XXIV:3, October, 2009

A Journal for Linking Poets 



Mike Montreuil
Micheline Beaudry

summer heat ­
children run
under the sprinkler               

driving along the river
to the cormorants’ nest            

birthday card –
I am near
my parents’ age                   

an echo from a far away train
he remembers those nights         

leaves fall slowly
one by one
under an October moon               

first snow on bare trees ­
the laughter of two lovers         

marriage counselor –
two cold coffees
on the table                      

we talk in hushed tones
on the telephone                    

the house door
opens with the wind –
her voice from the past           

on a varnished desk
he arranges his accounts            

May day –
the iris that wasn’t there

the cry of a tit bird
in the warmth of Spring             



Haiga by Billie Dee & Terry O'Connor



Gerd Börner

Salzernte -                                salt harvest
der Bauer zeigt auf                    the farmer points
dunkle Wolken                         to dark clouds

Angelika Wienert

nichts als Leere                          only emptiness
auf dem Tuscheblatt                              on the drawing paper

Gerd Börner



Prolog -                                                prologue -
den Duft des Sommers              the fragrance of summer
aus der Haut lesen                                read on the skin

Gerd Börner

der Vorhang schließt sich                      the curtain closes
vor dem letzten Ton                              with the last note

Ina Müller-Velten



ALTE KERBEN                                  OLD NOTCHES
Claudia Brefeld
Martina Heinisch

Hünengräber –                                      Megalithic tombs –
dem Raunen der Baumkronen               listen to
lauschen                                               whispering of the trees

schwarzer See                                     black lake
der Mond späht ins Riet                      the moon peeks into the reeds

Hände verweilen                                   hands pausing
auf dem Priesterstein –                         on the priest stone -
alte Kerben                                          old notches

Flüsterböker –                                    conjuring books –
unter Buchen                                      under beeches
Kriemhilds Helm                                Kriemhilds Helmet blossoms

Im Loch des Hühnergottes                    in the hole of a hagstone
blauer Himmel                                      blue sky

Pfarrscheune –                                    parish barn –
Wizlaws Spuren                                   following
folgen                                                  Wizlaw’s tracks










Wolfgang Beutke (haiku) and Anne-Dore Beutke (image).



UNBEMALTE HIMMEL                            UNPAINTED SKIES
Claudia Brefeld
Martina Heinisch

Weiße Stadt –                                      White city –
Segel tasten sich                                   sails feel the way
zum Horizont                                        to the horizon

Eine Möwe steigt                                  a seagull soaring
im unbemalten Himmel                          in the unpainted sky

Fährmann, hol über                               ferryman, set over
Die Kamera zeigt                                  the camera shows
noch drei Bilder                                    only three photos

Warten …                                            waiting for…
Kraniche                                              cranes
versammeln sich                                    gather

Strelasund – Brückenseile                     Strelasund – bridge ropes
überspannen die Weite                          span the width

Mast- und Schotbruch!                         Always Smooth Winds from behind!
ein Zeesenboot berührt                         A Zeesen boat touches
die Morgensonne.                                 the morning sun.



Ramona Linke
Gabriele Reinhard

La Malagueña ...
the vibrations of his fingers
on the chords

standing ovations:
“The Third Man”

Marcel Proust –
Le temps retrouvé
loaned out

a heart of glass
between torn letters
her word

the dragon’s tattoo
in front of the inner eye

the unspoken
at the edge
of parting



IN BEWEGUNG                               ON THE MOVE
Gabriele Reinhard

Claudia Brefeld

wilder Mohn                                         wild poppy
zum Klassentreffen                                for the class reunion
die 68-er Jeans                                     the jeans of 68

ihre Joplin-Mähne                                 her Joplin-hair
blond und gebändigt                              blond and tamed

Japan                                                  Japan
the Beautiful and Myself                     the Beautiful and Myself

als Originalausgabe                               as an original edition

Entrümpelung …                                   clearing out …
der Lampion aus der WG                     the lampion of the living community
bleibt                                                    stays here

auf einer Harley mit Billy                       on the Harley with Billy
entlang Route 1                                     along Route 1

eng umschlungen                                   tightly embraced
Räucherstäbchen hüllen                         incense sticks wrapping
den Mond ein                                       the moon



