KATHY'S BIOGRAPHY
Katherine Kroener finds it difficult to write bio things. It is not that she hasn't had a full and interesting life, she certainly has. I mean growing up in the Adirondack wilderness was just the start.
She also has read voraciously, rickled peat, sheared sheep, ridden thousands of waves, and sailed in high latitudes. She has stroked an albatross as it sat on its nest, rescued a penguin trapped in a hole, and tentatively tapped at huge icebergs with her kayak paddle.
Katherine has experienced two close encounters with sharks, a war, storms at sea, mad skippers, disorientation in many forms, loneliness and homelessness. She is a survivor. Both content in her late marriage, but now, sadly widowed, uh yeah, she has been out there.
Now her life is quieter. Katherine is living in a restored, Victorian era hunting lodge, at the north end of a lovely pond in southern RI. with a large black cat. She is still apt to spend her time in nature, more often than not, swimming, kayaking, and birding. She also writes quite a bit, and does her art. Katherine’s poems reflect her love of natural things and the varied experiences that have made up her life. The words, ah the enigma of words, the way they can drop into place and sometimes fit.
Katherine Kroener finds it difficult to write bio things. It is not that she hasn't had a full and interesting life, she certainly has. I mean growing up in the Adirondack wilderness was just the start.
She also has read voraciously, rickled peat, sheared sheep, ridden thousands of waves, and sailed in high latitudes. She has stroked an albatross as it sat on its nest, rescued a penguin trapped in a hole, and tentatively tapped at huge icebergs with her kayak paddle.
Katherine has experienced two close encounters with sharks, a war, storms at sea, mad skippers, disorientation in many forms, loneliness and homelessness. She is a survivor. Both content in her late marriage, but now, sadly widowed, uh yeah, she has been out there.
Now her life is quieter. Katherine is living in a restored, Victorian era hunting lodge, at the north end of a lovely pond in southern RI. with a large black cat. She is still apt to spend her time in nature, more often than not, swimming, kayaking, and birding. She also writes quite a bit, and does her art. Katherine’s poems reflect her love of natural things and the varied experiences that have made up her life. The words, ah the enigma of words, the way they can drop into place and sometimes fit.
Lost
Hey, psst, now that we are here, can anybody tell me where we were at before this? It’s rather an enigma when memory fails us. We guess this, postulate that, heed the gurus and famous others who may claim to know. We read holy writ and word. But still, if we are honest, we must admit ignorance on such important matters. We will go somewhere as well, some other where after this, and that’s another puzzle that no one quite gets either. Imagine being so lost. Not knowing where we are from. Not knowing where we are going Where to find Kathy's book: https://www.amazon.com/Case-Morning-Comes-Poems/dp/1938517881 |
Widdershins
She wanders about her life, a daughter of discord. Widdershins in everything. So don’t follow her unless you wish to find yourself lost. She could lead you as far as a place the gray sea knows, her grayer stone house in woods. She might even lead you down to the edge of that forbidden line, where the darkness touches light and the twisted root has voice. A black raven one that she keeps will croak and rasp in your ear, to provide you with song in the night. Her crystals can dazzle your eyes so you will never find your way home. Too, she’s apt to weave viney things into the tangles of your silver hair, as she whispers to you her secrets of love and loneliness and loss. Nights below twenty On nights below twenty in icy darkness of winter, I must keep the heat on though at its lowest setting. All faucets are left at a drip so the pipes do not freeze. There I am in the bed, awake with my many blankets, and one large, warm black cat that purrs alongside me. I think of the tiny birds out there in the bitter cold, titmice, chickadees, wrens, sparrows, kinglets, all of them, which do not migrate away, so need endure frigid snaps. One thought that soothes me is the fact various birds find a cavity somewhere. A hole in an old tree, or a birdhouse not taken in, like ones I have left out there. Birds find such a small place and stuff themselves into it. As many of them as will fit to fill the void with life and warmth of soft, vibrant, feathered bodies. Imagine them there in the dark. This is such a comforting thought it helps me to slip into sleep on nights below twenty. |