Introductions can be so entirely odd, outside of eye to eye.

Let's begin like this...

I am very much the recluse these days, although I have felt life at its heights, and at its darkest depths, tending to fall into the unexpected; flashes that are but strange shadows to most. I've met the unexpected, walked though that iron door. And my poetry does confess.

My home is much like my mothers, has always been and still is. Old, creaky, antiques of heritage and heirloom, still tidy, a candle lit most of the time. The Monarch wood stove is my heat and way of cooking. I do cut the wood. *Grins*

This house is set out in the middle of nowhere and everywhere. The edge of a dead end, long dirt road, surrounded by trees, hidden. I do not drive, nor have I ever. I love the outdoors, although do not go hiking about. This property offers me a great deal of beauty, simply lying around in the high grasses, climbing great old trees to read or write.

I sew, needle for thread, also working, or course, in herbs and plants, a family gift of nature's understanding, many crafts, I trade. There is no washing machine here, but a clothes line, porcelain tub, sink and a laundry in town for heavier tasks.

I do love to dance, sometimes I go out for that. I hardly sit down to breathe. This is a small town, lively people, always a story to tell from the past, present, future weaving. Everything is historic, protected, loved, seemingly set a distance from the rest of the world.

...And that is of me...

The poetry
"We are all a unique symbol entwined,
And link for link
This is of me of you

I receive many messages from readers. Readers who are beginning to realize how deep my cryptic nature goes, even bleeding into my life. Switch it, life bleeds into words.

Untangle my symbolism a bit, discover that my poetry is, in fact "not fiction" at all, it is truly the journal of strange days and nights, years, those ticking hours.

I do not expect, want or need for everyone to know my history but to find a familiar thread within your own implanted memory. A few of you may simply enjoy the challenge of decoding and discovering cryptic messages. Enjoy it however you will.

I do not expect one reaction of view from every reader. I have no disappointment when you see it differently from what I was remembering, battling, discovering, nurturing, in the moment, I spun the words.

To read my poetry raw and without the cryptic shroud would only leave you more confused and baffled. That is the most honest truth.

"Leave a mark when you have a bite to breathe,
You do or will~in a single moment."


Reprinted from "Grim Trixter" Copyright 2006. Used with permission.