XIX:2 June, 2004

A Journal for Linking Poets 




T. Ashok Chakravarthy 

T. Ashok Chakravarthy 

Gene Doty

Ruth Holzer

Barbara (Abra) MacKay

Barbara (Abra) MacKay

Barbara (Abra) MacKay

Tree Riesener


For Sarah Tuchinsky
Gerard John Conforti


CITIES HIDDEN BY RAIN Beginning two series from a book by the same name by
Rob Cook

Ruth Holzer

(adapted from Fragments 98a, 98b)
Andrew MacArthur

Fran Masat

Fran Masat

ron moss

 maria van dongen


Gino Peregrini   

Gino Peregrini   

Daniel W. Schwerin


Ed Baranosky

Tony Beyer

shirley cahayom

Tom Clausen

Elizabeth Howard

joan payne kincaid

kirsty karkow

Larry Kimmel   

Andrew Lansdown

M. L. Mackie

Sanford Goldstein

Thelma Mariano

an ode to the Windgod, brother of the sun goddess Amaterasu
Giselle Maya

Mrinalini Gadkari

(in loving memory of Enola M. Borgh)
Ellen G. Olinger  

Six Tanka by Patricia Prime

R. K. Singh



Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

Seth Stratton





LO! TIME . . .
T. Ashok Chakravarthy

The resurging tides of fate
Swarm my thoughts in haste
The joy-filled dance of rage
Break the spikes of hopes cage.

Time, stirring the strings of death
Never considers affection or faith
It befalls on me too, without mercy
Dismantling the citadel-illusionary.

Showering wisdom of peace on some
Implanting a violent tendency in some
Imparting ways and means for some
Time replaces every barrier in some

Lo time, the inventor of worldly deeds
The object of mistrust is misplaced
Immortal love, if for you do not exist
Even reality and illusions cannot co-exist.

T. Ashok Chakravarthy

The barriers of peace lay broken
The peace loving people lay crest fallen
The concept of universal peace is shaken
The poetic instinct for peace should awaken.

Shattered and taken aback beyond belief
Let us regroup to restore the peace’s leaf
There’s a saying, pen is mightier than sword
Let us pierce with our love-filled peace words.

Poems and verses from our pens should flow
The highest impact on hearts should they show
Our share of concern for achieving world peace
Should sway all forlorn hearts, at all the places.

Yes, some self-proclaiming, so called saviors
Are provoking and sowing the seeds of terror
Innocents are made pawns in their misadventure
What’s the future if they are not derailed here?

If the thoughtful tears from our mighty pens
Are not aimed to stir hearts with our concern,
Even the twinkle of peace is forced to vanish
Yet another hope to restore peace will diminish.



Gene Doty

Professorial poet or poetic professor?
One an oxymoron, the other flat absurdity.

No beard can transform tenure into hipness,
No street-swagger lends danger to the processional.

Tasseled headgear, tasseled footwear—
that's the ticket that punched your talent.

Faded blue jeans with worn spots,
Rugged boots flecked with mud guarantee nada.

Well, Gino makes no claim
To poetically tenured fame.

He awaits the posthumous award
Of stone slab and green sward.


Ruth Holzer

The king snake's eyes of milky blue
outstare summer's blinding blue.

Fields of chicory bloom overnight,
replacing withered with living blue.

The butterfly feels a hint of chill —
a shadow blots his powdery blue.

Rose-breasted birds asleep on a wire,
their folded wings display pure blue.

A foreign stone finds the right hand to adorn —
lapis lazuli, the gray-veined blue.

Last view of the lake with mirrored spruce
in the dawn of departure, black and blue.

No man, no luck, and she's not feeling too well —
Ruth is close, but not there yet, into the blue.


Barbara (Abra) MacKay

In my dream my love let me hold her hand again,
And I felt myself drift above the clouds again.

She said follow me into this rubble strewn city
Where we will let go the doves and be at peace again? 

I am sorely wounded by this over long war,
My legs shorn of their sockets, how will I live again.

The journey home by land or sea is long and perilous.
I feel death's glove, will I ever sit by your side again?

Do not pity yourself Abra though you have lost your love;
Do not covet the dead who will never see light again.


Barbara (Abra) MacKay

We are still shy of each other as we seek a common language.
Without trust we cannot achieve a common language.

You speak of eternity, I of the here and now, come lie by my side;
Let us mingle our tongues and reap a common language.

