October, 2011

A Journal for Linking Poets  


Steffen Horstmann
Salamanders swarm along the stream in your Japanese garden,
Near sunlit shallows where minnows teem in your Japanese garden.
Plum petals form a delicate shroud on a samurai's shrine.
His body levitates from a pond like steam in your Japanese garden.
You watch lotus-shaped clouds transform into faces of deities –
Nestled beneath willows (rapt in a dream) in your Japanese garden.
Hummingbirds hover before a mirror, charmed by their reflection.
Butterflies spiral in a breeze's slipstream in your Japanese garden.
Pearls embedded in a geisha's embroidered gown glisten by candlelight.
She reads Basho & appraises her diamond's gleam in your Japanese garden.
Silence suffused with the sensation of expectancy, an aesthetic of   space
Awaiting its occupant (a latent theme) in your Japanese garden.
Bonsai saplings, golden abacus, cherry trees, marble tiger –
Lavished with the grace of an Empress's esteem–in your Japanese garden.
Dream of transformation you become–a cloud of mist lit from within
Dissolves as light leaks from an expanding seam, in your Japanese garden.
Wind through grasses is the voice of a sage reciting haiku, uttered
Subtly within the breadth of a daydream, in your Japanese garden.

*title and opening line by David St. John


Gene Doty

In the Paleozoic, hidden hands redacted the world’s scriptures.
A temple built of one-way mirrors reflected the world’s scriptures.

Stone masons chopped raw granite with imaginary chisels.
Mute frotteurs with sticks of graphite extracted the world’s scriptures.

Adam calculated the curve of Eve’s thigh and buttock.
The mathematics of his desire impacted the world’s scriptures.

Hardly any gods bothered to read or write or do arithmetic.
Instead, their scribes, Thoth and Ganesh, refracted the world’s scriptures.

Alphabets and ideograms give Archimedes a fulcrum.
Find a place to stand, Gino, and you will have inspected the world’s scriptures.



Ruth Holzer

The true goal of war is to pile body on body;
guilty or innocent, no matter whose body.

Rats clamber over the rubble of the world,
flies feed to satiety on many a body.

Warm ash shoveled into a bucket:
through fire and air, there goes everybody.

Punishment your sole inheritance;
you too are humanity’s nobody.

Ruth survives and learns to forget
the sentence of history inscribed on the body.


Haiga by Emily Romano



Ed Baranosky

      It is too clear and so it is hard to see.
      A dunce once searched for a fire with a lighted lantern,
      Had he known what fire was,
      He could have cooked his rice much sooner.

A spiral stairway encloses the point of light
Sweeping across the invisible horizon

Among the fossil fires
Of distant stars.

Beached with driftwood relics
Our rippling reflection

In a tidal pool mirror
That traces the effects of time

Wing-fingers stretch open above
Our forgotten footprints

And decimated shells remain
Shattered along the cliff’s base.

Every vision quest has a secret cost.
We’ve been away too long.




L. Costa

I've always had this unceasing desire of changing the meaning of words and verbs in such a way that they will act on the mind of the reader always. Last night I decided to start. I went to the cellar that I haven't got and lighted two small candles that I had lost, one made with red wax, the other with green. Though pale, the candles provided enough expanding space for my project. I started changing the action of words and verbs at once.

single chair
in the vast cathedral
stained by glass

It will work out progressively. First the wors will stark shanking sillyghtly. As timme paso-dobles the tang oly opre grit rose. Up to the paint of non-geranium. Stamp.

last night
out of the blues
new light



Colin Stewart Jones

Ask anything you want. I’ll gladly be your guide and show you around my home planet, if you want. I’ll even share my food with you but you’re not probing there mate, got it! Yes I understand your need for knowledge but that is a difficult thing that you ask of me.

Prose and poetry? Ok, that's perhaps even more difficult but here goes! Put simply, prose is a form of written language that follows natural speech patterns to convey its message; poetry is more stylized and you should never mix prose and poetry within a piece of writing. Well, actually “The cat sat on the mat” is prose, even though it does rhyme. Can I scribble a quick example of how you could turn the same images into poetry. Thanks!

cat sat on the mat.jpg
This an example of what we call concrete poetry. Ah, haiku, you’ve heard of them. Well, yes, they do use concrete images but they are not concrete poems. I know it sometimes feels alien to me too but apparently it is all about the juxtaposition of concrete images. You’ve had a go at writing one...can I see it?

ghy thaaaarg—
qwarxox hawz xzxlug
Sirius B.

