One of my favorite family stories from my mother’s childhood took place on a sunny day, probably in summer or during a school break when all the kids were home. Some of the details are provided by me, but the basics have not been changed.
Her father arrived home for his midday meal to find his daughter crying. She was perched on the long oak staircase to the second floor. Beside her was a bucket of soapy water and in her hand a scrub brush.
“Why are you crying?” her father asked.
Surprised, she looked up at him where he stood tall above her. Realizing he was waiting for her answer, she wiped her eyes against her arms because her hands were wet from scrubbing. She pointed out the window to the yard where her three brothers were playing ball.
“They get to play outside while I have to scrub the steps,” she said as she sniffled and tried not to start crying again. Margaret, born second in her family, was a tomboy and enjoyed besting her brothers in games when she could. “It’s not fair,” she added.
Her father marched through the dining room, passing the table already set with china, the food ready to be eaten and then on through the kitchen. A moment later, Margaret heard her father as he spoke to her brothers.
“Didn’t you see your sister in there scrubbing the steps?” The boys stopped playing. They could tell their father was angry with them, but their answer was just a shrug. Except for the oldest, Richard.
“Yes,” he said truthfully, but it was clear he did not see why this knowledge would make his father unhappy with him.
At the time of this story, all the children attended elementary school. Custom dictated girls to assist in the housekeeping, not boys. I assume they had chores of some sort that related to the home. Perhaps they did yard maintenance, assisted in keeping the exterior surfaces rinsed down and painted when necessary.
One of Margaret’s younger brothers did brag once about stirring the large outdoor kettle of his mother’s homemade ketchup while it cooked. Since this was considered a treat by the entire neighborhood, it is hard to think of this activity as a chore.
“Why aren’t you in there helping your sister?” The boys had no answer to their father’s question. “I want you to go in there right now and get to scrubbing those steps.” He pointed the way and the boys trooped unhappily into the house picking up extra brushes as they passed through the kitchen to relieve Margaret of her bucket and scrub brush.
“You should be ashamed of playing while she is working,” her father continued as he followed them inside. “In the future when you see your sister working in the house, I expect you to help her. Is that understood?”
The boys all nodded their heads. They looked sorry, too, but not all looked ashamed.
“Come with me, Peggy,” her father said, calling her by her nickname, as he headed back to the dining room. Margaret followed, glancing back at her brothers to let them know she was sorry if only with a look.
When they arrived at the table, her father pulled out a chair, “Sit down. Eat lunch with me.”
Eating at the dining table was a privilege, an honor Margaret did not feel she had earned. She sat, but she could see her brothers working on the stairs.
“Eat your lunch,” her father was looking at her. He had not started to eat.
“Bert, your food is getting cold,” her mother told him.
Margaret did not want to be at the table. She wanted to be with her brothers or for things to be back as they were before her father came home. She did not want to eat, did not think she could while she felt so guilty about her brothers. She never expected her father to react as he had.
Her father waited, not eating.
Margaret realized he would wait until she began to eat. Lowering her head to hide how she felt, she slowly picked at her meal. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her father begin on his meal.
Margaret did not enjoy her food.
Later, her mother would scold her for delaying her father’s meal. “He might have been late returning to work,” she said, a fact which every child knew was an offense that could cost a man his job.
Her mother saw nothing wrong with the boys playing while her daughter helped to clean the house. She thought her daughter should be ashamed for making such a fuss about doing what she was expected to do.
Years later, Margaret would relate this story as an example of how her father was different from many men of that era. Time and again, he would by his words and actions instruct his family in the equality of males and females. It was a lesson she passed onto her children.
#siblingsday
THE MOCHE HUMBLED
Desert winds blow across the sands
Where once the mighty Moche clan
Raised pyramids and temples grand.
Gone now, washed away in timeless winds,
Golden masks, turquoise beaded strands
Leaving a tantalizing evidence behind
As witness of the once mighty Moche clan.
Bits of pottery, mute evidence of man
And his eternal quest of dominance
All ended in crumbled pots and pans —
A humble end to the might Moche clan.
#panamericanday
MACCHU PICHU
Terraced realm on high,
ancient mystery,
whose people left no good-bye,
lures us hauntingly.
The silent slopes tell only:
they were then ceased to be.
#poetrymonth
#panamericanday
ISSA, IN THREE SHORT POEMS
I
Haiku careful words
Irreverent with laughter
Sunshine in Winter
II
When I was broken
With Issa I laughed, smiled
Brief thaws in Winter
III
With frozen fingers
Spring rain fell Winter chilled
Issa, too, had tears
#poetrymonth
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN – poetry by Margaret Roxby
“MACCHU PICHU,” the place and people, fascinated the author.* She wrote this week’s poem in response to a challenge to use form as opposed to free verse and also for the local Pan American Festival yearly poetry competition. The following are her notes about the form she used. Pattern: rhymed (ababb) cinquain following Shelley’s “To a Skylark.” 4 lines, 3 poetic feet each; 1 line, 6 poetic feet (last two lines were one in original version).
*See also https://www.singularprism.com/2023/09/25/pageant-of-gold/
REFRACTIONS – a poem by Robert Roxby
“THE MOCHE HUMBLED” was a submission to the local Pan American Festival poetry contest. The poem appears in the author’s collection Reflections on a Lifetime.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS – poetry by Kathleen Roxby
“ISSA IN THREE SHORT POEMS,” is the author’s attempt to capture how reading the poetry of Issa impacted her life at a vulnerable time.