I fear for you caught in the cross fire between East and West,
Which tear asunder the human bond and delete the common language.

I do not know how to pray to your god nor you to mine.
Who then will enable us to conceive a common language?

Oh gather me close, let your body and mine be as one,
for may we not yet come to speak a common language.


Barbara (Abra) MacKay

I open my eyes and see signs of autumn
in yours and recognize the design of autumn.

How easily one season passes into the next,
summer's soft pause before complying to autumn.

Time the illusion, it is cycles we live by
striving to remain in the eye of autumn.

Out on the field, dandelions turn
from summer yellow to the dye of autumn.

How each season, Abra, has it color, the white of winter
the green of spring, summer's yellow, the wine of autumn.


Tree Riesener

In the lobby, the usual tantalizing decision - chocolate or popcorn; decided,  soon begun,
half saved for refreshment during the evening’s entertainment of high-noon crucifixion.

What do the popcorn makers buy, Omar, that’s half so precious as what they sell?
Buttery grain to awake my thirst for wine unmixed with gall as for his swoon at crucifixion.

Count on ten minutes of coming attractions, car chases, mayhem, so even running late, with hard-to-find parking, we’ll be in plenty of time for the bridegroom’s crucifixion. 

Extreme violence, over seventeen suggested, but no sex, so parents tell their screaming children, "Sh-h, that’s just a plastic hand they’re nailing for this dummy crucifixion!"

Daffy Duck and Roadrunner violence is cathartic and removed from reality; toddlers
can learn about Daddy’s love through torture by an age-appropriate cartoon crucifixion.

A poor middle-eastern boy persecuted by the arms-laden majority, dead but undefeated;
hey, you Islamic radicals can’t show this film for inspiration; that’s our own crucifixion.

Slasher films become old-hat so remember with Mel’s $16.99 crucifixion-nail necklace;
the horror’s not the tree but the previews, food and drink of this zoom-in crucifixion.


(with apologies to Byron & Browning for the 3rd Stanza)
J.E. Stanley

Enveloped in a purple haze all night,
the guitar renegade plays all night.

Beowulf is fiction, insubstantial myth.
Grendel roams free and slays all night.

In cloudless climes under starry skies,
lovers count the ways all night.

The holy celebrate rites of spring,
sacrifice virgins in praise all night.

The moon goes dark, forever gone,
leaves only stars ablaze all night.

Insomnia displaces troubled dreams:
the poet in deep malaise all night.



For Sarah Tuchinsky
(From the song by Lional Richard)

Gerard John Conforti

Just for you, I would gather white roses from the hedge thorn and give them to you. Just for you, I would walk the meadows in search for the unknown violets hidden in the woods. Just for you, I would listen to the sparrows' song in the middle of winter outside my room. Just for you, I would embrace your emotional pain you feel every passing day and show my love for you. Just for you, I would sit and listen to you when you are in tears. Just for you, I would go through endless nights of sleep and think of you. Just for you, I would gaze at the moonlight and stars which you dream of at night. Just for you, I would climb a ladder to the universe and seek the light in your heart.

Lying beneath stars
I feel the light in my eyes
closing to night

Just for you, I would give up my life to save yours. Just for you, I would stand at the shore and watch the moon rise. Just for you, I would never give up the love in your heart. Just for you, I would bring happiness from the compassion you feel for me. Just for you,  I would never turn from you and walk away. Just for you, I would feel the coldness of winter just to keep you warm. 

My frozen hands
holds the sunlight
keeping me warm

Just for you, I would bring the sunlight within you. Just for you, I would never betray you nor bring you tears you cannot hold. Just for you, I would reach the summit of the mountain and gaze up at the galaxy.

Some laugh at me
some weep for me
I continue onward

Just for you, I would bring you all you want. Just for you, I would keep you safe as much as I could. Just for you, I would always try to help you with your hardships in life. Just for you, I would do all these things and know how much you mean to me.

Never have I known
love in all its blossoms:
spring breeze







Beginning two series from a book by the same name

Rob Cook

1.  (NYC, any Sunday at dawn) 

      Streets empty except
for stray bottles
      the early light is crawling from. 

      Two years in the city,
I keep hearing crickets
      in the deli flowers. 

      Sunday morning, dark,
now where have the revelers
      hidden us? 

      Drinking coffee at dawn
so the sun
      can come back. 