Yes, I think I get it. My universal translator can act up sometimes but it is a pun, isn’t it? I'm not sure if the third “A” in thaaaarg is silent, or not. But anyway, we don't count syllables any more. You are playing with the idea of “The Pup”, the unseen companion to the Dog Star, Sirius. I think an Earth editor would tell you that you’ve used too many verbs. And anyway puns are kinda frowned upon these days. Better to set the scene first, and write:

Sirius B—
rith hawz thaaaarglog
xzxlug qwarxox

Yes, I know. But there is a subtle difference and lines two and three now end with a slant rhyme. Haiku were originally meant to be spoken, you know! I’m sorry. Yes of course I’ll give you a "moment".

I know, I know! I did say you shouldn’t mix prose and poetry. Seems like prose to you? It did to me at first as well. You’d like to see one of mine? I do not write them now that I’m busy among the stars. But yes, here is an old one:

blue sky
before me
beyond me

Well, it is philosophical and uses word play to give it its double meaning. But yes I do see your point; it could be read as disjointed prose and also as a pun. But, to me, it is a poem and is more about what is unstated. But yes, it does also seem a pointless question now that I’m out here policing this sector of the Solar System.

What about haibun? I know. Now that I think about it, haibun really do sound contradictory too but they are also poetry even though they’re composed of both prose and poetry in juxtaposition. You are not alone, most folk don’t get it either. No I’m sorry, I have never written one.

we say adieu,
can there be any more
here and now?
our moon—half or full
a simple trick of light

ZiggyStardust is the name of the cat



simply haiku, winter 2009, vol 7 no 4



by morvene =  Robby an animator in Bali


from the distant south,
there the first swallow comes
for a moments rest.



Colin Stewart Jones

...a form of insinuation, always yet never, humming not singing, no, hints of grey, ghosts, extensions, black, broken, as far as possible, hell, a relic, a ceremony, a cure, beaten, brought back, it’s happening, definitely coming, yes, dark nights, hidden days, vagaries, no one knows, armpits, a steaming vat, leading to this moment, contact, frustrated, no matter, the door, relationship, desire, distance maintained, much distance, rare these days, do you see, look don’t see, look for, look after, looking forward, yes, positive attitude, valuable contribution, discussion, a prayer, make voice heard, brass, cynical, a world of good, doubts tested, that’s the key, face it, face to face, fantastic, fascinating,  conclusion, might be possible, don’t buy it, too late, none shall sleep, more than one, none, a voice, don’t think I heard, disappointed, catastrophic, practice, go ahead, wait, just like that, driven, give it a go, the lyrics, like that, sad, write them down, what’s it called, all night, keep out, forget about them, no help, passing, now, not the first time, I have the first, right, running, blowing, slower, I think, right, it is, not that bad, not too bad, the same, over and over, leave, not many have heard, where are they now, commemorate, celebrate memory, play it by ear, excited now, suppose, ping, pong...

the walls
institutional blue

...that’s the business, sound better, used to think, a partnership, grief, we’ve all got it wrong, inherent infallibility, system isn’t working, novelty, give up now, defeatist, sure it’s good, now live, exciting victory, eager to start, hands together, rugged, dream small first, young dreams, poet, fool, spin to light, lifted, do now, in time, do what, plan, hold on, get it, silence, celebration, the answer’s simple, costs too much, sound plausible, I feel it’s time, move up, experience the challenge, a potential story, hidden from the rest, walk in the sun, coming at me, no choice now, did you see, quick, you see it, nothing there, does it have a name, how about, no, wait got one, perfect, what, it’s not working, who’s this, it’s alright, shut up, make it quick, any reason why, doubts, a friendly ear, a strange story, it must have burrowed, connection, no others, wild, company, out of the way, seconds, give up on the idea, see it, before it moves, hairy, a plague resting, away, pursuing conventions, it gives off a smell, connected, somewhere safe, together, in chains, caring, mind at rest, easy, in the vice, won’t feel a thing, sure, a few minor modifications, rope, this is new, green, chew through it all, better, more appropriate, still fire, rocks, struggle, listen, icy wind, take in some air, breathe...