Jane Reichhold
Giselle Maya

10 o’clock
the night sky’s rosy glow
starting a new poem

words are feather dreams
they wing out of thin air

more magic
unripe tomatoes suddenly

a swim in a green river
warm and cold currents

over the hill
a friendly face is
the moon

with tai chi friends

a glass of champagne
Gershwin songs
bubble from the center

renewing their vows
fifty years disappear

touch tails and fins
close to their friends

a feeling of loss
chest pains continue

letting go
can I learn to see her
just another being
everything in the clay studio
given to an artist-pal with hope

winter moon
cat and i snug
under the down puff

in the smoothness of snow
my mind empty of thought

 a light rain
 out of the compost
 a salamander

the poet laureate calls
searching for an archaic word

on the salad
a sprinkle of basil
and nasturtiums

a new redhead wife
the spice of his life

in a photograph
the day the blossoms
fell to earth

voices in the dark street
lit by an old lantern

wading down a river
water moccasin  

digging up potatoes
we find a Roman shard

flower rimmed
and blossom-bright
path to the beach

the spring runs downhill
softly in the seventh month
on her hand
caressing her stomach
no wedding band

she greets him with a smile
everyone is watching

home again
the soldier-son blinks
back the tears

remember the sound
of rain on clay tiles

a twinkle in the pond’s
dark waters

long pine road
uphill winding home

right foot sprained
resting and healing long
before asters unfold

with ten holes
my body the flute

sound races
to third eye
poised to open

nodes on bare branches
counting the days ‘til spring

return to Myoren-ji
the scent of pale winter

dawn brings a rosy glow
to the faces of the hikers

Started: June 22, 2009     Finished:  July 13, 2009



Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair

forgetting to lock the door she hurries back
riverside, all this glass on the stone seat
at a picnic table the backpacker types on her laptop
rusting to feather colour, steel moa sculpture
between spread toes of the moa, river gravel
created from a ploughshare a pied shag dries its wings
formation flying - oystercatchers on an arched pole
poking above rushes the ears of a sleeping Hereford
in the muddy stop bank horse's hoof prints
along the bird walk flax pods curved like beaks
across the river a tricolour flies from a flag pole
'Oyster Bay' - lapping against its hull wind driven waves



Haiga by Shanna Baldwin and Gillena Cox



Paul Mercken
Alison Williams
Fokkina McDonnell
Paul (& Karen) Smith

  young folk on the beach
  their skin still plaster white
  soaking up the sun
  a splash of green
  overhanging cobblestones
  her smile
  at an unexpected gift
  snapdragon seeds
  two for one offer:
  half strength coffee
  puddles full
  of moonlight
  all the way home
  visitors cheer
  at the Orange Bowl
        * * * * *
  at La Giostra in Florence
  by Hapsburg princes
  a new name embroidered
  on the family tree
  through the park
  on a tandem -
  just friends
  thirty years on
  they make the same vows
  church bells
  drifting in and out
  of sleep
  Chester amphitheatre
  tourists at a fresh dig
  in the moonshine
  for the last peg
  midsummer night
  the birds don't stop singing
  at Stonehenge
  a druids' protest:
  handcuffs are out
  news headlines
  caught in a chain-link fence
  flags and flowers
  veterans and dignitaries
  liberation day
  murmurs of life
  in the lambing shed
       * * * * *
  out of nowhere
  a butterfly
  shapes the wind
  around the candle flame
  a shimmering
  museum garden
  mossy grass
  the rotting coracle
  seized in the spotlight
  the pirates surrender
  an angel
  flies up inside
  the snow globe
  the film of the novel
   of all the gin joints
  in all the towns in the world
  she walks into mine
  flirting with the waiter
  after he leaves
   the divorcee
  browses through a book
  of wallpaper samples
  that ticket machine
  keeps rejecting his coins
  cool moon rays
  in the mirror
  an extra apple tips the scale
           * * * * *
  sudden gust
  the flailing arms
  of a headless scarecrow
  holding their bellies
  the laughter therapy class
  attending a lecture
  on Freud
  without really knowing why
  surprised at seeing
  someone he thought was dead
  in their hundreds:
  daffodils and tulips
  at the crematorium
  the chimney sweep comes early
  wearing clean overalls
Jane Reichhold
Giselle Maya

only after dinner
is the salad
garbage to be a meal
tossed to the ravens   

snails take
bites out of the strawberries
there is
enough for all of us
if only we can share

