ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume X Issue IV

The Masthead:
“The Girlfriend/The Goddess”
Art/Photo “Woman and Grasshopper”
by Cynthia Yatchman

“The girlfriend/the goddess, she, the place sort of takes you over, grows in your heart,
all the trees, the candle, the light i cover with my hand, the darkness,
the night, the traveling sky, the darkness, alone . . .”

“But I do compare
Now that she’s gone . . .”
- from For Anne
by Leonard Cohen

“somewhere in little Paris
in winter
the dark rain
the night
4:00 am . . .”

(inspired by Maria Schneider, and the movie Last Tango in Paris)

for you, my anonymous apartment . . . les grandes chambres anciennes les murs grands the blank white walls, the empty rooms, madmen, and the dark rain, the dark night . . . he the Calico with dogwood roses we wander into and out of large empty rooms past half opened windows the large ancien apartment the blank white walls Paris is a young woman the nude ghost of cat soft, stalking lions the night in parmi the dark edges at the edge of dark night magic toaster girl, girl of the wild season, girl lost in traffic, “the flowers are so beautiful, so beautiful . . . who doesn’t love beautiful things?” little Gretel, who holds out a stick for her thumb . . . the unexpecting Angel with spiders, the spiders . . . the spider with an overcoat laughing at the rain and rain falls all afternoon the night the disappeared falling into and out of shell game blue on a day stripe day . . .

(To be continued . . .)

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume X Issue IV
(April 2022)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2022


by David Holper

On the spring Sunday, we climbed
the grassy hillside overlooking the school.

Gathering lupine, Queen Anne’s lace,
poppies and mustard, we set them as offering

in a green glass jar on the slab of basalt before us.
The children sang a few familiar songs, and then a woman

intoned about creation. I tried my best to listen,
but the morning distracted me. The bees swept

through the spring grass, hunting blossoms. The earth
smelled wild and rich. Above

a red tailed hawk rode a thermal, tilting
to a rocky outcropping, her eye alert.

In the distance the sea found its voice, waves thudding against the stacks,
and my eye followed to the song. Everywhere

I looked, wonder called in her sweet voice,
and my breath held with the holiness of it all.


by David Holper

I had a Russian teacher once
who every morning could whistle wild sparrows from the air.
She would simply open her palm, fill it with some grain
and the featherlings would step out of the air
into her grace.

A cloud of them often beat their wings
about her, as if at any moment, they would
lift her off the earth—and bear her away
to a land where birds and people
speak the same language as naturally
as if love were our mother tongue.

Gökotta (Swedish, noun): to rise at dawn in order
to go out and listen to the birds sing.

After Billy Collins’ Country

by Ian Fitzgerald

After nine o’clock,

I slide into the tub, head half-submerged - waterline above my ears but below closed eyes. Taste,
touch and smell dull as I settle and tune in.

A miniature seismic crew scurries, spools out wire, places listening devices
behind walls,
along conduit, by pink insulation,
around copper pipes, down vents –
a sonar network sending signals from the innards of our house.

I receive through the water:
purring furnace, sequence of creaks diminishing like a slowing drip, odd
thump, laptop ding, veteran fridge’s loud hum, dishwasher door click
signals another day done. Constant, distant, close, muffled.
Familiar. House breathing.

Lungs rise in regular rhythm, organs play
a low accompaniment -
my body’s muted metronome slow and steady,
entwined with the sounds of our house after
28 years of us.

I hear four pings - setting the overnight alarm.
The other half of us, wearing the hard-soled slippers from
three Christmases ago, takes thirteen steps, each in sync
with my heart.
She sighs as she tops the staircase.


by Bob McNeil

Cramped on the couch
in my girlfriend’s apartment,
a fear of knocking a cabinet
filled with flower-beautiful
glass-fragile knickknacks woke me.
Or was it the radio announcer
talking about Covid-19
killing more individuals
than all the single-engine dive bombers
over Pearl Harbor on December 7
that startled me?
Or was it the aromatic java
summoning a reality
in need of Dionysian dreams
that roused me?
Or was it the sight of you,
my companion wearing a mask
that made me welcome wakefulness again?
Such a vision proved how,
even during a quarantine,
nothing could obscure your beauty.


by Fabrice Poussin

She walked in the middle of my life
with a suit-case full of hers;

I barely noticed
when she moved my things around;

and a drip in the bathroom,
drop in the kitchen,
flood into our days.

