Crystaline laughter, greetings, and snowflakes.
Tinselled trees draped with ribbons, laces, and
bows. Tiny, sparkling glasses of sherry.
Ladies in delicate chiffon. Red berry
woven wreaths of holly, juniper, wound
with silvered streamers, curling round the door
open to all, this season of Good Will.
Winter not allowed, yet the outside chill
accompanies merry, homeward bound guests.
Blazing fireplaces wait patiently to
warm and cheer those opening the door. Frost
breaths soon disappear. Parties are hosted
each night of this Season. Friends not alone,
family gathered again all at home.
Born on top of an Indian Burial Mound, part of the Mound Builder Culture, I
watched my aunt wring chickens' necks and they fluttered down the burial hill.
Not a good memory, but we cannot hope for all good memories.
The things I did in childhood and beyond, has become the stuff of my poetry and
a varied bunch of stuff it is.
Being born on the Mound near the oak-laden bayou's waters became the Louisiana Writers Society's
Grand Prize winner of 1968...."The Mound Builders of Chacahoula"...and a pretty good slice of
Indian daily life it was...spanning four generations.
My mother and grandmother figure prominently in my writing. Maternal guidance figures they
certainly were not, so love is not spent where not given.
How's that for intimate truth?
Married twice, my first husband quipped one day, "You'll never make any money with poetry!"
The next day I quipped, "Divorce."
Goes around comes around.
The second marriage was a complete disaster, so I find myself living with two cats, Henry and
Tat, in a camper at a marina. Alone.
Who, on this Earth, would put up with a poet who has been internationally published since seventeen,
has major writing friends around the world...Jayanta Mahapatra for one...and holds the Epic of Gesar
a major work of literature, out-distancing the Bible by centuries?
No one, so here I am.