Happy 2016 – A look back; A look forward

Happy New Year, Everyone!

First of all, I want to thank you so much for being a part of my blog and supporting my work.  I am humbled to have my blog supporters.  Your support encourages me. It means a lot to me.  Thank you so much!

I also want to extend a great big thanks to all the editors and journals that I have worked with over the past year (and into 2016, as well!).   I have had 23 acceptances this year.  17 of which were published in 2015; 6 will be published in 2016.

If you have a moment, please check out these great editors and their journals.

Thank you so much for allowing me to be a part of your year.  I hope to share more writing with everyone in 2016!
Creative Nonfiction:
“The Important Things” – Alaska Women Speak – Winter 2015 issue

How to Eat a Bagel – 50-word Stories – Sept 15, 2015

“Femininity” – Cirque – Summer 2015
“Sitting in the Bathroom” – Yellow Chair Review – July 2015
“A Happy Poem” – Eunoia Review – August 2015
“Willow Rebuilds” “Spectators” “Fire Angels” – Alaska Women Speak– Fall 2015
“Dark Clouds Descend Low” – Three Line Poetry – Issue 33 – Sept 2015
“Da!” – Peeking Cat Poetry – 8th issue – Oct 2015
“Three times my baby’s stroller passes by” – Eunoia Review – Oct 2015
“Babushka’s Samovar”, “If I May Speak”, and “High Tea and Fancy Things” – Alaska Women Speak – Winter 2015 Issue
“Joanna’s Child” – Cirque – Winter Solstice issue 2015.
“Away with the Bitterness!” – Peeking Cat Poetry – 9th Issue – Dec 2015
“Away with the Bitterness!” – Alaska Shorts (49 Writers blog) – December 22, 2015
“The Reflex”, “The Drop Off”, and “Crossed Eyes” – Eskimo Pie – Feb 2016
“The Fragments You Carry”, “The Fireweed Dies”, and “Crabapples” – 13 Chairs – Spring 2016


Throwback Thusday/Happy Thanksgiving!

This one was published back in August by the Eunoia Review.  Ah, the old creative writing work shop days. 

A happy poem

about desertion
and hypocrisy, it was.
Finally, a happy poem, she says,
her eyes crinkled in a smile.

My workshop mates groaned,
although a few of them had
remarked more or less the same.

I had been a poet for less than nine months,
and I had yet to workshop a sentimental piece
about some lost love,
some childhood play place or
some lost pet or friend.
No, I chose to pull them into
my bottomless cauldron of
sales clerks prostituting for commissions,
pretentious people airing their tortured souls
for art, among other things,
but nothing pretty or happy
until now,
at least not as biting as the others she had seen.

When the groaners ask what is so
happy about an affluent man who
after criticizing the local crowd, finds
himself stuck in a dirty
cafe after dark in an unknown town,
she stays by her word,
asks me for a copy to keep,
before folding it into a square
she can keep in her pocket.