So she walked out in the middle of my night
with her suitcase and one of mine.


by Lorraine Schein

That secret hour
before the rain
(l’heure violette)

when betweens the
ethereal and the not-yets
and the never was’s

the slipstream
where the madmen
think at twilight

the borderline cases
whose brains purple and
twist, bend crooked, sinister

where we ask the fey
what is real?
No-one knows.

It’s just betwixt
the unicorn and the sky.

It’s imperceptible,
lilac imperial.

My flower-face fairy
no time has passed
in your realm, Queen of Tiaras.

O’ steal me, dusky changeling.


by Lorraine Schein

O’ Great Moon Queen,
in your gown of shining gold brocade,
astride your white steed.
Goddess of Night, gallop into my sleep,
bearing sweet dreams.

Greet me at moonrise
with the songs of your birds -
those whose harsh threnodies can wake the dead,
and those whose soft calls will lull me to slumber.


by Karol Nielsen

My mother didn’t think I was making an effort so she asked for my permission to create a profile and look for dates online. I told my colleague at a business magazine, and she said, “Your mother is pimping you out.” My first date asked me whether I had a dog or cat. My mother found a marathon runner who seemed just right. He was charming online but in person he had a bitter, sarcastic edge. My next date asked me whether I had a dog or cat. He’d noticed my cat’s fur in my jeans. Then I met a sports journalist who was too slick for me. I decided to take over and find my own dates. I wrote to a man who said he loved cooking and writing plays. He was the first man who looked better than his photo. He had rugged good looks like the Marlboro man. He was unemployed when we first met but he soon found another job in finance. He worked on Wall Street but he was a liberal like me. He drank scotch before bed every night to help him sleep. But I didn’t worry at first. He asked me to move in on my birthday and I soon agreed. Then I noticed the drinking. My parents were coming over for dinner and we argued on the way to the grocery store and he cursed at me. I went back home and he returned without groceries, still fuming. I told him if he touched me I’d call the police. I reached for the phone but he beat me to it. He threw it across the room and it shattered after striking the wall. He looked like an enraged bull ready to charge. Then he grabbed a vase and threw it toward me. It shattered all over my couch that I’d moved into his place. I ran to the bathroom and locked the door. I heard him pacing and then it went quiet. I opened the door and grabbed my cellphone from my purse in the closet beside the bathroom. I called my parents and they drove in to move me out. I also called the police and stayed in the bathroom until they arrived. The cops interviewed us separately and the one who talked to me said: “You look like you’re in great shape. I bet you could kick his ass.”




Amy Lowell

Over the housetops,
Above the rotating chimney-pots,
I have seen a shiver of amethyst,
And blue and cinnamon have flickered
A moment,
At the far end of a dusty street.

Through sheeted rain
Has come a lustre of crimson,
And I have watched moonbeams
Hushed by a film of palest green.

It was her wings,
Who stepped over the clouds,
And laid her rainbow feathers
Aslant on the currents of the air.

I followed her for long,
With gazing eyes and stumbling feet.
I cared not where she led me,
My eyes were full of colours:
Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls,
And the indigo-blue of quartz;
Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase,
Points of orange, spirals of vermilion,
The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals,
The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas.
I followed,
And watched for the flashing of her

In the city I found her,
The narrow-streeted city.
In the market-place I came upon her,
Bound and trembling.
Her fluted wings were fastened to her
sides with cords,
She was naked and cold,
For that day the wind blew
Without sunshine.

Men chaffered for her,
They bargained in silver and gold,
In copper, in wheat,
And called their bids across the market-

The Goddess wept.

Hiding my face I fled,
And the grey wind hissed behind me,
Along the narrow streets.


Vancouver Craisglist – Missed Connections – June 27th, 2021 - Anonymous

Aphrodite and Adonis together (forever)


If something bad happens, you will go to prison.

