October, 2012

A Journal for Linking Poets  



Erin A. Thomas

Sometime ago I found myself before a woodland path;
it twisted off away from view, an ever winding path.

A weathered trailhead marked the edge between disparate worlds
where one can learn significance beyond the wider path.

How many times have people passed and turned their heads to see,
bestrewn with twigs and fallen leaves, this little wayward path?

How many times can one ignore the calling of his heart
before he’s left with nothing but a bleak and withered path?

I saw a choice between discovery and death, and so
I stepped into uncertainty and left the worldly path.

It crept up ferny canyon creeks where inspiration thrives,
and promise walked with every step along the woodsy path.

It faded though the valley’s marsh where dreams fall to decay
and wicker willows closed around to dim the waning path.

It rose to cold and windswept heights of solitude and doubt,
yet still I strove to persevere my long and weary path.

It ranged where sagebrush haunt the moon, by fleeting springs of hope,
and passes scorched by time where dreads bestrew the wizened path.

It vanished at the city’s edge and forced a desperate search
for where, beyond the steel and glass, I could reawake my path.

It wandered off among the thorns, the poison oak, the mud,
and yet with stirring vistas proved itself a worthy path.

And still it leads to spectacles that move the mind and soul
and drive me on to grasp the nature of this willful path.

Whoever spies this scratch of dirt that leaves the multitudes
will find it haunts his thoughts until he leaves the worn-out path.

To each who hears the quiet call, the journey is unique;
no other soul will ever tread the same bewildered path.

And as for me—I’ll carry on beneath the changeling skies,
convinced within my nature that I walk the wiser path.


273 prism

Haiga by M. Morrissey-Cummins



 David Jalajel

white lilies rise like fire through the tight red light,
the stained glass empties out facts you can’t ignore

in corporeal ambivalence you’ve planted your feet
on bouquets of limp leaves that will never be yours

has your body forgotten its nephew-like perversions,
do you disavow the drawn faces you’ve mutely implored

& do you doubt the truth of their canonical scrawls –
 look – how a lily petal falls of its own accord

it’s so droll, the way you’ll retreat down odourless bracken
past the lilies, past where the cats have marked the door

it’s yet too early in the morning, no one’s really awake,
but look how the sunlight crawls across the floor



 David Jalajel

you freeze on the road with the words pent inside you
to hear bare ground erupt, roots swell up & fuse

alas, nothing will change – you’ll still pine for home:
that puerile fairground where you pranced with your muse

we’ve watched you resist it – how you kick up the leaves,
scraping out the culled lyrics your eardrums refuse

but the words remain yours – they leech from your bones
long calcified laughs, lovers’ names you confuse

now listen: it’s the cacophony of roots creeping near
to the song in your throat, to the holes in your shoes



 David Jalajel

let a lesser desert sky tame your feral head,
weather your sterile pleas & nightly demand

to meander aimlessly through a backlit oasis,
derelict where your payoffs spill out over the sand

go sidestep real money, you’ll just have to fidget
to divulge each entangled & unravelling strand

of overheated thought, tumbleweeds too soon
smouldering while a bushfired emblazoning brand

is doused – so go squint at the moon sidling up,
stroking your star chart with an indolent hand



 David Jalajel

away – your illuminations have long since scattered, fled,
who springs the flameless shadows your illusions fed

who staged this too trite vision, who goes to silence death –
nothing’s said: all’s ill-conceived on a featherlight bed

in smothered covers, downy-bleached, a scant retreat
from exposure’s dread – who wilted, wept & buried their head

watch you go blind, domestic, schooled: who kept their feet
plodding pathways sketched in lead, all wavelengths shed

& whose form engulfs the shadows into which we’re led,
who – at least – declaims your style among the dead



 David Jalajel

affect a fallen face, flinch in tense open-mindedness –
through your pores, your body pleasure-shakes in play

but dries out, fails to feel the spanking-new temperance,
slinks into restless chanting, twice-removed from the fray

falling forward, sliding down, a spent virgin-forest idol
 unfulfilled, but thrice-refreshed – why won’t you pray

with the pedestrian throng, deprecating the body, or
with that roadside dog licking up rain-drenched clay

or to the dull light – so easy to misconstrue, & not unlike
the first  experience, nor those others who’d have their way



Shelia Murphy

He safely, safely has removed her from his sadness.
She looks at her watch and waits for someone who is late.

The painting on the wall is a young furnace.
Neighbors continue slamming doors as though an emergency.

Choices on the hospital menu pale compared with how efficiently
the nurses transport tray on tray, and respond to well-timed signals.

Face first is how an individual who has reached age of majority
dives into a pool and collects potential movement.

Sun fall, and depths of feeling in relation to subtraction,
the kind of morning each one feels despondent, letting go possessions.


Shelia Murphy

She passed one too many joints to the person on her left,
and, marking the occasion, promptly turned sixty-five.

Cinder sound approaching the cherry tree meant
a white dessert of some kind, following sweet corn.

Picket fence can be transformed by Photoshop
into a row of pointed faces of one's children.

Just after the sheep have jumped over the creek out back,
I count my blessings in their stead and drift to rest.

