A wife fakes her death to escape the most dangerous man she knows: her husband. But cruel Martin Burney discovers his wife is alive, and stalks her in a small town. A young professor there is courting her, but one night she knows her compulsively neat husband has entered her house to rearrange towels in her bath and canned goods in her kitchen. He's found her. He's out there.
A love story, a mystery, and a small town in World War II. What if you want--and deserve--revenge? Miranda is bright, funny and pretty. She loves two men who want her as much as they hate each other. The war changes all three. Miranda has a happy life, and a secret. She keeps it until no one remembers. No one knows.
The world thinks Randal Eliot writes during his manic phases, but his wife Mary creates his famous books and supports their family. When Randal dies, no one will believe she is the genius. She marries a younger man, Paul, a Randal Eliot scholar. Paul cannot bear to believe Mary is the genius—she will destroy his life work and Randal Eliot’s reputation. He has killed before. He must kill again.
When Catherine Buckingham’s parents die, her young uncle, Thorn Wade, becomes her guardian and raises her as her mother wished, so Catherine becomes an adult who is not like the men—or women—of the world around her: she is a sexual creature we seldom encounter. With innocent joy Catherine explores her amorous feelings for the man who has raised her, while Thorn will not take any male initiative by word, look or action. They keep the memory of that summer like a promise they will someday fulfill. But Thorn must leave to fight in World War II. Catherine is told he is dead, and learns, painfully, how to be like women of the 40’s and 50’s. Yet Thorn is alive, and comes to find a Catherine who is finished, accomplished. How can she face the man who formed her for another life?
Three courageous young people, one a new white slave mistress, two captured black slaves--meet on South Carolina rice plantations during the summer of 1850. Black Joan and her husband Will have been raised free, then captured. Their civilized virtues make Joan valuable as a maid in the Big House, and Will soon becomes the black slave driver. Slavery's subtle poison corrupts the three industrious, warm-hearted young people, slave mistress as well as slaves. They have no choice; they survive, even triumph, just as capable young people trapped in a sick society would survive and triumph today.
In an echo of THE GOLDEN BOWL by Henry James, a rich father and daughter unknowingly marry two lovers. But in the world of this book, the father is a ruthless Iowa businessman who has earned his name of “Bonfire” by burning down his competitor’s warehouses. His beautiful young wife loves the wealthy life he gives her, but she cannot resist her new son-in-law, and he loves her still. Their risk is deadly. Bonfire has the money and the power to stop at nothing, even murder. His daughter is dear to him. When Bonfire and his daughter discover the truth, one of them will forgive, but the other will kill.
Mary Bryant grows up in a dirt-poor Nebraska family, hungry and unwanted. Her only friends are a next-door neighbor and her little half-sister Rhody, but she has to leave them and run away to Chicago to sleep under a hedge and work as a waitress. Gunther Meyer finds her, marries her, and she’s happy in her first real home with their new baby, Maria. But one day her world explodes: she discovers her marriage to Gunther was a sham. He has a rich young woman for a wife. Mary escapes to Florida with Maria, only to find that she is being pursued by Gunther, his friend Manuel, and Gunther’s new wife. They find her at Disney’s Epcot, and Manuel forces Mary to take her baby to Mexico with him, and begs her to marry him. But he keeps her a prisoner, hiding her—why? Soon the world’s reporters are on her track—what has she done?
Short stories
Publication list of award-winning short stories and a featured selection
Publication list of award-winning poems and several featured poems
A New work of Fiction


From TRIO FOR TWO VOICES AND A MOON, Poetry and illustrations by Nancy Price

The Dowagers d'Oro

Aging Venetian palaces
take sun along the Grand Canal,
old ladies faintly scandalous
in gemmed ogival necklaces.
Too wise to publish their memoirs,
retired from ball and bacchanal,
they bask in Adriatic wealth
of merchants, doges, emperors,
and try to guard their corridors
from Neptune' s old, familiar stealth.
Immortal, mumbling to himself,
all night he tries their crumbling doors.


Bark sags in folds from the crotches down
to where the roots begin, secret1y, deliberately,
to suck water out from under the lawn.
Children know how the knotholes seem to shift
sometimes. (Do gnarled sockets darken
when we walk between it and the young pear?)
Our living room is dark. We wish the tree weren't there.

It's alive with ants; brisk birds creep
upside down on its hide all day, grooming.
Twenty feet up, squirrels, grubs, beetles
hang with thick shade over us, a ceiling,
(tiny breaths, droppings). One dead limb creaks
just over our bench. Wasps dive
sizzling from it. Green leaves fall near us. It's alive.

It never seems to sleep; we hear how it tests
its tether out there, restlessly. All night long
it rubs against the roof. We think it remembers
old years before we were born.
It' s killing the grass.
We talk in bed about chain saws, ropes, danger. We take
care not to be heard: it's awake.

