I’ve been writing seriously (which, to my mind, means writing followed by revising) since junior high. Poetry came first, then short stories, and finally novels. G.P. Putnam published my historical children’s novel In the Shadow of the Pali in 2002. Since then, I’ve co-written an as-yet-unpublished dystopian suspense novel for adults and currently am revising a paranormal novel for upper middle-grade readers. I’ve also written book reviews for The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books, the Wyandotte West (currently Wyandotte Daily News), the Picnic Basket website and, less formally, on goodreads.com which is my favorite, favorite, favorite place to hang out on the web. (Hmm…sounds like I should have eight spidery legs, doesn’t it?)
Fiction
“In this place there is no law.”
Those words greet 12-year-old Liliha when she lands at the newly-established leper colony on the Hawaiian island of Molokai. How will Liliha survive the chaos, hunger, and despair that destroy so many of her fellow exiles?
“This harrowing tale is one of survival and hope. Can the 12 year old survive? A well told tale.”–Nancy Polette, noted educator and professor at Lindenwood University
” . . . a deft, heartbreaking portrait of the Kalaupapa leper colony . . . vivid and engrossing.”–The Denver Post
“While the subject of leprosy may not be familiar to teens today, once they begin to read about the struggles of the residents of Kalaupapa, they may see many of their own challenges mirrored in Liliha’s, and they will cheer for the girl as she refuses to be bullied.”–School Library Journal
“Cindrich describes the horror of the leper colony and also the beauty of the place in ways that make the story fascinating.”–Kliatt
- A selection of the Junior Library Guild
- A New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age
Poems
…from back when I used to write ‘em
Above Champlain
Barely dawn—and the racetrack,
Terraced above Champlain, dizzies with movement.
The grooms slap open the doors of the barn.
Horses bang out of their stalls.
Animals, stables, bins of feed: but none of a farm’s
Sullen air of work and labor, labor and work. Here—a ferment,
Noses snorting, necks straining, hooves churning the dirt.
Seen from the far edge of the race grounds,
The sulkies seem to skim the track like water striders on a pond.
The horses’ legs bend lean as the striders’
And stronger. Even the sky cannot be calm;
Cumuli coil while cirrus clouds slip past the bounds
Of the mountained horizon. A man in shorts, a woman in tights
Jog the track—twice round makes a mile—and, with ease, trot
Two circles, four, eight, laughing and dodging a flung-off horseshoe
While a van, gray as penitentiary walls, drives
In the lot, stops. Down the van’s steps the work crew
Stutters. The prisoners wait, heads bent, as if knots
Bind their muscles. A breeze flaps at their gray uniforms.
The guard has to shout “Get to it!” twice before anyone moves,
Hunching off, ankles chained, to find brooms, shovels, garbage bags.
As the laborers sweep up cups and wrappers, their muscles uncord.
One man looks at the sky and at the clouds that are like stags,
Leaping and running; one man feels the wind swoop
Right through the barricade of his fingers. By noon
The bleachers are clean and so are the paths around the stables and barn.
The men fan out across the width of the track
And press forward with their shovels and brooms.
Now no wind careens from the lake. Like a million tacks,
Heat pierces the skin. The sky thickens. Grass chars.
The stablehands take off for lunch and drinks;
The joggers went home hours ago; horses stand in shade, quietly.
But the men sweep, sweep as if they’d sweep away heat, vans, chains.
In the battered dirt, coins glint and a shovel rings
Against an iron shoe. Furtive, a man squats, reaches for a loose penny
Others scorned and for the luck cast off by the hoof of a pacer.
Good Enough to Eat
Good morning, baby!
Bye-bye to the crib.
Here’s your chair and your tray,
Your bottle and bib.
Here’s a cup and a plate,
A bowl of mashed prunes.
Here’s a spoon. And a spoon.
And a spoon. And a spoon.
Milk’s in the bottle . . .
No, milk’s on the chair . . .
No, milk’s down the bib . . .
No, milk’s in the air.
Scrambled egg eyebrow.
Apricot eye.
Oatmeal ear.
Pumpkin nose pie.
Cheddar cheese cheeks.
Cherry juice chin.
Chocolate milk mouth.
Green bean grin.
Strawberry shoulder.
Sweet potato hair.
Graham cracker back.
(How’d you get it there?)
Mashed banana elbow.
Toast-and-jam thumb.
Raisin bread wrist.
Pinky finger plum.
Belly button biscuit.
Apple butter knees.
Cream of wheat feet
With carrot-toes and peas.
I’ll taste baby’s ear.
I’ll nibble baby’s feet
I’ll breathe baby’s hair.
Baby’s good enough to eat!