I see a fly on the wall
scratch its head

...question, leave it, just curiosity, spared the experience, that’s where it grows, somewhere safe, a place you‘d never think of, the last place you’d think, rocking, shaking, falling now, can’t move, rest, yes, fine now, tell you, not here, where, guess, far as possible, working controls, wires, doors, just a dream, crocheted blades, some man speaking, solemn time, an atmosphere of serenity, very special, no more, no sacrifice if easy, won’t be beaten, understood, oh yes, make a vow, deep, somewhere safe, this is easy, not even thinking, not thinking, rocking, do you think, I certainly do, circling Euclid, 3.14159265, doesn’t impress, hold it down, sleep, relent, give in, temptation, punish myself, used to be happy, it wasn’t enough, admit it, Ave, Ave Maria, relentless, holding, seeing things as they are, visions are back, normal, still here, all coming back, I remember, want fun, good miserable time, never think that, imagine that, to disintegrate, on fire, blue, ah yes, my particular vice, willpower, basic things, get rid of pride, obstacles, fulfilment, burn the bricks, red, tonight, I miss the rain, knocking loudly, sound and light, I’m back, didn’t think ahead, a whole head, old habits, day in, day out, oaths, I just wait, counting the days, stories, his not mine, told over, confessional, recounted in silence...

fashion victim
of my new label





Johnny Baranski

i've come to know many of them by name
the fisher poets who gather to critical acclaim
at astoria, oregon by the dock of the bay
in the "voodoo room" and the "wet dog cafe"
there's geeno and hobe, holly and moe
susan, rebecca, toby and joe
dano, natalia, they’re part of the crew
and "kid and spud siegel" to sing for you
year in and year out these mariners rhyme
though a few spin their poems free verse some time
dave densmore can tell a whale of a tale
while moe bowstern's hair is a peacock’s fantail
their sonnets and songs on port side or starboard
often are far from sweet home and safe harbor
the fishing they do hook, line, and sinker
is fraught with peril, so none is a shrinker
and when to the sea one of them's lost
a little of each pays a part of the cost
 it's not just a job these fishers confess
but "our way of life" despite the duress
the fishing's a must they're quick to maintain
the poems because there's "salt in our veins"

                                               autumn moon

                                               tossed about in ocean   swells

                                               the empty trawler



Jane Reichhold

When I dream of the sea I wake up with no words left in me.

Is it like having them washed away?

Jumbled. Even the alphabet is stirred into a soup.

Crabmeat and abalone?

When the tide turns to recede, it draws out the ideas in sleeping minds.

All along the coast the petal-fragile consciousness of the unaware slips in one great dark direction.

Perhaps that is why people often die at low tide in the night.

The silver cups of moonlight in the waves become boats.

No boatman as on the river Styx?

It seems the tide is so filled with deep knowledge that it alone knows the way.

To where?

Back to the stars. Our true homes. The navels of our beginnings.

the open sea
a face still young stares
back at me



Werner Reichhold

  No more refined news on oily Arabian screens?

  Salome, they’re only trying to suck up the sand’s milk, kneeling

  Oh, like me? I am a nurse, patiently cashing in at night-services

  Wow, are you the winner of blessings on corporations’ surplus?

  Like a flying hostess’ sister not spilling rosé leaning by screaming

  Ah, is there hope that helps the shades of energy not to melt again?

  Guess it hurts, Aviva, watching cold skin going out with a riptide

  Hot on the rock, the father of uncontrolled thoughts named Nobel

  Look at hybrids, “Otto-engine and the currents” make quiet babies

  By gum, do you praise the bubbles of share traders in dark hollows?

  Rubbing my eyes, honey- I guess bait lifts trout staying wild online


              wireless dated

              and yet still two figures

              not likely

              close enough to share

              one shadow



Carol Pearce-Worthington

A miniature man slumbers on the deck of a pewter ship that is his life.  A dagger rests beside him.  He obviously does not feel threatened, yet his ship balances on the back of an elephant with jeweled ears and pointed teeth.  He may dream of victories to come, a confident warrior.  While dragons curve in the ocean below, still the man sleeps.  He is designed to sleep, to go blindly through the walls of nothing and the threat of dragons, carved by the artist who also made the waves, the ship, the dagger; he is designed to fit this journey where no bird will ever dare to sing and thus embody the courage of the human being. Perhaps in dreams he knows that this is where he was meant to be for he does not seem afraid of what lies below or ahead.  And unaware of the glass case and its edges that surround him,  the man sleeps.