Cornered Eye

By sidewise light in the eye's crook
something shimmered like thin ice.
A flicked lash showed her a forked look
like a precipice.

She nearly saw how it waits in him.
She barely sensed how the danger lies
coiled somewhere on the narrow rim
of his half-met eyes.

Though she is frozen too cold to cry,
too charmed for battle, too fond for flight,
she mounts her guard in a cornered eye
in a sidewise light.

Out of Love: The Break

Cool at last, she has no fever
to make trees waver over
her as if she were a fire; no gardens wilt
into her arms. Once she felt
sun lie hot on her skin,
and a whole clover field crowd in,
fresh and common as desire.
Now every tree is still as a church spire.
Gardens are only flowers. Ripe clover
flushes pink and white, sways over
to nothing but the wind passing. Sun,
touching her, does not feel like anyone.

A Do-it-yourself Poem

In Colorado once, Iowans,
farm-hungry, scooped up that western dirt
in their callused hands. It was crumbling
and richly black.
They staked claim, out-waited the winter,
waited out the summer, and almost starved.

They had the seed; they had the plows
and the prayers
and the babies coming, yes, and the strong arms
and the willing backs. What were they waiting for?
Rain. That was all. And it never came,
and never would. Now, you go on, like they did:

say, "That's life."
Make your own metaphor.

How Do You Tell An Arrowhead From A Stone?

By the way rock
takes on meaning. Not much.
Enough to bind a shaft to.

Arrowheads are stone, most1y,
but a glint of light, an edge
always runs to a point along the grain

until you feel as much as see
a wedge of flint like a poem,
rough-cut to go straight.

In the Water World

In the water world when a fish swims not quite plumb
his gold friends are first to notice the way
he is listing. They tail him to give him some
friendly nips, follow him around and around. Someday
you may miss him, then notice that he has come
sidewise or bottom-up to the brim
of bis water world, turning a slow gray
and watching you with little black spots that swim
under glass like puzzle-games children play.
Until the game is up, friends stay away.
But when he drifts back, shimmering and dim,
They come around, solicitous, and eat him.


A water tower to stand
for monumental thirst
straddles our graveyard,
bears the town's name and
brims with iron-red hard
water, a toast held up
to common things we die
without. Across the flat land
we see that landmark first
when we turn homeward, come to lie
down under that lifted cup.


I catch myself drifting
toward love yet.
When I am tired, hours seem to be lifting
me into an old harbor. I forget
the tide is out now, foam breaking
on reefs. On black water, the hissing shelf
of the last wave shoreward, waking,
I catch myself.

From TRIO FOR TWO VOICES AND A MOON, Poetry and illustrations by Nancy Price

Safety Pins

Gross-skulled, they grip their papers tight,
sent from the factory in rows without expression.
Safety is their name, but holes are their trade,
and holding.
They will hold forever, if necessary,
while tears widen around them,
until metal glints from some obscure corner,
and there they lie in their rust: empty helmets
safely pinning ruin together.

Trick or Treat

The ghost is a torn sheet,
the skeleton' s suit came from a rack in a store,
the witch is flameproof, but who knows
what dark streets they have taken here?
Brother Death, here is a candy bar.
For the lady wearing the hat from Salem: gum.
And a penny for each eye, Lost Soul.
They fade away with their heavy sacks.
Thanks! I yell just in time,
Thanks for another year!

Stained Glass

From the day side you are pot-metal, no more
than crosshatch and stipple of dull planes
propped by iron bars to the downpour
punishment of the rains.
You are old wounds, bits of bubble and streak,
scabbed crust of lichen and heat grooves,
cobwebs, soldering, leads that leak--
but turn your face to me and the sun moves
by grace of your red scars; your blues lock
the sky in place, a shelter. I forget
in such light how the mullions crack and pock,
how north wind buckles the leads yet,
how your iron bleeds down the rock.

Getting the Picture

Holding her naked child, she squats
beyond words. Columns of newsprint
break ranks at her, go around.

She is young as old madonnas, foreign
like them, but her skin
is bone-tight, her bare feet wrung

tight to the tramped-down dirt
she seems to be trying to get into. She cries
something we can’t hear; her

eyes glitter and her baby dangles
until her howl, life-size,
is a black hole eating outward like napalm, until

too close, she draws past, blows up. Words
are huge on the page, but machines have arranged
ink dots in a cloud where a woman was.

The Aerialists

High-wire clowns catch us in cunning laughter.
X marks the spotlit aerie where they stare
down, teetering, crawling on all fours after,
bicycling backward along the air.
Such bliss is painted upon their faces.
Like children pratfalling overhead,
they make nursery floors of high places.
Almost, almost we lose our dread…

stripped of disguise, sleek on a glittering thread,
their grace bows, riding our stunned applause,
and there’s no net below. There never was.

