Kathleen Roxby
“THE GESTURE” describes a moment on a camping trip the author shared with an old school friend. It is included for July 30, International Day of Friendship.
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:
CHRISTMAS NEAR
Through a night dark
utterly, intensely black
that light will shine.
Always that small
one candle
aglow in the window,
I can see yet
in my mind’s eye.
Will I now
make it home?
This snow, so deep
yet, the candle still
flares bright
in my mind.
It must be there.
I am going home.
Look! A light shines.
Oh, happy day, happy me,
That candle burns.
I’m home, I’m home
And here, it’s Christmas.