      The early city,
stacks of lit windows
      The crickets left   

      A woman sipping coffee —
her face lost
      behind steam. 

      I rest the phone against my ear
and listen
      to the cherry blossoms breathing. 

      Pruning the daisies’
yellow faces —
      the sky smaller today. 

      Even with the approaching F train,
this one guitarist
      plays like a sleeping pigeon. 

      Sick from too much rest —
how will I tell
      my cactus blossoms to live?



 Parts of me from kindergarten
falling in tonight’s rain.

      Father, was it from loneliness
you let those cockroaches live,
      those years before winter? 

      Coffee with nothing in it —
now I see you, homeless men
      asleep on the moon. 

      I have certain friends
I’ve shared coffee with
      and not spoken a single word.

       Only when I crush
a cockroach
      is the world dying.

My mother, who keeps
the weather to herself,
mixing sleet with today’s laundry.

       Night with a book
that ends early,
      rain that I know.



Ruth Holzer

cancer ward –
she decides
to get married

white wedding –
her arm bruised
from the I.V.

over the threshold
to the hospital bed –

they'll bury her –
bride of disease

funeral service –
a fly in my ear
not an angel



(adapted from Fragments 98a, 98b)
Andrew MacArthur

A very great ornament
from my mother’s prime –
hair wound with purple

Ornaments indeed!
Bindings with spangles,
or hair like yellow torches?

Daughter, no sparkling tiaras.
Where would I find them
in exile?


Fran Masat

willows —
old folks
bending with the wind 

new leaves
pinning them on the walls
of the dining room

jigsaw puzzle —
one piece more
than last week

a new arrival —
folks gather 'round
her one old suitcase

a row of matriarchs
united ­ hand to hand
in their walkers 

crowded parlor —
the same stories
from different families

Sunday afternoon party —
Mom and I share
a glass of water 

a warm gift
for a Birthday Girl —
ninety-one candles

Alzheimer's unit —
singing Happy Birthday
again and again … 

a child's doll
out of someone’s wheel chair

dark patch on a door
a blank
where a name was

scratching his head —
a blank
where a name was

old women
moving in rays of sunset
white dust motes

old men
creeping down the hall
evening shadows

Grandfather's watch —
ticking ­
it must have sounded the same

Fran Masat

blossoms —
bees leaving
a gold haze hangs in the air 

spring break —
a butterfly drifts
alighting on her shadow 

damp morning
mosquitoes zigzag
seeking fresh blood

new flower bud —
a gnat and an ant rest
on a petal’s tip

her motive is clear —
a Mayfly glistening
in the warm sun 

I do nothing —
a moth fluttering
in a spider’s web

clear night —
water striders passing
add dimples to the moon



ron moss

between rain
a loosening
of silence

light bulb
the silent burning
 . . . of white




 maria van dongen

where have they gone?
my tongue thick with rust, and dust
tartar words

you're in my dreams.
and all that cannot be said
lies between

old (once) friend
how will you find me now
that i am mute?




Gino Peregrini

Make a movement through the woods; sparrows fall without a sound.
Telemetry of the void: rusted barb wire beneath dead leaves.
Don't fret, Gino, you've arrived at today again, despite yourself.


Gino Peregrini

creek-bank sitters with cane poles
plastic bobbers sun-shiny

snapping turtle: its beak pokes
from deepest pool of dark water

in clear water, my stringer's empty:
Oh, catfish, where do you hide?



The wake against the shore fishes a boy and his father,
"don't cast the swirls. Fish weeds where the moon lingers among lily pads.
Remember, life is in the resistance, not in the calm."

Daniel W. Schwerin

A cabin window opens to moonlight enough for reading;
spaces between logs leak creatures that slither underfoot.
Take care, though, do not lift the scriptures to take life from small

Daniel W. Schwerin


Eden is beyond us, protected by a flaming sword.
Adam doesn't invent the fire, the fire invents Adam:
short a rib, buck-naked, then cursed, but happy not to be alone.

Daniel W. Schwerin


Our family Bible opens to the word, 'abiding;'
it goes back to leaves of grass, when lilacs last in the courtyard bloomed.
Mother's treasure has become mine.  Words made flesh redeem the time.

