XXIV:1, February, 2009

A Journal for Linking Poets 

Linda Papanicolaou, US  (Linda)
Kathy Earsman, AU  (Kathy)
Moira Richards , ZA(Moi)
Lynne Reese, UK  (Lynne)
Denis Holmes, US (Chibi)


champagne glass
in the kitchen sink –
Year of the Ox                          Linda

dong dong dong
warm scents trail the bell         Kathy

cherry blossom waves
from street to street
it's a petal pink-out                   Moi

the blush that lingers
after his touch                          Lynne

summer moon
two eyes peer through
the screen door                       Chibi

graves of the stars
on a Hollywood tour                Linda

so many
ice floes and so few
polar bears                             Kathy

so little grain
so many cars to feed              Moi

we wipe our plates
and wipe away
our tears                                 Lynne

the insightful placement
of the last go stone                Chibi

in tall dry grass
the archaeologist
sifts arrowheads                    Linda

from these chrysali
a thousand butterflies!           Moi

Renku board at HaikuHut, December, 23 2008-Jan 1, 2009.
It was directed by Chibi (Denis Holmes).














Haiga by Maya Lyubenova and Colin Stewart Jones


Frank Williams
Vanessa Proctor
Dick Pettit

two days on…
leaves on the pavement
have changed to filigree                 FW

paint peels off
the verandah rails                         VP

misty moon
a girl goes up the steps
to a lighted room                          DP

is there a secret code
in this ancient text?                       FW

the papermaker
smoothes his washi
onto drying boards                       VP

True Love is distributed
every second Tuesday                   DP

after the wedding
the groom goes missing
for an hour or two                        FW

in the station waiting room
the tick tick of the old clock           VP

a skylark haunts the crags
along and back                             DP

stunning views distract us
from our picnic spread                  FW

in the pile
of blood oranges
one grapefruit                             VP

the scrum half seized
and thrown up in the line-out        DP

row after row
of war graves stretch
into the distance                          FW

frosty breaths mingle
as arms link on the common         VP

pub lights
welcome the frozen group
out of clear moonlight                  DP

trickling into the dusk
the church choir’s song                 FW

mum shakes out
the heirloom robe
this christening morning              VP

no-one has given a name
to the orphaned lamb                  DP

on her first date
she treads lightly
over jacaranda blossom               VP

my yellow duffel coat
keeps off the April wind               DP

Composed via email
Started: 17 November 2008
Finished: 2 December 2008


Silva Ley
Jacques Verhoeven

mirrors of a hundred years
writing around the image
                              from faces to abstractions
                              an aquarium for shapes
lines of glue
along transparent floors
type settings tumble
                              old plague house -smell
                              faded away in lead dust
books lie open
collections behind glass
inventions in time
                              thousand things together
                              the on-looker gives sense
a cry for attention
valuables are polished
eyes fill with tears
                              behind window bars, the town
                              silent as an illiterate
finger locomotion
the leap from animal to man
the spot above our left ear
                              up to a new fashion
                              cocks crow victory
voices and public
to drink art eagerly
in all the signals read
                              lured to the miracle room
                              a thunder of embracing
pass on the message:
no hierarchy here
no law but clarity
                              no search for secrecy
                              no grope for the mystic flash
in the middle of the hall
as the diva of the Opera
a Harley Davidson
                              shops with neon texts
                              don't leave with empty hands
letters, funny figures
to stick onto walls
in the children's room
                              snake trees twist and turn
                              waving aa, bee, cee, dee
household articles
in Martin Parr's collecting room
a case full of watches
                              an orderly caboodle
                              the rose-red traveler came
the borders shove
to log - poster - picture
emotions break down
                              metal frames fall apart
                              the command of laughers
slow scratch of the pen
vague flat-screens move
danger area
                              al life's signatures
                              watch with all your senses.

Written in the National Graphic Design Museum, Breda NL           01 - 10 - 2008
Recently the ancient building, a mediaeval plague hospital, was partly renewed and re- opened by our Queen Beatrix. Because of the 'week of Breda Photo' two rooms showed work of Photographer Martin Parr, known all over the world.


