Horn of Africa, trumpets of fear.
Fears of starvation, maiming, murder.
Bags of skin and bones buried near
By dry-eyed elders bereft of hope.
The very youngest are the first to go.
Time and time alone saves the rest.
Day after day, a duty must be performed—
Endlessly, day follows day—
Just to satisfy a power-hungry few.
Who protects these power-mad from revenge?
“Vengeance, sayeth the lord, is mine.”
When will vengeance be visited on them?
How much longer must we wait, Lord?
Forgive me, Lord, as I avenge my own.
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
A POET
What I may know of poetry
Has seeped into my veins
Not from poets greatly renown,
But from simple folks I have known
Who exposed their inner thoughts—
Which imprinted on this mind of mine—
As we met, sometimes in illegal dives,
But often in quieter sanctuaries.
Their thoughts entered my mind,
Quite by chance,
Making all my acquaintances seem
Too tall to actually be real.
#poetrymonth
A DANCING PEN?
A pen to dance?
To twirl and prance
Spinning into arabesque
And pirouette
Gliding over the tracery
The delicate filigree
The perfectly tatted lace
A net to catch and hold
To shape and mold
The sound and sense
That is the essence of poetry?
Ah, no. Not today
Not yesterday.
Nor even perhaps tomorrow.
#poetrymonth
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN – poetry by Margaret Roxby
“A POET’S PRAYER” was found among the poet’s papers. It is included this first week for April named National Poetry Month.
REFRACTIONS – poetry by Robert Roxby
“A POET” was written by the author late in his life when his wife invited him to accompany her to a meeting of her fellow poets. He had never considered himself a poet. This poem is included in his collection Reflections on a Lifetime.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS – poetry by Kathleen Roxby
“A PEN TO DANCE,” was written while the author was attending poetry workshops at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference one summer. The original title, “When the Pen Won’t Dance,” expressed the poet’s feeling on the day. However, for this release, the poem is renamed.
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
SAY NO
Say No and face
The consequences
The shunning
The frowning faces
Turned shoulders
Say No
And back away
From the screaming
Anger bouncing
Off your skin
Hurting your ears
Making your stomach churn
Say No
And the burden
Is released
The imposed duty
No longer pressuring you
Say No
As a child does
To define boundaries
A way to discover self
Say No
To be true
To who you are
Not hiding
In shadows
In silence
Yes is too easy
Say No
BEGINNING
Out of the millions
and millions and millions,
this one, this potential exists:
mystery of the universe
encompassed in a cell,
a tiny beginning
To slam the door, to become a god
of shall or shall not….
decision sways like the sword of Damocles.
To think on this must give pause
(no matter the reason)….
a different course far from Hamlet’s—
self-impaled upon his own dilemma
Not quite the same
That time in dispute,
that exact moment, a beginning
too remote to fathom
Potential conceived in infinity
beyond our ken
Nevertheless, a constant:
the irrefutable potential
haunting the depths of mind and soul
HORN OF AFRICA
Horn of Africa, trumpets of fear.
Fears of starvation, maiming, murder.
Bags of skin and bones buried near
By dry-eyed elders bereft of hope.
The very youngest are the first to go.
Time and time alone saves the rest.
Day after day, a duty must be performed—
Endlessly, day follows day—
Just to satisfy a power-hungry few.
Who protects these power-mad from revenge?
“Vengeance, sayeth the lord, is mine.”
When will vengeance be visited on them?
How much longer must we wait, Lord?
Forgive me, Lord, as I avenge my own.