paying more
for the organic veggies
the worm
certifies the label’s claim
that it is food fit to eat

to plant
one’s own food
a statement
no ingredients to question
you are what you eat

by the sea
a desert of fogs
allows no romantic garden
water only for drinking

the spring
irrigates the garden
I loose my way
among rows of snowpeas

the competition
at the local art show
who is greener
soy inks and recycled paper
or the plan of the concept artist

and bright-winged birds
over high meadows
more luminous by far
than lights of the city

rivers slowed by concrete
into high tension wires
toasters and computers

above the river
icicles drift in space
he rides the kayak
into silver-beaded letters
of mist and disappears

on tip-toes
trying to erase reality
a carbon footprint
follows me out back
to the recycle bin

an old Kurosawa film
‘after the rain’
he enters the forest
she shows him his own face

I love you
sounds on his old lips
from a wedding ceremony
forty years ago

high and low
whenever I look for
a word
snow white like the peony
within a cradle greener still

cutting it out
of organic fabric scraps
the designer
makes a bag to replace
plastic sacks that never die

rising silently
white jade moon
over the crest
footprints on the earth
yours and mine

climate change
each life moves resources
in a compost pile
the biggest watermelon
with its will to live anywhere

sacerdotal green
loved by Renaissance painters
they revered
sky blue the deep color
of the Madonna’s robe

Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair

on the tips of water reeds, spider's webs

thick as bees swallows swarm above wetlands

reflected in the lagoon a disused cow trough

in the distance the houseboat's balcony waits for summer

skimming the surface of the water, the stilt's mating ritual

a few spits of rain remind us we've a long walk home

on the rickety footbridge young cyclists make way for us

this last stretch a deceptive incline and a head wind

leading their owner a pair of rust-coloured dogs

I'm glad I went back to lock the house - he's home when we return

at the base of the gate post, a handful of pansies

stepping inside, the warmth of the woodburner



Ken Wanamaker
Kathy Earsman
Norman Darlington

a rope swing
dangles over a stream —
butterflies on board /kw

larksong cascades
around the stepping stones /ke

one more and yet
another for the tipsy
road ahead /nd

an obelisk in a clearing
gathers tribal nations /kw

winter Earth
turns silently above
the moon /ke

zeroing the length
of your longsword thrust /nd

a cuirass
next to the bed stand
Guinevere's slip /kw

merely the remnants
of a dream this shortest night /nd

sometimes hope
can be a mouthful
of candyfloss /ke

a child beholds the universe
in its clustered center /kw

from within without
our dahlia pouring
autumn sunset /nd

somewhere in this vast sea
one dugong finds a mate /ke

cuirass : a breastplate worn by medieval knights candyfloss : cotton
candy dugong : an old world sea mammal, similar to a manatee
A Junicho renga composed online from May 5 to 31, 2009



October 2008
Werner Reichhold
Jane Reichhold

Act I

Scenery: Two artists leaving town and settling close to the Pacific Ocean. By now, both recognize they are residing on an island, viewing some ten thousand square miles of salty waters. October: A white heron takes off the kelp bed, geese fly south. Moles come out after the first winter rains drenched the soil. A season interviewing itself.

Do we call this “an interview-based drama?” In which way would we see the work distinguished from other theatrical attempts?
 Though plays are always collaborations, not many are originally written by two people. Screen plays are often rewrites of others’ works, but in the beginning they are usually written by one person. Here, from day to day each of us has no idea where this work will go. We walk around with the completed play as separate parts inside the two of us.

I would like to extract material surrounding the night of a fetus. The writing, the silent interview should appear as a celebration, resembling the reactions of a thermostat bonded to climatically caused changes. Here, in this case we are exploring the changes in the life of a woman during a 9 months period. We then try to disengage from the actual occurring “events in time and womb,” putting together a certain word-play.  
This fits into my life! Having just celebrated the Day of the Dead, I am ready for new life. My only fear is that one of our several sexually active twenty-something grandchildren will attempt to make my dream come true. So, how can I help you?

