A glass, a bowl, a cup of tea,
A table, dainty and small,
A plate of cookies, iced, oh gee!
I’ll tell you now just how it was.
My mother, one day, thought
She’d give a tea, (that’s all she does.)
A social place she sought.
The Greens, the Stones, the Blacks, the Jones’,
She counted on fingers four.
Oh, paper, and pens, and telephones,
And STILL she thought of more.
“Oh, Johnny, dear, get mother a spoon,”
She sweetly called to me.
“And Johnny, bring a saucer soon
I’ll need it, too, I see.”
“Oh, Johnny, hon, do run up stairs
And get my apron, please.
And Johnny, bring those other chairs,
And fetch that cottage cheese.”
Willingly I did all these tasks,
My thoughts were on the cakes
When all at once my mother asks,
“John, go, for goodness sakes.”
The bell had rung, you might have known,
For what did I but hear,
A voice all sweet in stuck-up tone,
“Oh, chawmed, I’m sure, my dear.”
The social elite at last had come.
“They’ll eat it all,” I thought.
They wouldn’t think to leave me some.
“Woe is me, my earthly lot.”
With envious hate my brain burned up.
My one desire unchecked
I grabbed the cakes and drained a cup
And left the cloth all specked.
A week on cushions soft I sat
When Dad heard what I’d done.
Take warning now and don’t do that.
Indeed, it isn’t fun.
The Greens, the Stones, the Blacks, the Jones’
Went home quite shocked I’d say.
My mother cries and often moans,
“You’ve thrown my chance away.”
Who wants those stuck-up ’ristocrats
I’d surely like to know.
They come and talk and gossip and chat
And say, “I told you so.”
My mother doesn’t think that way,
And neither does my dad.
And when they speak of that awful day
It surely makes me sad.
My mother glowers at me now.
My father sternly peers
With cold grey eyes and says he’ll ’low
I’ll hang some day he fears.
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 GOOD CUP OF TEA
No Gael ever wore her family name,
‘twas Norse as the winds from the Pole
that will freeze a fisher’s hands on the sheets.
Yet, Mary Bridget was she christened
in the county of Mayo.
With passels of Mary sisters and cousins,
‘twas Bridget she was meant to be called.
But it was Beezie, not Bridget,
her name came to be,
and it was Beezie when she sailed
as a girl to the port of New York.
Deep in the hills of Ohio
a position awaited
in an half-Irish household
rich upon steel and coal.
There she labored, near content,
for the blessing of numerous and free
cups of tea to be had.
Till with mean-spirited ways,
came the new housekeeper
to lock up tight the aromatic tea drawer.
But the master, noticing
our Beezie’s lost smiles
and the lack of her sweetly hummed tunes
while she dusted and cleaned,
slipped her a second key,
saying Beezie should take her sips
whenever it pleased her.
So, Beezie smiled and hummed softly
the auld songs while she worked,
danced to their playin’ on evenings off,
till she married Patrick Higgins
(of the O’Haegin clan),
and she raised their children,
all six with true Irish hearts.
Those children’s children, too,
kept the Irish songs and ways
in their hearts till here
in a great grandchild
still the echoes remain,
along with a craving for a good cup of tea.
THE TEA PARTY
A glass, a bowl, a cup of tea,
A table, dainty and small,
A plate of cookies, iced, oh gee!
I’ll tell you now just how it was.
My mother, one day, thought
She’d give a tea, (that’s all she does.)
A social place she sought.
The Greens, the Stones, the Blacks, the Jones’,
She counted on fingers four.
Oh, paper, and pens, and telephones,
And STILL she thought of more.
“Oh, Johnny, dear, get mother a spoon,”
She sweetly called to me.
“And Johnny, bring a saucer soon
I’ll need it, too, I see.”
“Oh, Johnny, hon, do run up stairs
And get my apron, please.
And Johnny, bring those other chairs,
And fetch that cottage cheese.”
Willingly I did all these tasks,
My thoughts were on the cakes
When all at once my mother asks,
“John, go, for goodness sakes.”
The bell had rung, you might have known,
For what did I but hear,
A voice all sweet in stuck-up tone,
“Oh, chawmed, I’m sure, my dear.”
The social elite at last had come.
“They’ll eat it all,” I thought.
They wouldn’t think to leave me some.
“Woe is me, my earthly lot.”
With envious hate my brain burned up.
My one desire unchecked
I grabbed the cakes and drained a cup
And left the cloth all specked.
A week on cushions soft I sat
When Dad heard what I’d done.
Take warning now and don’t do that.
Indeed, it isn’t fun.
The Greens, the Stones, the Blacks, the Jones’
Went home quite shocked I’d say.
My mother cries and often moans,
“You’ve thrown my chance away.”