We stare at him, his ship, his dagger, the elephant, and the dragons. Meanwhile, the man, the warrior, sleeps.


it will have to be enough...
the master weaver
never stops weaving



Adelaide B. Shaw

She was a bright student, Phi Beta Kappa.  Married before graduation.  Has her first child six months later.  Three more children follow in rapid succession.  She moves to a
New England Coastal town and writes that she is happy.

She, with husband and children, move to Florence, Italy, where he continues his art studies.

She writes that she is happy.

Upon their return she teaches high school English and writes that she is not happy.

She and the children move to a commune in California where she grows vegetables, bakes bread, has a lover, changes her name to Sunflower and writes that she is happy.


dried roses
arranged in a vase
for a second life


Adelaide B. Shaw

The Poulnabrone Dolmen, the Portal Tomb.  A six foot high structure of two slender limestone portal stones supporting a 12 foot flat table-like capstone. High on a hill in the Burren in County Clare, Ireland.  The name means “hole of sorrows.”

Dating back from 4200 BC – 2900 BC, it is the sacred burial tomb of Celtic tribes.  Silhouetted against the lowering sun, it is impressive, especially from a distance
without tourists snapping pictures and where the restraining ropes are not visible.  They were put up to keep visitors from climbing on the top or chipping away at the pillars.

I hang back from the group and look again.

six foot cairn
whistling winds keep company
with the dead


Jeanne Jorgensen
Kaylan George was born on June 16,  1994 . . . the healthy first child for my youngest brother, Tim, and his wife, Carol. 5 months  and 3 weeks later, I still can see clearly Kaylan's tiny body as it lay so strangely still on a  large, adult bed in the intensive care unit of the University Hospital. The sleeping baby boy lay hovering somewhere between life and death suffering from Endo Cardio Fibro Elastosis; a  heart anomaly that ends the majority of its sufferers lives between the age of 2-5 years.
Leaving his distraught mother, Carol,  kneeling beside Kaylan's bed, the remainder of us filed out slowly into the corridor in tears  and did the only thing we knew how to do. We  stood in a circle and joined hands, then, led  by Grandpa Angle, prayed for something we had never experienced: a small miracle that  would somehow change the course of Kaylan's  life.
Over the next several months (with  intensive medication and the care of his medical  specialists) Kaylan rallied. In the meantime, his mom and dad learned as much as they  could about this rare heart disorder and  discovered that, in fact, a young girl in England had  lived to the age of 13 years. A small but  bright flicker of hope carried them forward one day  at a time.

Not long ago, in April 2011, I had the  pleasure of visiting with Kaylan who is now 16  years old. Through the years, he has been active in hockey and many other sports. At   present, he is involved in football and is busy trying to graduate from high school. Kaylan is  now almost 5 feet 6 inches tall and is endowed  with striking, dark, good looks. He remains under the care of heart specialists and his mother’s firm belief in homeopathy.

 At this time, friends in the haiku community who believe in the power of prayer, as well  as family members have kept Kaylan in their daily devotions. His doctors cannot reallyexplain Kaylan's continuing good health and how he can remain active in sports. He is on medications for his heart and doctors feel sure that, as Kaylan grows, his heart may become stressed to the point that a heart transplant  must be considered. If this happens, and until that day, he lives life to the fullest.    
Not long ago, Kaylan passed an  important test and now drives the family car when dad  finds the courage to let number #1 son out  into the world of the 'wheeled'.

late spring
close by the dandelion in bloom
prairie crocus


Gerard John Conforti

So small a room you have. It’s like the walls are closing in on you. When we argue it breaks my heart and the tears flow. I think of you in such a small room alone at night when there is no one around to embrace you. I love you more than anyone I can think of and you are my closest friend. How could they put you in a small room and leave you to yourself when I am not around. We talk for hours when I’m there, but when I leave you my heart breaks once again.

the rain from the bough slowly falling into my heart



Chen-ou Liu

I've both wrestled with, and been despaired of, learning English since my emigration to Canada in 2002. Five years ago, I, a middle-aged man who doesn't speak English, felt that I could never master two languages at the same time. In order to achieve my goal of becoming a writer, I eventually came to the conclusion that I had to break with my Chinese mind and to re-build a new English self.

first dawn
I see Icarus in the dream
waving his wings

To write in English requires a different way of thinking and focuses more on the expressivity and innovation of words and phrases. During the course of my adjustment to English writing, I have slowly begun to squeeze the Chinese literary mentality out of my mind.

