Clear, clean swiftly flowing waters
Beneath which lay a fearful darkness
Where perhaps some strange fearful beast lay
Could one enter, not to ever leave?
Cowards would not dare attempt this stream.
From where will come the needed strength
To conquer the creature in that dark?
Bound so to the bosom had been this lad,
Afraid to venture in, impelled to try
Till his fate changed when two older brothers
Intervened, led him into this stream
Far out to where that fearful beast might be
Then stepped away from the frightened boy
Not too far for a quick return
But far enough to force our hero’s hand.
Looking down and all about the lair
Nowhere could he see any monster lurking there.
Joyfully, he leaped to the water’s surface
And began to swim as though he always could.
His monster had been an innate fear
Of failing to swim alone without helping hands.
Only now did the summer belong to him
As he swam and splashed with such quiet joy
Because his beast had been that inner fear
Of never learning how to swim alone.
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:
A SPECIAL TEA
On the tea shop shelf
A new tea to try
A tea, for once, not from Asia
Beside the sealed tin
A notice read “Limited Supply”
Naturally I accepted the challenge
And made my purchase
Before chance was gone.
Two cups later I knew
This was a great tea,
A special tea. I wanted more.
But already, there was none
Not then or even
Months later.
I saved the label,
Just in case, and
Searched the internet.
The tea came from
Fields in Africa
Ravaged by civil war.
This news brought
The sorrow of the tea’s land
Into my home
And would not let me forget.
It was indeed
A very special tea.
A TALE OF TWO SUNS
She turned always
to a sun of long ago—
a memory of something
perhaps that was never so
exactly what she insisted to recall—
and though
the sun of that memory shed
some overcast of color,
there emanated from the petals
a too-rich scent
an insidious hint
that deep into the roots,
invisible
there sullied and spread
the wasting,
a draining of life to death
He turned always
to her—she was his sun—
and though
he did not flower
as he might have done
in the fullness of real sunlight
his blossoms, lacking glow,
were pale but sturdy
and smiled
almost content to be shadowed so
From root-base of love, a bright
stream coursed upward for him
in a steady, life-giving flow
MONSTER?
Clear, clean swiftly flowing waters
Beneath which lay a fearful darkness
Where perhaps some strange fearful beast lay
Could one enter, not to ever leave?
Cowards would not dare attempt this stream.
From where will come the needed strength
To conquer the creature in that dark?
Bound so to the bosom had been this lad,
Afraid to venture in, impelled to try
Till his fate changed when two older brothers
Intervened, led him into this stream
Far out to where that fearful beast might be
Then stepped away from the frightened boy
Not too far for a quick return
But far enough to force our hero’s hand.
Looking down and all about the lair
Nowhere could he see any monster lurking there.
Joyfully, he leaped to the water’s surface
And began to swim as though he always could.
His monster had been an innate fear
Of failing to swim alone without helping hands.
Only now did the summer belong to him
As he swam and splashed with such quiet joy
Because his beast had been that inner fear
Of never learning how to swim alone.
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“A TALE OF TWO SUNS,” was inspired by two people the author knew. It is interesting to note that the poet’s daughter wrote a similarly themed poem based on Rolvaag’s Giants in the Earth, which the two women discussed. It is not known if the discussion influenced the production of this poem which was found among the poet’s papers.
REFRACTIONS—an poem by Robert Roxby
With the poem,“MONSTER,” the poem returns us to a memory from his childhood in in Acmetonia, Pennsylvania 1923. While this one was found in the author’s journal, another, “Spring Swim,” was published in his collection Reflections on a Lifetime and appeared on this site in May of 2022.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“A SPECIAL TEA” describes an experience of the author and is included this week for May 23, International Tea Day.
SPLINTERS FOR MAY 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:
AT THE GUGGENHEIM MODERN ART RETROSPECTIVE
I walk into city streets
Which others do not see.
I play beneath Autumn leaves
smell the dust of the leaf death,
The mulch of a forest floor—
Yet few others follow me here.
I run with the circus parade,
Laugh with the clowns
And sing with the kalliope,
Though others near hear only
The whispers of their own breath.
I walk into the garret
Of desolation and despair,
Ride as with the wind
Through nights of rage.
I am slivered on the spear,
Severed upon a sword,
Gutted by all the weapons of war.
All this and more do I find
With Kandinsky and Klee,
Vincent and Pablo P.,
Chagall and Bracque,
Miro, Dali (and more)
Upon a quiet afternoon
At the Guggenheim.
OPEN WINDOW
At open window
My heart fills with melody
Morning’s bright birdsong
A SATURDAY NIGHT BATH
Why do I have to take a Saturday night bath?
Friday would be much better for us,
Never anything to do on Friday nights.
Saturday night everybody is always there
And there is something going on all the time.
Mom makes us take that bath without fail
Even if we did have a bath on Friday night.
Why? Can someone please explain to me why?
Oh! I bet I know why! At least I think so.
We always wear our very best clothes
Sunday morning to go to the Sunday meeting.
We always have to take them off when we get home
So they will be nice and clean when next Sunday comes.
Do you suppose that’s the real reason for baths
To make our Sunday go-to-meeting clothes last?
Gosh! I never thought of it like that before this.
That has to be the reason for the Saturday night bath.
Anyway, I hate baths whenever they make us.
When they wash my ears, it almost always hurts.
Some day, when I grow up and become a man,
I won’t ever take a bath unless I really want one.
Oh Maw! Do you have to wash my ears so hard?