Daniel W. Schwerin



Ed Baranosky

Show me how you will swallow the thorny chestnut shell.
[Yang-Chi Fang Hui, from the Wu-teng hui-yuan, vol.19]

late winter birds call
and dogs bark from distances,
every voice at home
but for the few waking wounded
snarling linear time.

the drapes are drawn
across forgotten dramas.
still, a two AM
freight rattles the windows
answering its incoming pulse.

even the old wooden
planks of long-laid floors move
to a steam whistle
haunting the hazy city
with sleepless wanderlust.

red-winged blackbirds
across the Humber estuary
permeate fractured sleep.
before early light
a time-storm gathers.



Tony Beyer

Japanese irises
petals folded
to conceal
the secret
of themselves

soft blue
Japanese irises
deepen to veined
tough purple
along their creases

air beads
climbing stems
Japanese irises
in a glass jar

three hundred
volumes of poems
prints of the masters
Japanese irises
dominate the room

a small part
of the garden
but making it
a garden
Japanese irises

Japanese irises
by as much
dew as a
blackbird displaces

closed and open
Japanese irises
admired by
the fingertips
of passersby

against the lamp
Japanese irises
two dimensions
one shade

stained glass door
to our cottage
Japanese irises
in the flower bed

painted on the hut
of someone
who can't live
with others
Japanese irises



shirley cahayom

                    to the pitter-patter
                    of the winter rain
                    your memory fills my heart
                    with unspoken sorrow

                    in my blue suitcase
                    your love letters
                    from another space and time
                    are still intact
                    tied in blue velvet ribbon

                    you're gone now
                    but the memories
                    of the times we shared
                    linger like the apricot sunset
                    in your eyes 

                    I write my name
                    and the question "where art thou? "
                    upon the shore
                    the waves washed my name away
                    but my question remains

                     a summer night
                     of star-studded sky
                     I immortalize your name
                     in a poem
                     written from my heart of hearts


Tom Clausen

Autumn nightfall
dropping my son off
for something else —
this measured sense
of a lifetime

never sure what he learns
but today at the end
of the “Last Samurai”
I had my son watch through
all the closing credits

the chorus of cicadas
broken by one high whine
in the sticky heat —
this luck of quiet
a suffering confession for all

if I saw one
or twenty women
walk past
this quiet eyed reverence
for each and everyone

far from my family
these thoughts,
as we drive along
my daughter holds a toy
way out the window

night of the lunar eclipse
it comes to me
what is wrong at home —
    something I did
    or didn't do

how could it be
that I do not desire
to have an agenda
when the season's forever
slipstream in agenda



Elizabeth Howard

                                tracing the steep gulch
                                granddaughter collects
                                an assortment of snail shells —
                                we talk of seasons
                                a time to live, a time to die 

                                all winter
                                the hawthorne's red berries
                                brighten my window
                                yet I gladly give them up
                                for the robin's red breast 

                                a walk through the mall
                                the stroke victim
                                lifts his feet high
                                hurdling barriers
                                I refuse to imagine 

                                two feet of snow
                                t.v. brings Colorado's chill
                                to Tennessee
                                I poke the fire
                                brew hot chocolate 

                                arranging jonquils
                                at the gravesite,
                                the mother reads
                                his name in stone —
                                the lad she relied on 

                                a riot of wild grape vines
                                clusters of tiny fruit —
                                oh, for auntie's garden
                                the sweet purple essence
                                of Concords on my tongue 

                                red calico hen
                                the doorstop I hated
                                stumbling in the dark—
                                in the dark of her passage
                                I place it by the door 

                                spring peepers
                                at the old homeplace
                                and I am a young girl
                                head on a white pillow
                                a lullaby of frog voices 


snow stabs
thru the eyes' window
melting the view
too many fences
for a complete sketch

         joan payne kincaid



kirsty karkow

I must observe
the sun and storms at sea
all life's shapes
and colors – for I
may be called home soon

breaking away
a cove of ice escapes
to the sea
oh, to join this current
float upon salty waves

trail's end. . .
a descending sun
and gilds the far shore
just as darkness falls

still morning
no twitters in hedge-rows
nor windsong
yet the river ripples
flow steadily to sea

a small car
weaves from lane to lane
out of control
the feckless mind that darts
from subject to subject

a butterfly
lives just three days
so little time
marked by death it flutters
sampling all the flowers

at play
in the froth and foam
of life
it is easy to forget
the value of each moment

it is love
that reminds us
gives us strength
the tides of time run out
and we are stranded

so many ways
to shield myself
from myself
even as a snail grows
layers of shell from birth