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 APRIL 2024
HELP YOUR SISTER
One of my favorite family stories from my mother’s childhood took place on a sunny day, probably in summer or during a school break when all the kids were home. Some of the details are provided by me, but the basics have not been changed.
Her father arrived home for his midday meal to find his daughter crying. She was perched on the long oak staircase to the second floor. Beside her was a bucket of soapy water and in her hand a scrub brush.
“Why are you crying?” her father asked.
Surprised, she looked up at him where he stood tall above her. Realizing he was waiting for her answer, she wiped her eyes against her arms because her hands were wet from scrubbing. She pointed out the window to the yard where her three brothers were playing ball.
“They get to play outside while I have to scrub the steps,” she said as she sniffled and tried not to start crying again. Margaret, born second in her family, was a tomboy and enjoyed besting her brothers in games when she could. “It’s not fair,” she added.
Her father marched through the dining room, passing the table already set with china, the food ready to be eaten and then on through the kitchen. A moment later, Margaret heard her father as he spoke to her brothers.
“Didn’t you see your sister in there scrubbing the steps?” The boys stopped playing. They could tell their father was angry with them, but their answer was just a shrug. Except for the oldest, Richard.
“Yes,” he said truthfully, but it was clear he did not see why this knowledge would make his father unhappy with him.
At the time of this story, all the children attended elementary school. Custom dictated girls to assist in the housekeeping, not boys. I assume they had chores of some sort that related to the home. Perhaps they did yard maintenance, assisted in keeping the exterior surfaces rinsed down and painted when necessary.
One of Margaret’s younger brothers did brag once about stirring the large outdoor kettle of his mother’s homemade ketchup while it cooked. Since this was considered a treat by the entire neighborhood, it is hard to think of this activity as a chore.
“Why aren’t you in there helping your sister?” The boys had no answer to their father’s question. “I want you to go in there right now and get to scrubbing those steps.” He pointed the way and the boys trooped unhappily into the house picking up extra brushes as they passed through the kitchen to relieve Margaret of her bucket and scrub brush.
“You should be ashamed of playing while she is working,” her father continued as he followed them inside. “In the future when you see your sister working in the house, I expect you to help her. Is that understood?”
The boys all nodded their heads. They looked sorry, too, but not all looked ashamed.
“Come with me, Peggy,” her father said, calling her by her nickname, as he headed back to the dining room. Margaret followed, glancing back at her brothers to let them know she was sorry if only with a look.
When they arrived at the table, her father pulled out a chair, “Sit down. Eat lunch with me.”
Eating at the dining table was a privilege, an honor Margaret did not feel she had earned. She sat, but she could see her brothers working on the stairs.
“Eat your lunch,” her father was looking at her. He had not started to eat.
“Bert, your food is getting cold,” her mother told him.
Margaret did not want to be at the table. She wanted to be with her brothers or for things to be back as they were before her father came home. She did not want to eat, did not think she could while she felt so guilty about her brothers. She never expected her father to react as he had.
Her father waited, not eating.
Margaret realized he would wait until she began to eat. Lowering her head to hide how she felt, she slowly picked at her meal. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her father begin on his meal.
Margaret did not enjoy her food.
Later, her mother would scold her for delaying her father’s meal. “He might have been late returning to work,” she said, a fact which every child knew was an offense that could cost a man his job.
Her mother saw nothing wrong with the boys playing while her daughter helped to clean the house. She thought her daughter should be ashamed for making such a fuss about doing what she was expected to do.
Years later, Margaret would relate this story as an example of how her father was different from many men of that era. Time and again, he would by his words and actions instruct his family in the equality of males and females. It was a lesson she passed onto her children.
#siblingsday
THE YOUNG POET
Riding the tiger terror of his mind’s eye,
He plunges through dense, dark forests
Leaning at patches of light,
Skidding into the bitter blacks of night,
Seeking the fires of his wonder’s fulfillment
Burning in beauty’s star-white soul
Beyond the jumbled jungle,
While the passionate animal’s heart thunders
Beneath him, he rides.
Questing, questioning, cursing, worshipping,
Wounded and bleeding, alone he rides his tiger
Through the gnarled, wild, wanton woods
And as the vulture verdure girds,
He lashes it and slashes it
With a scorching sword of words.
#poetrymonth
#encourageayoungwriter
THE SILENT POET
He was a poet
Who held his poems
Within
Yet poetic was the silence
Rippling through the air
Through which he passed
Poetry sang in the veins
Of those he touched
He was a poet
Who held his poetry
Within
And we have become
The poems he never spoke
#dayofsilence
#poetrymonth
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN – poetry by Margaret Roxby
“THE YOUNG POET” was found among the poet’s papers. This piece may have been inspired by the author’s wide reading of poetry publications, or from joining her daughter’s poet friends in their own poetry-sharing group.
REFRACTIONS – an anecdote from Kathleen Roxby
“HELP YOUR SISTER” relates a true story told to the author by her mother to illustrate not all men treated females as second-class citizens even before they received the right to vote in the US. The author, still required to wear dresses or skirt combos, not jeans or shorts, to school at the time of hearing the story, thought her grandfather was a marvel.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS – poetry by Kathleen Roxby
“THE SILENT POET,” written by the author after a discussion with her mother concerning someone they knew on the occasion of his death.