To An Historian

By sea light picture a skin diver
flippering the ooze of an ocean floor,
the prodigal returned, a sole survivor
thought drowned millenniums before.
He swims back out of the certain death
of unplumbed air, dazzle and thunder;
strapped at his back he wears his chambered breath;
the fraíl shell of his skull crawls with a wonder.
Queer fish--see how he stands cold
to the lure of the maternal, circling sea,
for he's found two Greek amphorae from some old
beautiful world of his. Triumphantly,
he dives airward, leaving the sea behind
to grope for him at the shore's edge. Man is blind
to any past but the past he wants to find.


If grief existed, heaps of dirty clothes
existed too. She wore grief smooth and thin
and docile as old linen. Worry rose
yeasty but useful, could be kneaded in
to serve her. She knew how to keep her dread
scoured to the bare board fact. Make do, make do
her gnarled hands told us, but those glittering eyes
she skewered life with--what was it they said?
I knew her old, threatened with deadly new
dangers oí rest and peace. Without surprise,
she made good use of joy. When pleasure came,
she called it by its spare and proper name.

Seven A.M.

We find our way back, one by one,
to the coffee pot and the braided rug,
one by one out of the dark
to our kitchen light, a pitcher of milk,
the bone-handled knife in the honey.

No one screams, holding me. No one
cries that the children are all here.
The table is set again for us.
1 stand and stare at the cold water
falling, as promised, out of this tap.




THE DIAMOND ANTHOLOGY, Poetry Society of America, A.S. Barnes, 1971.

ANTHOLOGY, Poetry Society of Georgia, 1972.

BELIEVE AND MKE-BELIEVE, Sheldon Basic Reading Series, Allyn and Bacon, 1973.

INTERPRETING LITERATURE, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, various editions 1965-1974.

A CELEBRATION OF CATS, Paul S. Eriksson, 1974.




"The Aerialists." THE REPORTER, March 28, 1963.

"Ballad of Monkey Ward." SEVEN (U.N.I.), November 11, 1963.

"The Bear." THE NEW YORK TIMES, July 6, 1965.

"The Bell." LADIES' HOME JOURNAL, December 1966.

"Books." THE HORN BOOK MAGAZINE, February 1966.

"The Breakers." THE NEW YORK TIMES, July 29, 1970.

"By the Docks, Nassau." THE REPORTER, March 9, 1967.

"The Cardinals." AMERICA, February 19, 1966.

"Cassandra and the Double-decked Doom." THE ATLANTIC, May 1963.

"Centennial of Shiloh." MIDWEST, A LITERARY REVIEW, Spring 1964.

"Chartres." MIDWEST, A LITERARY REVIEW, Fall, 1987.

"Checkmate." THE NEW YORK TIMES, December 23, 1963.

"Chicken." MIDWEST, A LITERARY REVIEW, Spring 1964.

"Children On the Swings." THE NEW YORK TIMES, September 3, 1966.

"Childbirth." THE BLUE GUITAR (Italy).

"Childhood." THE BLUE GUITAR (Italy).

"Christmas Letter To a Friend on Mars." THE REPORTER, December 15, 1966.

"The Churchgoers." THE COMMONWEAL, February 21, 1964.

"City Child." THE COLORADO QUARTERLY, Autumn 1964.

"The Climber." THE NEW YORK TIMES, January 11, 1968.

"The Common Emperor." THE COMMONWEAL, May 14, 1965.

"Corn." AMERICA, July 20, 1968.

"Cornered Eye." AUDIENCE, Spring 1963.

"Corn Field." KANSAS QUARTERLY, Spring 1970.

"The Cup." THE NATION, May 2, 1966.

"Day Lily." THE COMMONWEAL, October 27, 1967.

"Day1ily." TODAY, March 1967.

"Diamond." QUARTERLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE, Winter 1970-71.

"The Drinkers." THE NATION, October 23, 1967.

"A Do-it-yourself Poem." POETRY NORTHWEST, Spring 1970.

"The Dowagers D'Oro." HARPER'S BAZAAR, April 1964.

"Duet." AMERICA, April 19, 1973.

"Eclipse." KAYAK, January 1968.

"Eclipse of the Sun." TODAY, March 1967.

"Exercise." THE CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR, March 28, 1963.

"Exhibit." THE BLUE GUITAR (Italy).

"Express From the North." AMERICA, October 29, 1966.

"Flight." THE REPORTER, December 15, 1966.

"For John." THE MIDWEST QUARTERLY, Fall 1957.

"From the Catacombs." MIDWEST, A LITERARY REVIEW, Spring 1964.

"Getting the Picture." THE NATION, November 11, 1968.

"Girl On a Subway." THE MIDWEST QUARTERLY, Fall 1957.

"Go Rest You Merry Garbagemen." TODAY, January 1966.