Who wants those stuck-up ’ristocrats
I’d surely like to know.
They come and talk and gossip and chat
And say, “I told you so.”
My mother doesn’t think that way,
And neither does my dad.
And when they speak of that awful day
It surely makes me sad.
My mother glowers at me now.
My father sternly peers
With cold grey eyes and says he’ll ’low
I’ll hang some day he fears.
DITCH DIGGER TO HOBO
I’m shaking the dust from my shoes now
Leaving out on the first freight train west
Look for me in the first open box car
On to St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver.
Is Denver really a mile-high city?
Wow, that is really up there, isn’t it?
Maybe I’ll even make it to spectacular San Francisco.
Do you suppose San Francisco is really true?
But I probably won’t end up at any of those,
More likely some place like Julian, California;
Plain View, Texas; or Elko, Nevada; Butte, Montana.
All jerk-water towns; nothing distinguishing.
Probably won’t be a cowboy, either. More likely
Repair cars or roofs, or even mop floors.
Fate has a way of changing our woes forever.
What chance have I…a poor ditch digger?
Yet I can’t stay here, never advance.
Roll the dice, Old Fate. See what we have.
If I don’t like the roll, I’ll roll them again.
So long old town! Here comes my train.
Wherever it takes me, I’ll go. Here’s my car.
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“THE TEA PARTY” was probably written to satisfy a school assignment when the author was young. The poem describes an actual occurrence in her home and the boy was her younger brother John, later called Jack. The poem was found among the author’s papers. It is included as a companion to the poem this week by Kathleen Roxby.
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“DITCH DIGGER TO HOBO.” During the 1930’s the author dug ditches for the Civilian Conservation Corps, as well as performing other jobs. The knowledge and sight of hoboes was common during that time when there was little work for anyone and many became homeless, but as usual the author has chosen to spin this story in a positive way. The poem was found untitled in the author’s journal and the title added for this release in honor of March 9, National Get Over It Day.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“A GOOD CUP OF TEA A GOOD CUP OF TEA” is based on a family story as filtered through the author’s mind. Tea in the author’s childhood home was the panacea for many things. This pattern probably began in the Irish immigrant household of her great grandmother, the maid in the poem. This poem was written before the author had accurate geneological information. As a result, there are two possible errors. (1) Her grandmother was most likely born in County Sligo, not Mayo; the author prefers the sound of Mayo to Sligo for her poem. (2) The house where she worked could have been in West Virginia, though the wealth of that family came from Ohio according to the author’s grandmother. This version is the original and was not updated with the later geneology data.
SPLINTERS FOR MARCH 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:
THE OLD MAN’S HARVEST
The man was old
The seeds were few
The land no more fertile
Than sand
The weather unkind
The river far
The water jug half empty
Carefully husbanding
The seed
The old man worked
Alone under the sun
Trickling
A light sprinkling
Onto the hard planted seed
Till it put forth
A single stalk
He nourished
The root, the stalk,
The flower, the fruit.
Patiently exercising
Upon the single
Desiccated stalk
The ancient rhythm
Of the harvests of his youth
Till his work done
And he slept
Under a red moon
Then stumbling from a hate
That orphaned,
The children knelt,
Dry-eyed from famine,
Beside the sleeping man
Woke him
With their awed whispering.
Ate what he gave them,
Then walked away
Into the angry sunrise.
Their silhouettes comforted
The old man, alone,
More than any harvest
More than riches
More than sleep
Without hunger
More than rain
The man was old
The seeds were few
The land no more fertile
Than sand
Yet the flowering
And the harvest
From his hand
Had blessed the day
Fed the night
Made rich the old man
Before his final sleep
With not one seed
Left within
His open hand.
NIRVANA
Let me go out
Some sudden day
From light and laughter and pain
To that perfect peace the still ones know
Who have dreamed their dreams too long ago
To remember
This.
There—
Life forgotten,
Lost in Lethean slumber
A myriad eternities may roll by
With all their woes and not disturb my
Infinite
Bliss.
EMMA
The seniors at the Senior Center loved her
Because she offered an all-encompassing love
That filled the pained void in their hearts,
Made them feel wanted one more time.
Her smile seemed to include her whole face.
It was like being warmed by a light sun.
They could unburden their latest woes,
And feel as though she really cared for them.
She helped with those incessant paper forms;
And she was smart, seemed to know what to do.
Constantly moving to make sure all was well.
When she occasionally became emotionally drained,
She came to my little cubicle and closed the door,
Laid her head against a cabinet, closed her eyes
Then just let go as her heart refilled
With another volume of love to continue.
I could see the tired, strained lines
Gradually erase as her heart refilled.
It was a sight I will carry to my grave
As she would almost look magical as her heart
Captured another source from thin air.
Emma, was maybe, a messenger of God, I think.