Volker Friebel – German
Jane Reichhold – English

Eine Buchecker
tiefer treten, in den Schotter
des Waldwegs.

            a beechnut
            stompt deeper into the gravel
            the forest path


Niesel in die Karre
des Straßenkehrers. Der Klang
seiner Schaufel.

            drizzle in the cart
            the sound of the road sweeper’s


Den Schlitten zieht die Mutter,
der Junge steht,
staunt in das Funkeln.

            pulled by a mother
            the boy stands marveling
            at the sled’s sparkle


Verschneite Weite.
Den Weg
zeigt der Bach.

            the path
            in the snowy distance
            a stream


Dick Pettit – Denmark
Paul Merken – Holland

Francis Attard – Malta

Term begins
travellers & their tales return
the wide world over                     Dick (autumn)

please accept these humble gifts
turmeric and liquorices                  Paul (autumn)

one-year old's babble
makes of grandpa's giant panda
a welcome guest                         Francis (non-season)

jar jef I say - the native
corrects me: that's thank you in Wolof*     PM  (n-s)

the cry of a fox
icy moon
at nightfall                             FA  (Wi Mn)

singing all the way home
in patches of steaming breath            DP  (Wi)

what is going on
behind the imposing fan
of the royal palm?                       PM (ns)

gambling debts press,
he begs for the price of a loaf          FA (ns)

summer evening
on a bus station bench
throwing crumbs to pigeons              DP (su)

kite rides a cool current
paper wings beat the air                FA (su)

his hand on mine
my heart turns soft, hugged
by the Beaujolais                       PM (love)

I feel his guidance heavy
his presence a constraint               DP (love)

bitten once too often
the cigar between
the sculptor's teeth                    FA (ns)

a fire in the pile of sheaves
stacked for the harvest service         DP(au)

dragon dances
at the Mooncake Festival
and floating lanterns                    PM(au mn)

last days of autumn, cries
of insects its requiem                   FA(au)

starry skies
back in the village nothing
but skeletons                            PM(ns)

on the terraced mud beds
a few dry stalks                         DP(ns)

black coffee &
the least denomination coin
for a tip                                FA(ns)

hot-pants and miniskirts define
Spanish spring collection                PM(sp)

lambs play
and run back to mother
orange blossom                           DP(SpBl

hoist the Blue Peter
the carnival is over                     PM (ns)

* Wolof: a language of Senegal & The Gambia



Andre Surridge
Owen Bullock

his bald head
silver light
a full moon shines
through the tops of trees

the clouds
a deep grey tonight
but they don’t perturb
my new found            

through the park
for the owl                      
he saw last week

learning to be silent
with no opinion
it’s like
being in a cage
with no walls

along the hallway
the dog
gives me away
with a loud bark

comes in many guises
this was
the night one
that creeps up unawares

sitting on the stairs
a little girl with big eyes
like her mother
clutches a teddy
“waiting for a story, grandpa”

there are so many
that clamber at
the edge of your mind
this is how I see it
this is how I see it

taking her hand
slowly we ascend
hushed voices
in the half-light
these trackless shadows

and tomorrow
is the day
I grow
less anxious
about my children

the story ends she falls
I pull up the duvet
kiss her golden head

something in her step
that speaks purpose
it doesn’t matter what
her hair or clothes
are doing

this dream
with no boundaries
the cast
and outcome uncertain
even when it’s over

we go on
to other lists
of things to do
the ones we must tick off
to die peacefully       

a new day       
brings fresh prospects
despite grey skies . . .
a heart warming smile
the touch of your hand

the possibilities
one side
of the world

the phone rings
my mother's voice
twelve thousand miles away
the line so clear she could be
here in the garden

something that connects
this growth with
that growth
this green
with that green
such a fleeting thing
this life                       
is it any wonder
we’re so fascinated
with butterflies

there’s a kind of music
when I drop the pebbles
into the stream
and they make their way
to the bottom

swimming slowly
against the current
a small fish            
thinks I’m throwing food
I wish I knew its name

like a particle
slipping out of shape
the moments        
I yet survive

a deeper breath and thinking
is this at the other end
of the spectrum
from a sigh

cold days
are the best
tucked up inside
I do the little work
I can do

hands wrapped
around my coffee cup
I study
today’s emails
for something uplifting

a question came
asking what kind of wind it is
that blows –
a day later     
I still haven’t answered

