well as for a bio - bugger! I'm just a housewife, nothing special about me, nothing to tell of interest - nothing I can brag about anyhoo - well I can brag that I raised two kids to adulthood without killing them both- turned them into great adults with no nasty habits or being locked up- that's a plus in today's lifstyle. I think what I am saying is I'm not important for the poetry to be enjoyed. the last thing I want is fame, I don't need it but I still want others to get the joy if it's there, out of my poetry. I have found my best poems are in the voices of women, I seem to get inside their thoughts I think I have about 6 at the most I really care about, the rest are just play, and a lot of fun.

While Issa Slept

I went out to lift the moonlight you swore
was draped by silk worms all over the world.
They spun it, light, and smoothed it one strand thick.

I slide my pinkie on a leaf, then with a nail flick
gently steal a starting tail and twine the lightness
in my hand, and as if planned, raise the veil to look.

Hued shadows old and some in grey, they leap
your furrowed brow, and how the light plays on the eyes.
Here lies the face that once, it seemed, would never know

how darkness of the inner self could grow. I tend the lamp
I spun, and turn to run in fear of bitter seeds-- that’s apt
to flow the course of wasted cheeks, since gravity

in all its forms will always seek the fastest means
with no sway for shattered dreams. All this I know
and once more cup my hand, and in the glow enduring

look at the moon, the stars, the night, and all the darkness
in-between and know that there is hope. For light grows
there and everywhere for you, and what I hold I share.

Tin Man's Hangout

A bedstead on the highway stood, three legs-
one side was bent.
And horse hair where it mattered
rent, a rip, a tear, poor shredded tent.

And somewhere underneath did spring-
a weasel, pleased to sing.

And in the ditch, a chest with drawers!
--And now before the fractious roars
out shout the speaker on intent. I will relent!

so leave the reader each to his own -
indubitably-- content.

And somewhere underneath did spring-
a weasel pleased, so very pleased to sing.