As Chinese American writer Ha Jin said emphatically,” it was like having a blood transfusion, like you are changing your blood.”

slapped hard
by Li Po in autumn dreams –
moonlight by my side

Five years have slipped away. I have had limited success in improving my English writing, but I keep on writing. As the poet Robert Louis Stevenson once stressed, "Our business in this world is not to succeed, but to continue to fail in good spirits."

For me now, to write in English is to make an attempt without knowing whether I am going to succeed in the unfamiliar world of the alphabet. Maybe, at some point, my English writing will arrive back where I started, and I will know what English writing means to me for the first time.

New Year dream
Sisyphus and I smile
at each other



Gary LeBel

There’s a dock with a FOR SALE sign on it across the lake, raw land where no cottage was ever built. But for a small clearing at the water’s edge, the rest of the property looks like virgin forest. What lies behind that realtor’s sign?

We dive in, swim the channel, and after a decade away, I’m thankful to taste sweet Maine waters again; to feel its tingle resurrect a half-second’s worth of youth.

Near the opposite shore, there’s a cluster of lily pads with several buds and one pink blossom. Treading water, I cup the flower, its long and slimy stem descending through my fingers to the leaf-muck below; I sink my nose into it: its scent is brief, nearly transparent but exquisitely fragrant, like nothing I’ve ever smelled. I hold it for my sister.

We climb ashore beside the sign. A footpath leads through cedars, pine and hardwoods and ends at a flattened turnaround; beyond it, a gravel road rises and snakes upward through the thick woods, lined with ferns on both sides and weeded up the center, all of it virtually quivering with morning sunlight. No one has driven on it for some time for there are no tire marks in the leaf-moil.

The woodlands are shot through with sun-shafts; the air is sprinkled with blue jays.  Stone fences climb the easy rise until the land plateaus at a tarred county road—it’s then that my sister sees it: an old cemetery.

Its grounds are enclosed by stone fences that maintain their arrow-straight courses through the woods. It has a small gate with wooden tines still attached to a frame, with iron hinge pins keyed to unworked granite posts.

But what is most remarkable is that the grounds within are covered entirely by an unbroken quilt of foliage: the headstones float on a lake of ivy, and not even a single stem grows outside its precincts.

Under an enormous oak that stands inside the enclosure, a shaft of sunlight pours down through the foliage and like a lamp illumines the smallest headstone: we step carefully into the graveyard, and kneeling, sink down into the depth of ivy around it.

Her name was Amanda, and she’d died at five years eight months old in 1865. But when I read her family’s name, I find it’s also our mother’s! I comb the ivy carefully back from the stone and rub the lichen and moss away with my palm enough to read the last four lines near the bottom:

             She was a child of earth,
             A blossom pure and fair
             That bloomed upon our hearth
             And left its fragrance there.

Who wrote these lines? I read them again, this time aloud to my sister. We move on to her brother’s and lastly, her mother’s and father’s stones.

We later learn that what were once only names and dates in the pages of our aunt’s genealogy, a labor of love she’d painstakingly prepared years before the internet, now reaps ivy and poetry, and the Nobleboro branch of our family.

The cry of a loon


and ends

             a channel swim



Roger Jones

Reddish squirrel on Brady Street, next to the park, lying on its stomach in the near lane, front legs outstretched as if in flight, a pool of drying blood around its mouth.  Traffic passes; no one runs over it a second time.  The calm purr of cars passing back and forth. 
People going home late from work.


follows me home
on the north wind
a red maple leaf


Johnny Baranski

 It could be Any Small Town, USA on this warm and bright Sunday afternoon. There's a parade moving down main street led by the local contingent of the  VFW flanked on both sides by rows of star spangled banners fixed at attention on  lampposts in the breezeless humid air. Curbside the towns folk applaud their  appreciation. Shouts of, "Thank you for your service," ring out from here and there along the route and, "Semper Fi," when the band from the nearby Marine Corps base marches by. The shopkeeper in his apron, the cop on the beat, the bespectacled librarian, the parson, the barber, the waitress, the rough and tumble motorcycle outlaw, boy scouts and girl scouts, the town drunk all raise their hands to their foreheads or their hearts in salutes as the nation's colors pass  in review. Later at a park by the river the entire town will usher in the unofficial start of summer with a picnic, three-legged race, egg toss, a softball game. Some people will tune in their portable radios to the annual running of the Indianapolis 500 automobile race. There will be a dance in the park gazebo. After sunset a fireworks display. And then as the last of the smoke rises from the dying barbeque pits a solitary bugler will somberly play "Taps."