During in interview I am verifying a special effect when indeed one of the partners obviously looks temporary absent
watching a ball
arriving close to the goal
         she feels netted
Do the questions of an interviewer determine how to proceed talking to one another? Is a surprisingly appearing question a true engine and does this kind of a motor pulls a suspected audience into “a clock of words ticking?”
As election day, the day when the people of the United States will be picking a president, and a vice president, and then all too soon new judges for the Supreme Court which will then reevaluate the present laws regarding abortion and the question of when does a person begin? With the desire of two persons to have sex? Or the act of collaboration? Or the second act already?

a tongue moves
the sickle side of the moon
is aware of a bunny
Imagine that in the Temple of Manifestation, there is a large crowd of the recent dead milling around under circles of huge TV screens. On each screen is another story being portrayed of a male and a female. The films are well-made, showing not only the complete outfit each is wearing but swirling around the characters, in visible images, are their family and its history. If you were here, which couple would you chose for your next parents?

one powdered memo
in a letter signed and mailed
        by her perfumer’s laugh

and freckles

the arching toenail’s pink
a shaded air by bending over
his left eye guessing
the other not quite sure
and then the coupling ignorance
a mild January
after a lifetime of storms
on this day
I await my birth
so many years ago

the person that’ll turn the head
a silhouette

at my birth
the face of my grandmother
now in my old age
she has returned

reciprocal to a comet
around the dog house
I came to earth
naked and unwanted
in the coldest month
I’ve learned the lessons
yet there have been fires

quietly falling
into my empty pages
wind still
as the breath
of my parents
eaten by their graves
the pulse of the planet

the flags are the same
but the message depending
on both sailors



















Scenery: As in the planning of a good soup, various products are gathered into one specific place with a cutting board and a large kettle.

My daughter reports that when she was on her way home planning dinner and driving on Black River Ave. in downtown Detroit, when her iPhone started ringing in the pocket of her pants. She read the number – left the connection sing and vibrating. She knew who was calling, and with slanted eyes her mind was composing a possible answer when suddenly

passing a red light
a cop stopped her “Lady?”
she rolled the window down
slightly in trance she whispered
“oh double you see”
 (iPhone abbreviation “owc” = only with condom)
The cop, his lips sloped over grinding teeth, in doubt about the mental condition of the young woman and he himself a day before retirement, couldn’t help but give in and let her get away without a ticket.
Personally seen: did he act reliably according to a bigger concept?

Ah, you are reminding me of a day in Ann Arbor, also in Michigan – which brings up the concept that you are accessing past information in the ether! – when I ran a red light (how right you are!) and crashed into a taxi cab. The front of the car was so damaged it had to be towed away, so the young (in this case) cop offered me a ride home. As we passed the parking lot of the stadium at the end of our street, he slowed, looked it over in the gathering gloom and turned to me and said, “Shall I tear up the ticket?”

One book not written yet; a paper back, lots of graphs, $ 4, title: For Children Up To Fourteen Years (a must.)

The Ugly Swan swims in the shallow end of the gene pool. And then one day. . .?

a geisha paid
by the number of scent sticks
her every whim a star
in dark-eyed pillows squelched

a madrigal
chanted by monks
yet I know
my life was made holy
by each of my mistakes

she fingers a knot
behind the back
in her apron

it is all I have
the humming wheel
clay-caked hands
the cups that will break
on my dying day

a praying mantis
its green-legged step
on my garden gloves

as if recovering
from an illness
the happiness of days
after my birthday
silver-wrapped “kiss”-
on a one-way road we lick
chocolate & liquor to death
























Scenery: At twilight coming home to a suburban condominium – where everything in it is alive and somehow gives one the feeling as if unseen muscles are able to stretch the legs of a chair or curtains seem to move like dresses worn in a breeze. The unpolished wooden floor forces one to imagine walking on the epidermis of someone in love and ever present. The paintings on the wall carry with them the question of whose brush’s color made their occurrence so lastingly in disorder balanced.  

The North American woman in question carries with her a lineation back to Kenya. Grassland – the 5895 m high, always snow covered Kilimanjaro can barely be envisioned. Everything coming close to responding receptors appears as a climate related acuteness and all beings, amorphous or organic are in a learning process to take the situation as it is. Between dawn and dust, a naked rope hanging from a tree curls and uncurls rhythmically

half knot half wanted    the fly in amber    a humming down the neck

That could explain why when computer-made glass beads flow through my fingers I am touching something very old in myself. The desire to other things with holes in them. . . Hm. . . This connects to the idea of stringing or combining the ‘holy things’ – to make a statement greater than any just one of them. Even the concept of networking. How a net becomes powerful in spite of its many holes?