I put on           
my coat and scarf
go for a walk
by the waterfront
to clear out the cobwebs

last night
you said the cool air
cleansed us
we talked about the family
you, my youngest, now an adult

winter sunshine
how lucky we are to be
here right now
living on an island
without the weight of war

stronger thoughts
than passive aggressive:
“I want to do this”       
the colonel stops arguing
the friend backs off

has the world
every really been
at peace
someone fighting somewhere
since that distant Fall

I pick up
old letters and try
to sort them
but in my heart
they all need to go

you have to do
what you feel is right . . .
when the power fails
someone has to brave the dark
to find a candle

how little it takes
to be happy,
as Nietzsche said –
I see dark clouds, bright sun
the tips of leaves lit up

even in winter
buds are thickening
on the cherry tree
thoughts of hope
of little blessings that grow

time for goodbye
there will be tears
and later
there’ll be laughter
as life begins again























Haiga by Jerry Dreessen and Mark Smith


Mariusz Ogryzko
Jacek Margolak

an evening cocktail
frozen strawberry
wet in her fingers

            moonlit garden
            only a scent of his perfume

touching her breast
full moon

            the flock of crows
            darker than the dusk
            between two hills

pair in love
Buddha on the table... smiles

            cherry blossoms -
            the empty mat
            of a mendicant monk

November 2008



Mariusz Ogryzko
Jacek Margolak

end of November
Santa Claus in my mail box
promotes TV sets

            the gust of wind –
            cartoon Spiderman moves

fight in Bombay
my son removes the dust
from 'Superman' comics

            home again
            my garden gnome
            among the newspapers

looking for Christmas lights
an old plastic Jack O' Lantern

            after the 'Clone Wars'
            my brother counts
            the stars

December 2008



Werner Reichhold as LEATHER
Jane Reichhold as BANDANA


Act  I

Scene: Oakland, when it still had its oak trees. Even then there were roads carving paths where cows once ambled.

LEATHER:  my 1.6 liter
                       two-cycle engine
                       gas baby-feeding its mileage
                       then the burst of a tire
                       and the interior angle hit
Look, the seat behind me isn’t vacant, it’s yours, in case. You may share the danger. What other cycles would you like to part with?

BANDANA: The noise of heat. Even in the shade noise and heat snuggle up together. It is too hot to think or to want to feel.

LEATHER: What does the tree experiences when we suck up its juice giving the tires of our trip a more gluey profile passing through tight curves?

BANDANA:  Did you realize that trees are actually nourished by C02? As you drive your bike by they see your exhaust puffing out great clouds of warm, salty broth. No wonder their roots spread out, reach out, and crawl toward the pavement.

LEATHER: What’s the speed of darkness when we roar away from those marks the brakes left on asphalt?

BANDANA:   Exactly in a ratio of 1:1 in the reverse of light. However it always feels as if darkness is fatter, larger, and more dense than light. Therefore it is the miracle of the universe that in spite of its size and weight, darkness can move at the same speed of light – so they say.

LEATHER: I can hear my comrade’s “Dude” when at a sudden start I push the gas and the front wheel of my Dukati rises up. Why just then a pick-up lady-driver’s mouth next to me switches from a soft smile to an open-mouth gesture?

BANDANA: Hmmm. Shall I let the metaphor tempt me to kiss the tire – the rubber one?

LEATHER: Leather, a second skin? How tough, why mostly black and why brown leather doesn’t do the job, implies the wrong connotations? Black: that’s the color of true light wants for desert – chocolate ice cream, ice scream?

BANDANA: Interesting that your two favorite things come from cows. Mother milk and all of those implications.

while driving the gods and powerful do not need you
ill luck gathers and crosses its toes into New Mexico

as the heavenly first light breaths me I wake to
the mother-of-pearl buttons jailing the last of the sun

this emptiness you now hold to your ear as a shout
saying, "Hello, ah, Hello there Honey" no place to flee

when it appears nothing is happening languages undress
a relic of St. Rita's thorn as chickens scratch in the dust

outlines of time and space against the Holy Spirit sees
one in a giant wheelchair, diapered, dreaming and funny

did you know how the living fight over the dearly departed?
from a distance my mother watches us - everyone hated her

as a three-legged toad hiking the woods of California
a scene to be acted - shielded the bronze glint of a knife

clothes disappearing in the faith incense of veiny stream
in calico as if going to a dance so moth-like they never

found a homeland


LEATHER: Seems we watch a chrome-glossy-chronology of relations when my dream meets the release of others sparkling. The ignition of an engine – the noise of a genetic lottery at work, in progress?

