My beloved grandmother, Kitty, encouraged my enduring love of verse. She instilled in me a special appreciation for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and for poetry of that time period.
My writing is prone to melancholy. I can’t stay with the painful too long and so take you down with me, then at the last second feel so sorry for you that the joke will come and we’ll all laugh with only the slightest hint of guilt.
Widowed in 2005 and seeking acceptance as life takes its course, I find assurance in my fellow poets’ work; assurance that we are together in sadness, in joy, in irony, in metaphor. Born in the Bronx to Connecticut now, I live alone for the first time ever at age sixty-seven. It’s a hefty task, standing solo. I am but a child, looking for direction, finding it hard to pretend I don’t need it.