Merci beaucoup!

(N.B.: “play me a song . . .” - a note from the Editor

“that lasts forever . . .” - a note from the other Editor

“sweethearts” – says the cat

“candy” – says the other cat

“the gods of now . . .” - says Machiavelli Jr.

“that’s my wife now . . .” - says Machiavelli

“thunder and lightning . . .” - a note from the Editor

“weather outages, epidemics, unnatural catastrophes . . .” - a note from the other Editor

“ouch!” - says the cat)



“Every language has its food, its poetry”

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: They’ll Be Good For Seed

Authors: Janos Afra, Johanna Domokos, Gabor G. Gyukics, Attila Jasz, Denes Krusovszky, Gabor Lanczkor,
Julia Lazar, Monika Mesterhazi, Zita Muranyi, Zsuka Nagy, Mario Z. Nemes, Anna T. Szabo, Sandor Tator,
Janos Térey, Krisztina Toth, Szabina Ughy

Translators: Michael Castro, Gabor G. Gyukics, Terri Carrion, Jan Garden Castro, Duncan Robertson, Tom Stolmar, Belinda Subraman

Publisher: White Pine Press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 222

“Beautiful Danube, Beautiful Danube, clear and blue . . .”
- from On the Beautiful Blue Danube
by Johann Strauss (music), C.C. Haskins (lyrics)

“I’m going back someday
Come what may
To Blue Bayou . . .”
- from Blue Bayou
by Linda Ronstadt

A celebration of New Age Eastern European poetics, the spellbinding avant-garde from Hungary, They’ll Be Good For Seed is an anthology Edited by poet Gabor G. Gyukics. Gyukics is a well-known icon of the poetic milieu in Hungary and internationally, a poet and literary translator, he has translated 16 major works, and written eleven original books of poetry. He established the first reading series in Hungary (2000), and has been awarded by the National Beat Poetry Foundation U.S.A. This work is originally in Hungarian and is expertly translated by Gabor G. Gyukics, Terri Carrion, Jan Garden Castro, Duncan Robertson, Tom Stolmar, Belinda Subraman. Also, included is the excellent translator Michael Castro, one of his last translation projects. Literary translations are palettes of words that reconstruct the poem in a different language for a pleasing aesthetic, a reinvented poetics. As such, the essence of the Hungarian Eastern European through the conflicted political past, the folk tales and songs, the poetry, the influence of Soviet, and the West is evocative of the Muse, a study in freedom poetics.

Like the delicate weave of mists in time through the dark of orange and green kitchens, rural and city, this poetry is original and cutting edge. Throughout history, Hungary has a conflicted political past that affects the literary scene. The country and language became in 1,000 B.C., folktales, and folk songs were passed down through oral tradition. Early texts are written in Latin, 11th-14th centuries, there are no surviving texts before pre-11th century. In 1526 Hungary was overrun by the Ottoman Empire. There is a rich legacy in Poets through the 15th century to the Enlightenment, including Janus Pannonius, Balinet Balassi, Sebestyn Tinodi Lantos, Miklos Zrinyi. Balassi wrote poetry on the themes of love, war and religion, his most famous work Peril of Sziget, influenced by the writing of Homer’s, The Iliad, told the story of the Battle of Szigetvar where his grandfather was killed defending Szigetvar castle. During the Enlightenment language reform was introduced and many words were reinvented as Hungarian. All literature, novels, plays, prose, poetry flowered in the 20th century with the inception of the popular literary journal “Nyugat” (The West). Before 1918 there was a conservative nationalist group of writers that included Dezso Szabo who wrote Az elsodort falu (The Village That Was Swept Away), featuring themes of anti-war sentiment, and romanticized the peasantry. With World War I, years of revolution followed with frontier changes placing large populations of Hungarians in Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, and Romania. A new avant-garde school of writers rose to prominence, poets Lorinc Szabo, Attila Jozesf, (themes of alienation, Socialist ideas, and the subconscious), Gyula Illyes (inspired by the peasantry), and the novel became popularized. In 1945 Socialist Realism, a communist mandate that enforced writing that put a positive face on the new politic came to the fore. There was a history of forced labour camps for dissidents. An uprising failed in 1956 and some from the writing community were imprisoned. Government restrictions on culture were lifted in the 1960s and the literary community flowered. Political changes in 1989 brought the West in with Free Verse, the Symbolists, slam poetry, eco-conscious Imagist influences, a certain Hungarian-Futurism, the 21st century poets were presented “as the first generation “after the end of history.”” Major post-modern Hungarian writers include Sandor Weores, Janos Pilinszky, Agnes Nemes Nagy, Zsuzsa Beney, Otto Orban, Gyorgy Petri, Szabolcs Varady, Krisztina Toth, amongst others.