 Two Envoys

If Buddha met
with Jesus and Mohammed
would they despair?
burned trees mark the forests
and few fish swim the seas

would LaoTsu
and all the saints
keep praying?
love like softest sunshine
warms even shaded things




Larry Kimmel

in the gray distance
the line between sky and hillscape,
barely discernible —
without faulting the facts
memoir becomes legend

standing among stately pines
disgraced and alone in my outcast state
yet always,
always an integral part
of the universe

to pick up the beach
grain by grain, how long?
in eternity
no time at all, I think —
the endless hour glass trickles trickles

first light
morphing into shadowless dawn
perfect stillness
what I am I am
right here    right now 


It's all right for them,
of course, the birds who at dawn
chirp, Carpe diem!
They've no reckoning to face
here or any other place.

Andrew Lansdown

When it bared its teeth
at me again, the black dog,
I bared, bared my neck.
But it would no more attack
than it would go, go on back!

Andrew Lansdown

Waking, unseen birds
are rowdy with rejoicing. Song
from every dark twig!
Unbearable but for the crows
cawing the colour of the heart.

Andrew Lansdown



M. L. Mackie

unable to tell
the forest from
the trees
when I find
one chin hair

behind fans
gliding gracefully
before us
not geishas
but wild turkeys

their strut
is nothing like
my swearing
off the sauce
cold turkey

I take
my pulse to
find out
what makes
you tick

without poetry
the anguish
of a singer
without her voice

side by side
lost in
the intimacy
of unlived life

set off
by a likelihood
of rain
the fireworks
in my joints

the call I want
to make
she is gone


seeing on television
that small group of scattering kids
running from tanks:
once all I did was struggle up and up
playing King of the Hill on weed-studded slopes

Sanford Goldstein

. .

I take a  mind-stretch
to an earlier joy:
ah, gifts from my first-grade classmates
when I lay  in that hospital bed

Sanford Goldstein


at first
I cried remembering past decades
by my mother's grave;
now I'm glad she's at rest
in this quiet space of lawn and sky

Sanford Goldstein


a peanut-buttered slice,
a large glass of milk by his side,
and feelings whirl--
this seventy-eight-year-old kid
goes back to the innocence of more, more!

Sanford Goldstein



Thelma Mariano

as if
they sense my decision
to end it
the three roses you gave me
drooping on their stems

cloudy day
echoes my indecision
a man's voice
as he walks behind me
arguing with himself

our first night
sleeping skin to skin
even the city traffic
seems to hum

like the lull
after a storm on the high seas
I lie awake
listening to the in-and-out
of your breathing

bringing back
images of that night
so closely entwined
here on these sheets
the scent you left behind

how quickly
we fall into the rhythm
of each other's lives
there's comfort in the patter
of this morning's rain



an ode to the Windgod, brother of the sun goddess Amaterasu
Giselle Maya

greengrey the wind  wails
mountain made invisible
mist & swirling clouds
panes & goblets tremble white
mountain stands deeply rooted

stone silent village
not a cat out in the streets
the bell's steelblue sound
lifted high by the wind’s drone
long roots anchor trees and houses

dream of stone chapels
blown ephemeral bluegreen
each jasper carved stone
born through bent heather branches
shattered ochre lichened tiles

mounds of sienna sands
seep within the trembling house
pumpkin sun in hiding
hidden in deep cave darkness
rasped by tempest’s thorn tongue

forgotten on the line
ivory twist of linen
torn from pins’ clasp
undulating dragon's flight
over waved  village roofs

howling gusts pierce and
rattle the wooden shutters
sleepless and dreamless
the shivering village awaits
the bronze tempest’s passage




Mrinalini Gadkari

can you see it?
i'm growing in his love
'coz I can now feel
how the seed quivers inside
when it gives off the shoot.

his love brings out
my best like the soil
that under covers
the ugly zygotes, but still
gives out lilies and pansies.

possessive he can
be same as earth snatches
water from clouds,
and pulls down the flowers
in withered graves.

lover boy comes by
plucking fresh buds to please her
on Valentine's Day.
and earth bleeds from within
what's left after all?