Noon: The single woman – now we realize her as for thirty years part of her foreign environment, models. Both, she and the Japanese artist seem to ignore if not to enjoy becoming prisoners held together only by pencil lines on a sheet of drawing paper. What we see is commonly called a study. But getting closer, let’s say to a touchable distance, the word study had disappeared. What’s left at hand can but not necessarily will be sold as art and therefore permits possible ownership.

But is not ownership what we desire for each of our works? The ownership of others? To have someone else admire and desire something we have drawn out of ourselves – maybe even literally drawn about our selves – to take into their lives.

Ownership of what? What kind of vibrations came into play so that those two people relating to each other materialized a drawing and helped it into its now new singular existence?

Maybe you are right. What do buyers of art own? The emotions that led and directed the shaping of the art work have died within the artist, even if he or she is still living. That could account for the feeling one gets upon seeing one’s own artwork in someone else’s house – “what is that of me doing here?”

The "me", the one I truly am, is trying to collaborate with someone else's desires. In the mirror of an artwork the artists are constantly studying their collisions. Over time, They are becoming both winners. Content, form, or colors seem to be sacrificed – so what is left?

The highly personalized image as carried around the world in the mind of the viewer. Just think that of every single thing you have created as an artist, when it is seen by someone else, is copied or captured – taken as real – in that person’s mind. No matter where they go, or for how long they live, your artwork remains in their brain. Your artwork may disincarnate, be destroyed, or abandoned, but as long as person lives and breathes who has seen your art-piece, it lives in their brain. Think, if you can, of tracking the lives of your artwork in all these minds moving at all the different places on the globe. The one connection they all have is the fact that the image originated with you – out of your dream for a piece of art.

For what kind of an undertaking is the audience asked regenerating a former process with someone's own way of getting jazzed by art?

It is part of our miracle of life that we cannot look at anything without collaborating with it. The mere process of remembering a thing or an event is colored, changed, arranged by the viewer and his or her perspective, mood, inclination and a thousand other differences of feeling or judgment. Nothing is saved on a clean slate. We, no matter how inartistic we think of ourselves, are constantly recreating the artwork of others; even rewriting their poems in our memories. How can we determine which version of an idea persists beyond the memory of the living?

Not often, there appears this scary but promising feeling of falling back into something not experienced before. It has the capacity to single out an area of risks if not disaster. One already imagines certain alarming shadows before visualizing a caravan loaded with uncertainties on a way to a well. You may become the well's visitor invited to stay for a night. Once arriving at this state of mind, what are the erotic and other stimuli you need to enter the hidden messages?

black ink
surrounds the white
flowing from the wet point
held up by thick jointed fingers
the brush
moving in a march of heartbeats
skitters and skips into
a rock solid

wind blows
a line of sheets
across the living room
attempts and failures together
idea against reality’s mask
curtains to hide behind
pictures to draw

visitors or
friends stopping by for tea
the kettle brings the water for
a brush
to touch the solitude of soot
ground against a dark stone
day upon day























Graphic credits:
Act 1: In this picture, Lucas Cranach and Hieronymus Bosch are collaborating with Nano-structures.
Act 2: This collage is seen as collaboration between Salvador Dali, Albrecht Dürer and Leonardo Davinci’s fall of the folds.
Act 3: This is a collaboration between Albrecht Dürer, Marc Chagall and Jim Dine, a liquid gas tanker
and an architectural perspective.  




Mike Montreuil
Micheline Beaudry

Haiga by Billie Dee & Terry O'Connor

Gerd Börner

ALTE KERBEN                             OLD NOTCHES
Claudia Brefeld
Martina Heinisch

Haiga by Wolfgang Beutke & Anne-Dore Beutke

UNBEMALTE HIMMEL                           UNPAINTED SKIES
Claudia Brefeld
Martina Heinisch

Ramona Linke
Gabriele Reinhard

Gabriele Reinhard

Claudia Brefeld

Jane Reichhold
Giselle Maya

Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair

Haiga by Shanna Baldwin and Gillena Cox

Paul Mercken
Alison Williams
Fokkina McDonnell
Paul (& Karen) Smith

Jane Reichhold
Giselle Maya

Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair

Ken Wanamaker
Kathy Earsman
Norman Darlington

Werner Reichhold
Jane Reichhold


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
XXIV:1 February, 2009

XXIV:2, June, 2009

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