They’ll Be Good For Seed. This poetry flowers and is evocative of the dark and profound, when very haunted reminds This Writer of the Hungarian version of steampunk, a sophisticated play on the New Goth. Often surrealist, weaving dark and light mythos in nightmare dreamscapes, reality spinning into and out of the overcast day, this poetry lives inside Spiritualism, and mystery. Themes of love, broken bed rites and death with neoclassical images, angels and eco-conscious imagery paint a dark Eastern European story that dances, often in sardonica. The poet, someone alone in a room, spinning self-conversations, observations, nightmares, creativity, the Holy Spirit inside the Muse as Oracle, a butterfly playing in the flame of a lit candle.

Zsuka Nagy – The world as a neo-classical nightmare, details of reality, a certain darkness, a certain poverty juxtaposed with zinfrude, a love story, an Eastern European New Goth. Sardonic and surreal. Masterful, highly evocative of the place and time.

From “bike path two”

“old women wait at an abandoned railway station, kitchen garden herbs in
               their sacks
looking frightened by the world, asking for help in adjusting the sacks on
               their backs

the countryside lives by habitual motion, people help and kill with the same                gesture sometimes they don’t ask for sausage or challah but murder”

Krisztina Toth – Storyland poetry, of broken bedrite, dark, profound, sometimes surreal yet inside the weave of angels. The love poetry, “Tourist”, “Talking” reaches original spires. There is the touching story of her father dying of cancer, weeding the garden, “They’ll Be Good for Seed” from which the title of this anthology is taken.

Zita Muranyi – Of neoclassical nature images that fuse with broken bed rite, of great darkness and light, the poetry paints pictures. “That Boy” is a portrait of a street person who she gives a Coke, a love story in broken thought train with a surprise surreal twist in the last line. A fantastique.

Johanna Domokos – Fantastical fantasia, a Muse of great beauty, the wild and bijoux, perhaps a dialectic with an ex-lover, the poetry is truncated, surreal, and profound.

“blooming and decomposing moments absorb inside me,
touch, and my face shares in everything blooming decomposing,
absorbing inside me to recognize why I came to the intersecting lines
of something to make me believe
pain can turn to joy
what makes a difference inside my body
now when the river must be crossed . . .”

Gabor G. Gyukics – A progression in Beat, dark, surreal, a profound weave of a New Age brilliance. “creating your own music” features nature images in a fantastical old world story, a myth of thunder, and music in original poetics.

Anna T. Szabo – A Beat progression, sardonic, violent, and profound, gender politics, a study in out of place, outside time.

Attila Jasz – Experential and spinning into fantasia, sometimes dark, often of the light, sometimes sardonic. As if short scenes from a day in the life, a little truncated and mysterious.

Janos Afra – Profound and dark Imagism suggesting mystery religion. A hidden violence, perhaps a study in silence.

Mario Z. Nemes – Hungarian Gothic horror poetics. Dark stories, sardonic, and profound as if haunted fairy tales.

Monika Mesterhazi – New Age poetics featuring conflicted conversations in love, surrealist nightmares. Dreamscapes as if scenes in a play.

Julia Lazar – Neoclassical imagery, a study in light and dark mythos, suggesting “what does it mean to remember, to forget?”, perhaps a hidden violence.

Gabor Lanczkor – A haunted dream in New Age poetics, surreal featuring a death theme, conflicted, themes of lost and found, what is in hand, what is out of hand, perhaps a hidden dialectic.

