Welcome To My Web Page

  About Me
  • I grew up during the thirties. My formative years were spent in a small town in far West Texas. Life was so simple them. I could accept what was without questioning what would be or wishing for what would never come to pass. I sensed there was a world beyond my limited horizon but it seemed remote and far away.

  • Today I am a wife, a mother of three, and a grandmother to seven wonderful grandchildren. I am also a former teacher and educator and a published author with over twenty novels, four books of poetry, and numerous essays and short stories to my credit.

  • I hope you enjoy your visit here and invite you to sign my guest book before you leave.

  • Barri

 You can purchase my books at the following web sites:

Hard Shell Word Factory:  http://www.hardshell.com/

New Concepts Publishing: http://www.newconceptspublishing.com

Linden Bay Romance:  http://www.lindenbayromance.com

 Whiskey Creek Press: http://www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Prose and Poetry

Sometimes people ask me if writing poetry is different from writing prose. The answer is yes. Poetry differs from prose in so many ways.  Prose is conceptual and informative. Poetry is imaginative and contemplative. Poetry is more formal than prose and more carefully shaped and organized on the page. Poetry has a regularity of rhythm and a measured beat that is absent in prose. While most prose appeals to reason, poetry often appeals to things beyond reason.

Recognition

My mother passed on to me her beliefs and values. She gave me
something else too, something that is very important to me as a

writer. She, by example, taught me the magic of seeing—to borrow

from Blake—the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild
flower. This ability to find the magnificent reflected in the minute
and to see the divine replicated in the commonplace is an invaluable
asset to a writer of poetry and spinner of romantic tales.

A Poem for Your Perusal

BEQUEST

Daylight couldn't shape it,
That dream that stayed the night,
Then vanished as the first rays
Of sun brought morning light.

Amorphous, then invisible
In my fading recollection
It dimmed like mist at midday
In the glow of introspection.

My day was rent with discontent
And a nagging sense of woe;
A dream that I couldn't remember
Left a sorrow that wouldn't let go.

From What Will Suffice -  2007 EPPIE winner for best poetry collection