(in loving memory of Enola M. Borgh)
Ellen G. Olinger

You gave your life
to Language and us
     reading your work
     fills the long hours
     I freely gave to your care

How you worked to live
and were unafraid to die
     remembering how
     you basked in the books
     I read aloud 

The photo of us by
the graves at the
family reunion
      "Woman, why
       weepest thou?" * 

*from John 20:15 (KJV)



out of the window
on the bougainvillea
one last bloom
a single bird on an empty branch
I move closer to the singer

Patricia Prime



things drift out of focus
in the not-quite-dark
I look up at the sky
that is miraculously close

Patricia Prime



branches lift blossoms
so the birds take to the air
and first leaves shine
these are fair days of spring
and again I believe in magic

Patricia Prime



a Chinese woman
balances her baby
on her back
the pink and blue scarf
makes the two become one

Patricia Prime



I never knew
that by autumn
cicadas are silent
tonight they spread static
and I am the perfect listener

Patricia Prime



how a single poem
may shimmer and rise
off the page
I gaze out of the window
lines echo in my mind

Patricia Prime



R. K. Singh

A cloud-eagle
   curves to the haze
   in the west
   skimming the sail
   on soundless sea 

Watching the waves
   with him she makes an angle
   in contemplation:
   green weed and white foam break
   on the beach with falling mood 

Crazy these people
   don't know how to go
   down with the swirl and
   up with the whirl but
   play in the raging water 

They couldn't hide the moon
   in water or boat but now
   fish moonlight from sky:
   I watch their wisdom and smile
   why I lent my rod and bait




I fear the demons
rising from my body
at midnight crowding
the mind and leading the soul
to deeper darkness

Sleeps the night with
desires wrapped in blanket  —
spring in the eyes
gods couldn't change the rhythm
of the body and its needs

Awake in dream time
he looks for the candle —
love's invitation
lighting up in the dark
and sings the body's song

The night queen fragrance
seeps in through the window
coupled with full moon
adds to my delight though I'm
alone in my bed tonight

The sleep is buried
in sex for diversion
yoga or prayers:
the dawn preserves bitter eyes
in the day's bleak passage

An insomniac
weak with desires and prayers
hears the heartbeats
rising fast with dark hours
survives one more nightmare





Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

The verbena thinned
into separate purple clusters
She lay near that renascent sea
with air clear and cupidless dolphin
balancing fear anticipation her heart
swollen with apparent exuberance

That barnacled crust
and then that silver plush
Her head pitched at zenith
she begged the copious twinkle
into winks of falling tear
asunder they sank

Now aquatic almost mirthful
she bore past seashells
and torn parasols

Seth Stratton

 As infection grows my strength fades but
I feel no pain
My parents are concerned but I can not see why
They rush me to the car I can see the malcontent in their eyes
I see the letters H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L in the reflection of my car door window
The floor sent chills up my spine, it is cold as I stepped on the unwelcoming tile
The vinyl has bubbled mountains, cracked valleys and the river between stained a tint of red
The doctors solid and chapped hand touch my forehead
The tongue depressor gags me as he forces it down my throat
As my parents leave I feel like a caged bird wanting out of the solitary confinement
The room is dark and it seems like the brightest light can not penetrate its black grasp
But one light seems to have the key to the prison
The satellite of our mother earth the harvest moon of autumn
The first ray of light was like a spear
The spear golden and indestructible
It broke the wall of my depression and reached deep into my soul
When it came out it took with it a blanket or comfort and stability
The yellow has a brilliant shade of amber
I think how can something so simple be so breath taking
How can the owls song be so inspirational
The winds whisper so loving and hopeful
I pray to the power to give this night to me
Let me own it
Let it last forever
Than darkness engulfs the serenity
The brace of insomnia gives way
Sleep overcomes me
Will I wake up in the morning
Doubt is the demon in this nightmare
Morning comes my eyelids lifts
The brilliance of the star blinds me
The joy overtakes me my hart fills with courage and strength
I lifted my mighty sword of bravery and I vanquished the disgusting being.
My rose colored glasses are broken
Everything is new to my sight the world is new
And green is green is no more




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Deadline for next issue is 
September  1, 2004.

  Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2004.
Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2004.

Find out more about Renga, Sijo, Tanka, or Ghazal.

Check out the previous issues of:

LYNX XIX:1 February, 2004
XVIII:3 October, 2003

 LYNX XVIII:2 June, 2003

XVIII:1 February, 2003

LYNX XVII:3 October, 2002

LYNX XVII:2 June, 2002

XVII:1 February, 2002
LYNX XVI:3 October, 2001
LYNX XVI:2 June, 2001
LYNX XVI:1 February, 2001
XV:3 October, 2000
LYNX XV:2 June, 2000