All of her life had come to stay in this one room
in her son-in-law’s house.
In sachet-fragrant dresser drawers
carefully lined with paper of all kinds,
each garment type was assigned its own special space
which did not vary, ever.
Satinate boxes organized hankies and hose.
All the hangers in her closet faced one way,
nothing hung from hooks.
Shoes faced the wall toe first in a row.
In the nightstand beside her bed
was the mentholated petroleum jelly
she used for colds, arthritis,
headaches and the bruises of old age.
Each morning she waked to see her painting,
hanging on the wall across from her.
It was her imitation of another’s work
that she had seen advertised in a throwaway magazine
and copied because it reminded her of home.
In the cedar chest, the memories were kept:
fur collars from winter cities,
letters from the Civil, First and Second World Wars,
old tintypes and photographs,
a braid of childhood hair, a wedding ring,
paintbrushes carefully preserved,
a Mother’s Day card drawn with odd-matched crayons,
a scrap of paper with a poem on it.
All of her life had come to stay in this one room,
but in her dreams she was far away
in the place of old friends
free from wishing and pain, free to play.
And so, in one sweet night dream, she simply chose to stay.
A NEW TITLE AND RANK
The uniform, at best, described as nondescript
Carries the lowest rank in all of the services.
Close order drills usually happen at night
When someone is ill, or just needs some comforting.
No medal was ever struck for one of this rank
Never had bunting draped,
flag waving parades in honor.
The war wounds are not the kind that show—
They are all inside and almost never heal.
A strip of cleaning rag serves as a campaign ribbon.
The marksman medal is for the pancake flip.
Is there a memorial crested anywhere for them?
They represent all that man has ever endured,
In the firefights of an open war to save.
Intensely dedicated to humble duties,
Designated as just a housewife
As though that were such a minor operation
That almost any fool could do it easily.
Let’s give her a new title and rank,
Household Superintendent, Source of Civilization.
Now, since a small increase in pay is indicated,
Set aside one day each week free of cares.
Grant two weeks of vacation each year.
But only wherever she wants to spend her time.
Are all of you really ready for this?
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“TWO SMALL POEMS” is included this week for United Nations International Day of Peace, September 21.
REFRACTIONS –a poem by Robert Roxby
“CANYON VISTA” is included this week for USA National Public Lands Day, September 24. It was found in the poet’s poetry journal.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“OLD WOMAN’S SOLILOQUY” first appeared in 2000 in the author’s chapbook Paper Doll. It is included this week for National Aging Awareness Day, September 18.
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 SEPTEMBER 2022
In One Room
All of her life had come to stay in this one room
in her son-in-law’s house.
In sachet-fragrant dresser drawers
carefully lined with paper of all kinds,
each garment type was assigned its own special space
which did not vary, ever.
Satinate boxes organized hankies and hose.
All the hangers in her closet faced one way,
nothing hung from hooks.
Shoes faced the wall toe first in a row.
In the nightstand beside her bed
was the mentholated petroleum jelly
she used for colds, arthritis,
headaches and the bruises of old age.
Each morning she waked to see her painting,
hanging on the wall across from her.
It was her imitation of another’s work
that she had seen advertised in a throwaway magazine
and copied because it reminded her of home.
In the cedar chest, the memories were kept:
fur collars from winter cities,
letters from the Civil, First and Second World Wars,
old tintypes and photographs,
a braid of childhood hair, a wedding ring,
paintbrushes carefully preserved,
a Mother’s Day card drawn with odd-matched crayons,
a scrap of paper with a poem on it.
All of her life had come to stay in this one room,
but in her dreams she was far away
in the place of old friends
free from wishing and pain, free to play.
And so, in one sweet night dream, she simply chose to stay.
THE DAYS OF JADE AND JAGUAR
Time like a cloud sails on,
History drifts into mellowed memory.
Aztec legends and memories echo into song:
a singing
of the peoples of burnished bronze,
of Montezuma’s golden scepter lost,
the death of Quetzalcoatl
the fading away
of the feathered serpent
A singing
of templed hours
and the days of jade and jaguar
gone into stone
The pyramided steps slowly crumble into dust
And time like a cloud sails on
Diminishing thunder down dawns of gold.
My Land
Somewhere the wind blows clear and sweet
The sky is the palest of blue forever
There is the fresh smell of flowers in bloom
The ground is cushioned by a carpet of grass
Where I can walk though a forest of trees
And picture my fantasies in a sky of clouds
When it rains, it is like a freshening
As though having a new growth of skin to feel
That the world is somehow new again.
Perhaps I can walk through the rain
Or feel the light touch of a snowflake upon my face
I can lower my face into a cool clear stream
To enjoy the thrilling taste of pure sweet water
and I can hope it is all still there
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“THE DAYS OF JADE AND JAGUAR” was written for the Pan-American Festival held in Lakewood, California, receiving First Honorable Mention. It is included this week as September is Hispanic Heritage Month. The images were inspired by stories and pictures her daughter brought back from a trip to Mexico and by the author’s own reading.
REFRACTIONS –a poem by Robert Roxby
“My Land” is included this week for the United Nations International Day of Clean Air for Blue Skies, September 7. The author wrote it in 1992, calling it “a wish.” It first appeared in the author’s anthology, Reflections on a Lifetime.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“IN ONE ROOM” is included this week for Grandparents’ Day, September 11. The poem first appeared in 2000 as part of the author’s chapbook, Paper Doll. The room described belonged to the author’s grandmother.
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 SEPTEMBER 2022