                                       Memorial Day
                                      for those who have fallen
                                      war no more



Gary LeBel

             After working for seventeen hours on a steel tempering line, I hedge against driving the four and a half hours home, but  when you’ve worked out of town for weeks at  a time, things mount up, you get tired,  you’ve had plenty of whatever it is you’ve had enough of.

             I’ve stumbled through industrial holes all over the eastern seaboard for years  and it’s an uncontested fact that they never get pretty. The miles of lurid floodlights,  smokestacks, gauges, domes and tangled pipes weigh heavily on the psyche like  expressionistic stage sets for Wozzeck:  apparently America feels no need to apply its  makeup anymore (if it ever learned).

             We decide to leave even though we’re dead tired and would be content with  any anonymous pillow. My right hand, my associate, is a good sleeper, already snoring  as soon as the city’s lampposts have disappeared.

             So you start feeling your way along the little roads of the night by  landmark, a farm here, a huddled enclave there, the lights of a rundown gas station  that closes at dusk, a courthouse, a diner, a hill, a shine of water, a bridge. In most any  small town there’s always somebody up at four AM with their yellowy lamplight trickling out over their sills and onto Main Street. Somewhere on it float their stories.

             And you look forward and trust in the terrain to bring you the wide Tennessee  and an iron bridge whose metal grates will sing you across it to the mountain road it  keeps on the other side, the one that edges you closer home.

             I like the tire-roar of a van  which is often a kind of music, but sometimes  you need the real thing. Climbing up the steep grade of the mountain, I poke the ON, and then the SEEK.

             And out of the air come slivers of country music, evangelistic hoots, soft rock and then—sharp as a laser, buoyant, perfect: Mozart!

             I swear I have never loved him as  much as I do at this moment: brilliant,  crystalline, his whole calamitous century marching and dancing behind him like a Fellini  procession, though at the lead, Mozart himself  is ageless, dressed however floridly. Ah, the Jupiter!

             And what a master of second winds he is! You wake up and stand at attention.  There is no Sisyphus rolling an ungodly boulder up a slope in Mozart’s pantheon, no,  only an inexhaustible lightness where even the darkest contrabass is but light turned blue instead of silver, green, orange, or crimson. I  once read that the painter Rothko listened to  him incessantly while he worked, and to this  day I cannot fathom why Mozart didn’t erase  a bit more of the painter’s despair, but  then I’ve always asked too much of music…

and now a brand new day is sneaking up over the mountain like a cow-licked child and into your bed on a Saturday morning, a giggling, sweaty panther ready to pounce and eat you alive with snarls of kisses: Mozart brings all this and as his Jupiter ends, my sleeper smacks his lips in dry-mouth, yawns, grunts and stretches, while our oldest companions, the stars, take their leave as if to say, “good-bye to all that.” until tonight.

                         With this first step,

                         I’ll take one of infinitely many paths

                         to the shifting target,

                         another of which

                         the arrow has never heard





Owen Bullock

as snow from a branch ­
cold dawn

reflection of the lamp
in another window

the fly

has grown since they left
‘on vacation’

little bottles
on the dressing table
still standing

from their departure
a book has curled
spiders multiplied

the blue of the cloud
meets the blue of the night . . .

his limbs
often getting to sleep
before him

curtains drawn over distant slumber


(some years before Katrina)
 Bill Cooper

spicy crab with eggplant
adding grace notes
to her song

little league
in center field
a shotgun shell

oyster artichoke soup
a lunch meeting
over insurance

approaching gale
our host sets sail
with a scoff

hazy afternoon
the blind artist's
delicate hands

heads out the moon roof
Christmas lights
in canopy oaks

lakeside restaurant
dark pylons
in dark water

turtle soup
the dean's
wry smile

play kitchen
her krewe cups
from bygone years

gala reception
hollow forerunner
of the french fry

blackened redfish
a searing question
about wetlands

causeway drive
Jackson Browne
in a warm breeze

wrong turn
no dry cleaning
on this corner

chef's aria
on opera night

levee romp
toddler shoes
above the roof



Carolyn Coit Dancy

draft notice
the high-school sweethearts

she starts smoking
a pack a day

bare bulb dangling
from the tent's ridge pole
he writes home

Victory Garden
doing her part
for the troops

mail call
a black-and-white photo
of his newborn son

Movie Tone News
closing her eyes to reports
from the front


Ed Baranosky

      It is not certain that everything is uncertain.
                               Blaise Pascal

Out of the pearl grey sky
A few snowflakes spin
Through black branches
Clawing at the memories of crows
Unfolding curved wings.

