Oh, what a prison cell
A pumpkin shell would make
For orange stings
the consciousness
With tiny irritating pricks
Like a pacing figure
In an unrelenting pattern
Intruding upon your vision.
There is no sitting still
In an orange-drenched room.
It is no place
For the contemplative to pray.
Silence is not an option,
And stillness contrary to its nature.
Rocking, pacing
Within the omnipresence of orange,
A prisoner could not rest.
Confined to orangeness
You would likely lose reality,
Begin to babble incoherently
Of other colors from years past:
Blue or red, brown or green
Yellow, pink, olive
Cerise or black.
You might easily lose your mind
As it spills out, washing over
The constancy of orange
In hallucinogenic visions
Of those other colors of memory
In a conjury of escape.
Oh, what a prison cell
A pumpkin shell would make.
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“TO A SOLDIER, (The Letter Not Sent” was found among the poet’s papers. It was selected this week for Armistice/Veterans Day, November 11. The poet knew many soldiers going off to war. Though very young, she knew her uncles had served during WWI, later during WWII, a boyfriend, a long-time girlfriend and the members of her family all served—some did not return.
REFRACTIONS—the poetry by Robert Roxby
“NOVEMBER ELEVENTH,” commemorates the Armistice of WW1. Although this occurred before the author was yet five years old, its impact was strong among the people he met as he grew into a man. This poem was found among the author’s papers.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“DEARTH,” is included to honor the emotions that arise from Armistice/Veterans Day. The title word fascinated the author as its origin indicates it means “dear” or “precious” but came to mean scarcity. To the author its spelling suggests it is a merge of “death” and “earth.”
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 2023
A DANGEROUS PAIR
Scarlet and black
Are a dangerous pair.
Katchtorian’s Sabre Danse
is their life’s song.
With a quick succession
Of ice pick wounds
Of heat and shock,
They steal, in tiny gasps,
the oxygen from any room.
CAN I SAY GOOD-BYE?
All the earth sheds tears today
But all of heaven is rejoicing
How can I say good-bye when
I just learned how to say hello?
SCURRY, SCURRY (A Tour of the Sewers)
Run, Run
Into the holes
Run, Run
Into the sewers
Into the ground
Away from natural sound
Golden sunlight
Run, Run
Into the holes
Run to the Rodent Reality
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“SCURRY, SCURRY (A Tour of the Sewers)” is included this week for November 1, World National Stress Awareness Day. The poem was found among the author’s papers.
REFRACTIONS –a poem by Robert Roxby
“HOW CAN I SAY GOOD-BYE?” was written after learning of the death of a friend. The poem was found among the author’s papers and is included for All Souls’ Day, November 2.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“A DANGEROUS PAIR” was written when the author was writing a series of poems with color as the overall theme.
SPLINTERS FOR OCTOBER 2023
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:
PETER PUMPKIN-EATER WAS A CRUEL MAN
Oh, what a prison cell
A pumpkin shell would make
For orange stings
the consciousness
With tiny irritating pricks
Like a pacing figure
In an unrelenting pattern
Intruding upon your vision.
There is no sitting still
In an orange-drenched room.
It is no place
For the contemplative to pray.
Silence is not an option,
And stillness contrary to its nature.
Rocking, pacing
Within the omnipresence of orange,
A prisoner could not rest.
Confined to orangeness
You would likely lose reality,
Begin to babble incoherently
Of other colors from years past:
Blue or red, brown or green
Yellow, pink, olive
Cerise or black.
You might easily lose your mind
As it spills out, washing over
The constancy of orange
In hallucinogenic visions
Of those other colors of memory
In a conjury of escape.
Oh, what a prison cell
A pumpkin shell would make.