"Greenhouse." THE COMMONWEAL; August 19, 1966.

"The Grinder." THE NEW YORK TIMES, January 10, 1966.


"Hackberry." THE NATION, November 10, 1969.

"Harbor." KANSAS QUARTERLY, Winter 1970-71. Reprinted in I HEAR MY SISTERS SAYING: POEMS BY TWENTIETH CENTURY WOMEN, New York, Crowell, 1976.

"Hideouts." KAYAK, January 1968.

"Home Movie." THE COLORADO QUARTERLY, Autumn 1964.


"Home Safe." KANSAS MAGAZINE, Winter 1967-68.

"How Do You Tell An Arrowhead From A Stone?" KAYAK, January 1968.

"In Cooling Love Like Air." LADIES' HOME JOURNAL, November 1965.

"Intersection." THE REPORTER, April 7, 1966.

"In the Water World." NEW YORK TIMES, June 4, 1966.

"In This Same Country." AMERICA, December 24-31, 1966.

"Jay." THE MIDWEST QUARTERLY (U.N.I.), Summer 1968.

"Ju1iet." THE HUSK (Cornell College), October 1963.

"Kensington Church Street, London." McCALL'S, August 1967.

"The Knife Thrower." McCALL'S, September 1967, p. 139.

"Look, See the Cat." THE NEW YORK TIMES, February 24, 1964.

"Love." THE BLUE GUITAR (Italy).

"Love Is Not A Sentiment Worthy of Respect." SHENANDOAH, Autumn 1969.

"Man and Dog." KANSAS QUARTERLY, Winter 1968.

"Maple Fools, Miser Oaks." THE ATLANTIC, October 1966, p. 78.

"Marionette Show." MIDWEST, A LITERARY REVIEW, Spring 1964.

"Midstream." THE COMMONWEAL, September 26, 1969.

"Milk and Honey." BELOIT POETRY JOURNAL, Spring 1963.

"Milkweed." THE COMMONWEAL, March 24, 1967.

"Naming the Bones." THE REPORTER, May 20, 1965.

"Nassau and Back. Casino, Grand Bahama." KANSAS QUARTERLY, Winter 1971-72.

"A Needle." KAYAK, Spring 1970.

"Night Train." THE MIDWEST QUARTERLY, Summer 1969.

"Novice." SEVEN (U.N.I.), Fall 1964.

"0ld House." THE QUARTERLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE, Winter 1970-71.

"Oliver Wendell Holmes." THE NEW YORK TIMES, October 3, 1963.

"Roman Arch At Orange." THE NEW YORK TIMES, August 3, 1964.

"The Refugees." AMERICA, December 20, 1969.

"Safetypins." KAYAK, Spring 1970.

"Sandal." THE REPORTER, June 16, 1966.

"Sarah." THE COMMONWEAL, December 4, 1964.

"Scissors." KAYAK, January 1968.

"Seven A.M." AMERICA, October 5, 1968.

"Something." KAYAK, Number 18, 1969.

"Soursop." SATURDAY REVIEW, May 7, 1966.

"Sparklers.” TODAY, March 1967.

"The Spinner." NORTHWEST REVIEW, Fall-Winter 1967-68.

"Spiritual." MIDWEST, A LITERARY REVIEW, Spring 1964.

"The Squirrel.” THE HORN BOOK MAGAZINE, October 1967.

"Stained Glass." SATURDAY REVIEW, October 24, 1964. Also printed in STAINED GLASS, The Magazine of the Stained Glass Association of America, Winter 1966-67.

"Street." THE REPORTER, March 9, 1967.

"The Sum of Christmas." McCALL'S, December 1963.

"The Ten-toed Signature." THE ATLANTIC, February 1965.

"Tides." THE REPORTER, March 9, 1967.

"Tintype" (renamed "Keepsake"). THE COMMONWEAL, January 8, 1971.

"To An Eng1ish Professor." THE MIDWEST QUARTERLY, Spring 1959.

"To An Historian.” THE NEW YORK TIMES, April 14, 1964.

"Trick Or Treat." THE ATLANTIC, November 1967.

"The Ug1y Kiteling." SEVEN, Fall 1965.

"The Umbrella." THE COLORADO QUARTERLY, Autumn 1964.

"Ventriloquist's Wife." SHENANDOAH, Summer 1967.

"Villanelle." (“Along the beach's narrow, shifting floor"), THE NEW YORK TIMES, December 14, 1969.

"What Is." KAYAK, Spring 1969.

"What Spring Is For." CHILDREN OF THE MOON, Ragnarok Press, Valha11a 2, Sioux City, Iowa, Spring 1973.

"Woman With Mango." KANSAS MAGAZINE, Winter 1967-68.

"Word-eater." ETC., A REVIEW OF GENERAL SEMANTICS, December 1966.