There might have been
A few ashes in a dish
In a room filled with light
From another hot dry day
Miles and miles away
And the sound of a long dress
Brushing a highly polished floor
The distant echo of a horse’s hooves
Or the scream of a car’s tires
But the painter left no trace
Of that other story
Only an old wall of adobe or brick
Where time has eaten away
Bits of carefully layered paint,
A barred window revealing no interior
Only a darkness framed with stone
Stained in an upper corner,
Blackened, as if from fire
The only link to the room
With the dish of ashes
Is the shadow to one side of the window
Which might be a deadened vine
A growth of fungus
Or a fire’s ashes trapped
Against the weathered stone wall:
A shadow shaped like Africa
No, there is a clue
Though what it tells
Is left to the viewer
The painter named his work
“Drums in the Night”
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“OPEN WINDOW” was found among the author’s papers and did not have a title. In a note to her Round Robin poet friends, she wrote: “just recently, as I opened the venetian blind and pushed back the window, I was greeted by the bird-filled yard—they were so busy…communicating. Such pretty sounds.” The poem is included this week for World Migratory Bird Day, May 15.
REFRACTIONS—an poem by Robert Roxby
“SATURDAY NIGHT BATH” is another childhood reminiscence from the author, child number nine among 14 siblings. The poem was found in the author’s journal and is included this week for Mother’s Day, May 14.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“AT THE GUGGENHEIM, MODERN ART RETROSPECTIVE,” was written following the author’s visit to the New York museum during the show which included some of the earliest works collected by the museum and retrieved from the archives. The author had recently completed a study of this period of art for a graduate course as she pursued her Master’s Degree in Theatre Arts, so it was especially meaningful for her to see in person the art she had read about and formerly viewed only in photos. The poem is included this week for May 20, International Museum 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:
DRUMS IN THE NIGHT
There might have been
A few ashes in a dish
In a room filled with light
From another hot dry day
Miles and miles away
And the sound of a long dress
Brushing a highly polished floor
The distant echo of a horse’s hooves
Or the scream of a car’s tires
But the painter left no trace
Of that other story
Only an old wall of adobe or brick
Where time has eaten away
Bits of carefully layered paint,
A barred window revealing no interior
Only a darkness framed with stone
Stained in an upper corner,
Blackened, as if from fire
The only link to the room
With the dish of ashes
Is the shadow to one side of the window
Which might be a deadened vine
A growth of fungus
Or a fire’s ashes trapped
Against the weathered stone wall:
A shadow shaped like Africa
No, there is a clue
Though what it tells
Is left to the viewer
The painter named his work
“Drums in the Night”
HAIKU for A.F.W., Friend and Teacher
Leaf-green shadows wait
on sea-green for melting snow-
gold to pass: full moon
WE WERE FREE, Part One
We met in that camp at Panther in the CCC.
CCC means: Civilian Conservation Corps.
There were camps in every state in the Union.
Ours was in southern Virginia, not that far
From the Kentucky border. As a matter of fact
The Hatfield/McCoy feud was fought out there.
That was around 1880-1900…a long time ago.
No one seems to remember what started it.
Anyway, we were young men from Wheeling
Thrown together by chance, or fate—
Mac and Wally and Ted and I.
We became life-long friends and together
We had such good times when we left the CCC,
Laughing like we were crazy.
We knew lots of girls,
Some as crazy as we were about having fun.
All of us, though, thoroughly enjoyed life.
We enjoyed everything we ever tried to do.
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“HAIKU FOR A.F.W.” is included this week for Teacher’s Day, May 8. Alice Frances Wright was the author’s writing teacher and her good friend for many years. Note of interest: Mrs. Wright was Arthur Miller’s high school teacher. She also founded and facilitated an annual authors’ festival which ran for many years in Long Beach, California which attracted many well-known writers like Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Mary Stewart, Adela Rogers St. Johns.
REFRACTIONS—the poetry of Robert Roxby
“WE WERE FREE, Part One” is the first stanza of a longer poem about the author’s life after high school during the Great Depression of the 1930’s when he worked for the Civil Conservation Corps and made life-long friends.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“DRUMS IN THE NIGHT” is included this week for National Twilight Zone Day, May 11. The poem was suggested by an image of the wall described. The wall featured later in one of the poet’s dreams and it is the dream which suggested the mood of the poem.
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:
A PHOENIX IN THE GARDEN
Ripped from its mother plant
Thrust into unprepared clay-rich soil
The geranium persisted,
Grew without nurture.
But its blooms were few
And nearly hidden
By its own leaves—
Brief flares of red-orange fire
Within a green surround
Spreading broad leaves
Over the garden corner edging
Onto converging paths.
Ruthlessly cut back
For passing feet,
The geranium compensated
Growing tall, high above
Its neighboring plants.
More blooms appeared,
Some bursting upward
As if to touch the sky.
Then the storm came
Whipping the trees
From side to side
Before the rain descended
Like Niagara escaped from capture,
Followed by the pitiless
Pelting of ice pellets….
When the morning sun shone
On that garden corner
The geranium lay sprawled
Once more across the paths.
Yet its once skyward blooms
Shot their fire still
Defiant and strong
With a promise to rise again
In fire to reach the sky.