The long headland
Buries itself into a heavy fog
Always beyond reach,
Limp sails forming out of the mist
Culling bells and horns.

Appaloosa horses
Turn into the surf and whinny
Rumbling towards salted grass,
The spartina still green
In tufts of snow-drift.

In the geometry of oceans,
And Lovecraft’s prehistoric cities
The angles seem closer now
When the offshore November storms
Wield serrated edges.

Never divide by zero
An absent teacher once warned
Or you’ll lose your mind,
The first step of a beginner
Rediscovering infinity.



Autumn Noelle Hall

opaline skies
tatted with apricot clouds
await the new moon
in my heart, as in the air
cicada song

netting of vines
hung among the hickories
a captive forest
red fox pacing figure eights
infinity traced in grass

after June Bugs
fruit bats on the wing
it is possible to seek
what one cannot see

a Great Horned Owl
her silent silhouette
slowing time
reverence in her passage
this night’s honor flight

guiding her owlets
to the top of the trees
a good mother, Owl
below, a buzzing banquet
a once-in-thirteen-years feast

owls drop to the lawn
like ladies in hoop-skirts
hopping cicadas
on pantaloon’d legs

a wallflower
I am witness to their dance
in the dark
this black metal bench
an orchestra seat

a plaque underfoot—
Hunting morels in heaven—
even more I hope
tonight you are dancing
in each other’s arms


Elizabeth Howard

a deserted hornet  nest
under the garage eaves
how have we missed it
throughout the summer?
how have the hornets missed us?

what if
while trundling back and forth,
mowing, watering,
tending the flowers,
idling under the sweet cherry?

what if
the dog clambering about
barking at every leaf fall
in the forest
at every squirrel in the yard?

the nest now paper ashes
we stand in awe of the builders
a bell with hundreds
of geometric chambers
each perfectly placed

had they been ancient Romans
might they have built
coliseums, aqueducts,
temples, roads
extant after 2000 years?

we pull the nest down
it turns topsy-turvy, a tier cake
perhaps overturned
by riotous dancers
or a jealous lover

we give it to the forest
paper for field mice
to fashion a winter haven
or for the hornets
to build anew next summer



Claire Everett

from the eaves of silence
drop by drop
an icicle of tanka
run through a love-blanched heart

perfumed dust
the faint stain
of freesias
her glad grace remembered
in tanka's cut-glass vase

a lotus moon
blooms with the scent
of tanka...
dropping pollen
until sleep turns the page

with her restless fingers
tugs at loose threads...
half way to lost
these red and gold dreams

the dammed veins of sunset
how my tongue flinches
when I long to drink dry
the grape of tanka

these old haunts...
a crow wind
picks clean
the bones of tanka

climbing the walls
these tangled vines of tanka
a foothold
on the crumbling ledge...
a window to your heart



Ruth Holzer

is it still
their anniversary
if one
has gone and the other
doesn't remember?

a crow
with a ragged wing
I meet
in the same place every day
on the way to Mother's

the woman
tending her father
tells me
they're on a journey
no good for anyone

to each
his own burden
of care--
if it wasn't this
it would be something else


Alegria Imperial

scanning for dawn
between willows--
we weary our thoughts
wanting to know
where infinity begins

as the birch
shed off its bark
you have changed
scraping off what clings
what weighs you down

the gingko
bends and arcs its twigs to reach
an indifferent sky
unlike how we wall ourselves
in from cold stars

soft rain
blurring the dance of trees
brings on the longing
in a language the sky
dictates to our hearts



Chen-ou Liu

pulling up the blind
in this mid-autumn sky
I see
her plane leaving
the long white trail

she's gone forever
darkness fills up the space
where my heart
has reserved for her
since we first met in '68

by the Pacific shore
I put
a seashell to my ear
on a windy autumn day

a handful of sand
defying the grip
of my clasped fingers
Cupid’s arrows fly
at a lonely darts pub

the ebb
and flow of thoughts
of her
that keep beckoning me
on that starry night

that crimson lure
tricks me
into forgetting
winter will come soon



Haiga by Emily Romano


Chen-ou Liu

walking out
in the middle of the lecture
on astrology
we saw summer stars
in each other's eyes

what would come out of my heart
I pulled her tight
into my arms
putting my mouth on hers

she laughed
Yesterday was a one-off
just that once
drifting in the chill spring air
the theme song from Ghost