Denes Krusovszki – Dark and surreal featuring conflicted narratives about lovers, bangs with hidden violence.

Sandor Tatar – New Age poetics, surrealist and horror, featuring positive and negative mythos. Stark reality juxtaposed with nature imagery, spinning the dual nature of existence.

Szabina Ughy – This New Age poetry breathes inside the beauty of the Muse, and the Spiritus, nature imagery, profound, an idea of mystery, painting great light, the pulse of life.

Janos Terey – A hidden violence, an idea of poverty, of conflicted bed rites, profound, a surrealist haunting, of the New Age.

A beautiful presentation in time and place, a truthtelling, this poetry flowers past the demons of territorial take overs, wars and the imprisonment of writers as dissidents in labour camps after the Second World War. Dark and profound, neoclassical and avant-garde, quintessentially literature of the Hungarian landscape. A brilliant celebration of the Muse in New Age poetics, They’ll Be Good for Seed by Gabor G. Gyukics and friends.

Available @ Amazon.ca, Indigo, Target.





Rebecca Anne Banks


“God in the sky
the winter tree-tops
sing . . .”

and in doorways, tall, thin, long hair falls falling down, she of the long dark looks, the artist aunt, Venus and the moon “I’ve packed my bags, I’m ready to go” she stays she leaves she stays she draws dots on a page i connect them with a pencil, an elephant “after I go there will be no one left to connect the dots” i am 4 years old . . . in the dark in my favourite stringline dress i like the colours by half she tells Rain “I am taking her to the movies” she dresses me in bright red and yellow epaulets “you’re always so depressed” i hated the epaulets . . . all through the underground all through the streets we go to uncle Alfred’s studio so large the painting of gypsy girl in gold and reds he wishes they would help me more he says “tell Rain the painting is inspired by her” the artist aunt says “she wouldn’t understand” the gypsy girl she is dance so beautiful dance i become the girl in the painting begin to dance, i dance . . . i am dancing . . . “better take her away from that painting” . . .

the artist girl song ‘o twice times a charm rolling from lover to lover burnt seashells in the tide in the sunlight . . . full liquor and scissors . . . empty . . . mercy street Mexico the gift of a child’s abalone silver bracelet, the artist aunt . . . years and years later i wear as an earring . . . in the mirror catches the light . . .

(To be continued . . .)



Rebecca Anne Banks

(continued . . .)

a society of nude dead things lay on the floor spread wine listen to records at night watch the shadows of streetlights on the walls of the darkened room the rites of spring young tree line muther lost to the woods where’s my coat pockets? trashed in the hallway looking for mittens . . . he is distant already gone zing frude Paris noir noircissement mon radio the season in season the Dardanelle the darkness of springline “the Muse, the Muse, where is the Muse?” the dark holds us “is that a cage for fish?” . . . the morning sunlight unlocks the cage abracadabra aveuglement butterflies are freehold weep the dark moon of spring mon radio a dead woman dressed in a white dress wedding lays in her bed lined with fresh cut lilacs the flowers in purples the lit candle a society of dead people nude fire cats walking the fire bangs in the dark night . . . light and light dark désirée nude we wander into and out of rooms past half opened windows quelque chose mauvais comme cold rain and rain the last picture house living in the back row of the old time film noir with the sit down velvet seats in green she goes to the movie theatre in the dark the movies her family empty on a back screen yellow and green are the colours of funerals St. Gabriel the place was quite empty without her . . .

leaves us lonely . . .

- Venus de Milo -
from Paris Past & Present (1902)
by Henry Haynie
Courtesy of University of California Libraries


Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 38 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, guides to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a familycookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CDs of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CDs of music awaiting production. She won an IARA Award for Top 55 Internet Airplays for Angel Song (2010). She is an Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets. She is also the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com), CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records (www.tympanilanerecords.com), the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca), and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts (www.kintsugiartquilts.com).

Michael Castro was a poet, translator, and educator. He created and was the Editor of the literary journal River Styx (1975), and in 2015 became the first Poet Laureate of St. Louis. He taught at the University of Missouri-St. Louis and Lindenwood University. He collaborated with Gabor G. Gyukics translating Hungarian poets into English.