BANDANA: Freud is rolling over in his grave and for that reason, refusing to reinCARnate.

LEATHER: The ‘slow-speed-contest winners’ laughter – then theoperational calm’ before the high-impact-season’s salty air at ebb tide on a September shore line at Point Arena, California. Well, it is fall, we may not undress. Anyway, the ‘aurora antenna’ to the Far North is set - see the skin-like interchanges between the reds and violets where there is only one sky possible, the one you build behind your eyes?

BANDANA: An English major on a bike? And you are inviting me to go with you to the “Beat the Heat” rally?

LEATHER: What part of ‘no dear’ you prefer not to understand when we enter the deaf-made-pleasure zone at the end of a tunnel where the smell of C02 needs your hand-knitted oxygen-mask, the kind you like interwoven with African beads, pearls and shell-splinters?

BANDANA: Ah the joy of a double negative lets me get out of this heat. I love how you love me with your words.

LEATHER:  Dependency: The word you would like to ignore when the price of gas rises. “Green fuel from kelp,” you whisper, “is a Harley without a howl like a lioness’ captivity in a zoo?" 



Act II


Scene: The wharf in Point Arena. Behind the pier jutting into the rocky bay is a long building with restaurants and gifts shops. Balancing this is the emptiness of the huge parking lot – big enough for boats and trailers and a party.

BANDANA: Wow! Look at those hogs! When does a toy stop being a luxury and becomes a necessity?

LEATHER:  Well, just try to run away from a too holy held house-hold-position. Real amazons wipe out their heavenly bank accounts


                    shop shop     Mercury     the girl's best friend



 BANDANA: We look so old-fashioned in leather! When can I get one of those nylon motor-cross outfits with pink puffs and star-bursts?

LEATHER:  It's common sense to play with five or more credit cards, joggle three kinds of dope and consult smiling doctors twice a week


                  I phone
                    you nurse
                    the stem cell twins

BANDANA: (sitting on a rock and staring into the distance) That’s why they call her the Great Mother. She pulls women’s souls out of their bodies and takes them home with her. And swimmers? Do they come back out of the water as slightly different people?

LEATHER: There is a salty low tide smell in the air. GM (Great Mother) shows up remodeled. Boy, do we like it! Swimmers may get neptunized. Watch the motor bikers: they fray out with fringed shawls, it looks like seaweed blowing with the wind.

BANDANA: It is so deliciously cool here in the fog. Why are all those people wrapped in sweaters and coats?

LEATHER: I am stuttering - may I confess what I just learned? Those guys you see are back from a boat trip, diving and harpooning for swordfish some five miles out from the California coastline. They met a 120 yard long submarine. Right, they came home as slightly different persons, chilled.

BANDANA: And gloves. The hand of the leather giant?

LEATHER:  glove-love
                    as Virginia Woolf wrote
                    "I the nymph
                    of the fountain
                    always wet"


BANDANA: When you give me your hand I will follow you. But as a modern woman, when I swing my leg over the seat of your cycle, I become something absolutely new. Have you noticed?

LEATHER:  Yes dear. Listening through head phones to a follower behind us who is working for 'DOLCE & GABANA', he said "get dressed anew you'll be feeling anew. It's the extra fold leather creates between the legs."

BANDANA: If riding motorcycles is like dancing, then who is leading?

LEATHER:  Right after the start mostly I with my sense of molten asphalt and indefinable ambitions. Then you click in contemplating the ride, calculating the dance as a gift for the two of us. Out after sunset you are making the most illuminating swings.

BANDANA: If I could sing this song to you in the night, where would it take you?

A little like the metaphor that mashes potatoes
really a stream, really a trickle, slice

of kindling or fat start of a load of cedar
whose door-stopping growth I could hear

over the hill there are dancing lights of
it, (They have not even pickled it, yet.)

which is why we're a little embarrassed
ashamed even when my face stares back

down a birch lane yellowing to autumn death
that strips October bare of the trees in which

it was born and relies entirely on absence.


The minnows swarm    drawn South in love   a seat to the North


Act  III

Scene: The cycle rally is over and everyone mounts a bike to go on their way.