I walk alone
down a leafy path
drenched in a shower
of summer memories
a fork in the road ahead


Hannah Mahoney

we linger
brush shoulders in the dark . . .
as days lengthen
receding snow
reveals soft earth

afterward, tangled
like surf-flung flotsam
the light trace of your hand
along my spine
our mingled breath

I dive into the chill
and out beyond the waves
when I look back
you and the osprey
keep watch

as you sing along
with the car radio
I suddenly ache to be with you
even beyond this life
eucalyptus after rain


Ramesh Anand

melting snow –
memories of kissing
in the fragrant breeze

pondering wedlock
first drizzle
in the hill lake

walking barefoot
on the river pebbles –
morning chill

spring’s end
she whispers
i have mastered

gathering shells –
the twilight tide
splashed her face

winter mist
my grandma shows
her first calf love



Im Regenlicht -
auf den Stufen zum Haus
schon die Wärme

in rain light
on the house steps
already warmth

Gerd Boerner


zwischen den Lippen
der dünne Rand der Teetasse

between the lips
the curved edge of the teacup
magnolia blossoms

Gerd Boerner

am Rande des Sommers
durch den Regen gehen

at the edge of summer
going more slowly
through the rain

Gerd Boerner

auf der Wäscheleine
zwischen leeren Klammern
ein Höschen

on the wash line
between empty clothespins

Gerd Boerner


a summer's eve
between the rows of corn
an idea
                          ayaz daryl nielsen



mossy steps
across the brook
the lives of rocks

                          ayaz daryl nielsen


a kindergartner
fills her paper with color
I see a white spot, I say
Oh, she whispers, that's for God
wind-blown petals at the window
hannah mahoney



Gino Peregrini

a bar of wet soap—the mind eludes the hand's grasp, rides on bubblees
a bee drifting from plant to plant—the mind's quest for nectar an old
dog at the window, barking at shadows . . .



die Finger
in der Wunde des Baumes
beim Spaziergang

in the trees wound
during a walk

Michael Denhoff


sie entscheidet sich


a forked path
she chooses
to turn back

Michael Denhoff

spätes Licht
die langen Schatten
der Familie


evening light
the long shadows
of the family

Michael Denhoff

Januar -
mit den Königen kommen
auch die Krähen

January -
with the kings
the crows also come

Michael Denhoff

die Spur des Taktstocks
in der Luft

full orchestra
the trail of the baton
in the air
Michael Denhoff

with the rag top down
in his shiny new camaro
the office geek
a chick magnate

Johnny Baranski



Haiga by Razvan Pintea





Steffen Horstmann

Gene Doty

Ruth Holzer

Haiga by Emily Romano

Ed Baranosky


L. Costa

Colin Stewart Jones

Colin Stewart Jones

Animated with music
by morvene

Colin Stewart Jones

Colin Stewart Jones

Johnny Baranski

Jane Reichhold

Werner Reichhold

Carol Pearce-Worthington

Adelaide B. Shaw

Adelaide B. Shaw

Jeanne Jorgensen

Gerard John Conforti

Chen-ou Liu

Gary LeBel

Roger Jones

Johnny Baranski

Gary LeBel



Owen Bullock

 Bill Cooper

Carolyn Coit Dancy

Ed Baranosky

Autumn Noelle Hall

Elizabeth Howard

Claire Everett

Ruth Holzer

Alegria Imperial

Chen-ou Liu

Haiga by Emily Romano

Chen-ou Liu

Hannah Mahoney

Ramesh Anand



Gerd Boerner

ayaz daryl nielsen

hannah mahoney

Gino Peregrini


Michael Denhoff

Johnny Baranski

Haiga by Razvan Pintea


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:1February, 2008
XXIII:2 June, 2008

XXIII:3, October, 2008
XXIV:1, February, 2009

XXIV:2, June, 2009
XXIV:3, October, 2009
XXV:1 January, 2010
XXV:2 June, 2010
XXV:3 October, 2010
XXVI:1 February, 2011

XXVII:2, June, 2011

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Next Lynx is scheduled for February, 2012.

Deadline for submission of work is
January 1, 2012.