Ian Fitzgerald’s professional background in advertising led to teaching at Alberta University of the Arts in Calgary, Alberta. He has trifled with poetry since teenage and is getting dangerously close to thinking he should take it seriously . . . maybe. His poem “Decibels” was published in We Are One – Poems from the Pandemic, 2020.

Melanie Flores is a Toronto-born writer, editor, and poet. She is the Copy Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry. Her award-winning work has been described as provocative and has appeared online, in print journals, and in various international and national anthologies. Her poem “Nameless” will appear in the (M)othering Anthology published by Inanna Publications (Spring 2022). Melanie has been a member of the League of Canadian Poets since 2017. Visit her websites www.melanieflores.net and www.mdfcommsvcs.com to see her work and learn more.

Gabor G. Gyukics is an icon of the Eastern European/Hungary literary scene and internationally, a poet, and translator. He is known for his Beat poetry progressions and is largely celebrated, receiving an award from the National Beat Poetry Foundation U.S.A., amongst others. He is a member of the Hungarian Society of Writers, Critics, and Literary Translators. His work includes, A Hermit Has no Plural (2015), Last Smile (1999), and numerous translations Hungarian and English.

David Holper has done a little bit of everything: taxi driver, fisherman, dishwasher, bus driver, soldier, house painter, bike mechanic, bike courier, and teacher. He has published a number of stories and poems, including two collections of poetry, The Bridge (Sequoia Song Publications) and 64 Questions (March Street Press). His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, and he has recently won several poetry competitions, in spite of his contention that he never wins anything. He teaches English at College of the Redwoods and lives in Eureka, California, where his is the city’s first Poet Laureate. He thinks Eureka is far enough from the madness of civilization that he can still see the stars at night and hear the Canada geese calling.

Amy Lowell (poet, editor, performer, translator, critic) was born in Brookline, Massachusetts to an elite family. She was best known as an advocate of the Imagist School and for her literary criticism. Her poetry works include, A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912), Legends (1921), What's O'Clock (1925), East Wind (1926), Ballads for Sale (1927), amongst others.

Bob McNeil, writer, editor, cartoonist, and spoken word artist, is the author of Verses of Realness. Hal Sirowitz, a Queens Poet Laureate, called the book “A fantastic trip through the mind of a poet who doesn’t flinch at the truth.” Among Bob’s recent accomplishments, he found working on Lyrics of Mature Hearts to be a humbling experience because of the anthology’s talented contributors. Copies of that collection are available here:  Amazon.com.

Karol Nielsen is the author of the memoirs Black Elephants (Bison Books, 2011), Walking A&P (Mascot Books, 2018), and the chapbooks This Woman I Thought I’d Be (Finishing Line Press, 2012), Vietnam Made Me Who I Am (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing in nonfiction in 2012. Excerpts were honored as notable essays in The Best American Essays in 2010 and 2005. Her full poetry collection was longlisted for the Terry J. Cox Poetry Award in 2021 and was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry in 2007. One poem was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize in 2021. Her work has appeared in Epiphany, Guernica, Lumina, North Dakota Quarterly, Permafrost, RiverSedge, and elsewhere. She teaches creative nonfiction and memoir writing with New York Writers Workshop.

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review, as well as other publications.

Lorraine Schein is a New York writer. Her work has appeared in VICE Terraform, Fourteen Hills, Strange Horizons, Nonbinary Review, Vallum, Mermaids Monthly, and in the anthology Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath. The Futurist’s Mistress, her poetry book is available from Mayapple Press: www.mayapplepress.com.

Cynthia Yatchman is a Seattle based artist/ art instructor. A former ceramicist, she received her B.F.A. in painting. She switched from 3D to 2D and has remained there ever since. She works primarily on paintings, prints, and collages. Her art is housed in numerous public/private collections. She has exhibited on both coasts, extensively in the Northwest. She is an affiliate member of Gallery 110, a member of the Seattle Print Art Association, and COCA.