Entirely the provenience and the privilege of an automatic
cooling system occurring as an overheated  rapture of benignity

the experienced logger stops the chain saw’s well oiled cut
on the weekend his bike and he himself leans at a pub

now fish and now chips phrasing their own satisfaction
the bubbling beer remembers a yellow corn field

News  lingering over New York’s fluctuating stock market
the win-win senses widening the loose-loose knowledge

deregulated   the foot still on the break   touch and go gassed


BANDANA:  I am always amazed, when I go back home, that the rest of the world has continued on its own way even when I am gone. Somehow I have the feeling that when I leave a place, the electricity should be unplugged and everything remain as still as a photograph until my life comes back into it to give it energy again. I suppose some could accuse me of being ego-centric or maybe I am too touched by being accused?

                        here is the lonely
                        tree bark and a cycle’s
                        wreck attached
                        by accident   traveler
                        is there much left in the pipes

                                  the nurse a real lover
                        a stethoscope plus butterfly
                        her necklace

                        Sunday left helpless
                        my doctor is out fishing
                        for the hungry eel
                        in his lungs
                        the six-geared song
                        of the exhaust fumes’ particles

Monday  why is the quarter moon’s yellow coming down appealing?

BANANA: Probably for the same reason we feel that having a doctor available means a physical problem is being taken care of. While alone with an injury, we cannot help but feel that if we just got a doctor to look at it, improvement would be on its way. In the same way that the yellowing of the setting moon in no way changes the moon, also having a doctor taking notice of a wound or physical condition does not change the actual trauma area but does make the injured and the caretaker feel vastly different. This makes me wonder what I want the last thought to be before I cross the threshold of death. . . Your thought?

The thought too great so a harp’s Lied takes over vibrations

captivity   what a delight   holding the iPhone  lower

honey    the condition in a dormitory   sweetly guided noses

firmest wave-mechanics select one dream not to end in bed

ritual    the cry of a loon   moving my hat’s feather   a laughter

clean drinking water and your dew-wet shell-like mouth to lick

DINC – double income no child – the engagement ring to shove

taken afar    than barely let go   the ocean’s kelp proliferation

mid day   by a butterfly’s wing-wind   her hair begins to curl

our engine   rattling along with olive oil   we used to cock with

by bits & starts   is chain-mail trendy or a web-search stickier

ritual     the jogger breathless   cramps helped against a tree

so home-loaned    so hit by a 2:4    recession into depression

attended   by a drunken party  a nuclear submarine diving up

why do my jaws move too when a camel kisses Buddha’s finger

a straw shadow parts the white mane on top of my ice coffee

ritual    the wet land’s brown alligator turns its belly to the sun

Ah, the perfect way to beat the heat! without a stick. . .

      Libra lilting          
 level-headed liaison





Linda Papanicolaou, US  (Linda)
Kathy Earsman, AU  (Kathy)
Moira Richards , ZA (Moi)
Lynne Reese, UK  (Lynne)
Denis Holmes, US (Chibi)

Haiga by Maya Lyubenova and Colin Stewart Jones

Frank Williams
Vanessa Proctor
Dick Pettit

Silva Ley
Jacques Verhoeven

Volker Friebel – German
Jane Reichhold – English

Dick Pettit – Denmark
Paul Merken – Holland

Francis Attard –

Andre Surridge
Owen Bullock

Haiga by Jerry Dreessen and Mark Smith

Mariusz Ogryzko
Jacek Margolak

Mariusz Ogryzko
Jacek Margolak

Werner Reichhold as LEATHER
Jane Reichhold as BANDANA


Back issues of Lynx:

XV:2 June, 2000
XV:3 October, 2000
XVI:1 Feb. 2001
XVI:2 June, 2001
XVI:3 October, 2001  
XVII:1 February, 2002
XVII:2 June, 2002
XVII:3 October, 2002
XVIII:1 February, 2003
XVIII:2 June, 2003
XVIII:3, October, 2003
XIX:1 February, 2004
XIX:2 June, 2004

XIX:3 October, 2004

XX:1,February, 2005

XX:2 June, 2005
XX:3 October, 2005
XXI:1February, 2006 
XXI:2, June, 2006

XXI:3,October, 2006

XXII:1 January, 2007
XXII:2 June, 2007
XXII:3 October, 2007

XXIII:1 January, 2008
XXIII:2 June, 2008

XXIII:3, October, 2008


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Next Lynx is scheduled for June, 2009 .

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