My father's pipe, a muted cherry flavor, conversation
about happiness, as if it came in tiny packages.





 Steven Carter

Where to begin? The night of her death, yes; but that was nearly fifty years ago. What, then, to share with her? My marriage, of course: the birth of a son who, from certain angles, looks like her; twin grandsons; my teaching and writing careers (I’m retired seven years now from the university); forty summers spent in Montana on the ranch and at the lake.
             But all this is incidental to the darkness, the pain, the fantasies, hurts inflicted and received, sleeplessness and dreams of sleeplessness: the inner life—no, lives—of a stranger disguised with my face.
             In our last home at 1420 Hearst, she slept off the kitchen, behind a closed door. When I heard her snoring, I went to the window over the sink, stood on a footstool and, on a pre-arranged signal, watched as the green-eyed girl next door bared her beautiful breasts to me. What if she had seen? Would it have mattered?
             . . . .The night I came home from classes at Cal prattling about Nietzsche; the half-amused look on her face; my sudden anger  at being patronized—or so I felt.
             The Navy pilot she loved before my father appeared in her life: a young officer killed in an aircraft carrier mishap. His yellowing photo fell out of her Science and Health after she died (a year earlier she’d confessed to me that she adored this lost boy  more than my father: my initial shock and resentment was replaced by a strange friendly pity for all three, fortuitous ghosts who are now, literally, an eternal triangle.)
             Where to begin? No, no, in my  beginning is my end, as the poet says: the  starless, moonless dark of that November night: fog, neon lights shining in pools of  rain on Shattuck Avenue, the damp and cold I wanted to feel but could not.


                        fog forms on the Bay
                                                    I am




 Steven Carter

I once compared memories of witnessing her death to an amethyst, her favorite stone: every facet etched by the clear colors of my precise recollections of that night. The funeral, on the other hand, was a lump of jade: memories impenetrable: faint, muddy light obscuring everything. Now, as I flirt with age seventy jade, so to say, has gained the upper hand, so that, while I divvy up the night with an insomniac moon, my
mother’s appearances are less mnemonic than poetic: as if in death she’s become, not an angel, not even a muse, but a Virgil, guiding me through the hell, the purgatory, and yes, the paradise of our souls.

                                 starless night
                                       no tree, no wreath, no gifts
                                                         the last Xmas



 Steven Carter

I know my mother never liked you (you did like her, however). Part of that was a deeply-rooted family prejudice against Catholics, which I never shared. And your parents, both
alcoholics: you used to worry about being born under a bad sign because mom and dad conceived you after a night of heavy drinking and carousing in Vegas.
. . . .Awful, the memory of when Mom came home and caught us naked on the fold-out bed in the living room of the Hearst Ave. house. She was right: you weren’t meant for me, or I you; but half a century later, my nostalgia for both of you is unabated.
Of course part of that nostalgia is fake, rose-colored. But which part? You looked a bit like my mother, and I wonder what that said about our disparate feelings about you?

                                      in the window
                                                    winter elms
                                                              all  reflections


Gerard John Conforti

Like the burning sun, our hearts love to love and our kisses shine with bliss. The morning unfolds the flowers as the rain of sorrow blows across the meadows. When the snow falls we hold each other in our arms lying in bed while the moonlight turns around and the day unfolds with a blazing sun of spring

a petal falls upon the earth when the flower dies its own death


Gerard John Conforti
(for Rev. John Budwick)

There is nowhere to go unless I walk out the door into the wilderness. As I go out there is only one path to follow through the meadow. The mountains are on the other side, spread about the meadow there are many flowers and weeds and a clear horizon ahead of me, so I head for the endless horizon and walk the meadows day after day. There is nothing else, but the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.
I'm, so lonely I begin to talk to myself the words not making any sense at all. But I know one thing. I am slowly losing my mind. I gaze around me for people, but they are not there. So,I continue on my the way. As night approaches there is a full moon ahead.
I lay down on the dewy grass to fall asleep. The dream I dream is short; nothing but a nightmare.
I wake to the sound of waves falling on the shore. Now I know I have reached a dead-end. I walk to the edge of the meadow and stop at the top of a cliff.
I gaze down and view the surf crashing and withdrawing back into the sea. There is no sandy beach – only the tides coming and going. My instinct is to jump, but I just stand there minute after minute wondering what I should do.
I turn around to face the wind blowing against me.
I decide to walk all the way back to the cottage that has only walls. As I am walking I am glad to be alive, but still there is only one path. A cloud in my head oppresses me. I wish for someone to talk to.
I arrive back at the cottage by nightfall. I gaze at the stars and view their beauty of them. Then I walk into the cottage where there is a cool breeze blowing in the single window I had opened to get some fresh air.
I lay on a bed with a very soft mattress and fall asleep. This time the dream is a pleasant one. I wake suddenly to the rain pattering on the roof of the cottage.
I close the window and then I cannot hold back the tears. They run down my face and I realize that all my life I have been alone.

between the mountains all solitary flowers


Gerard John Conforti

Laying in bed an old man stares at the ceiling above. As the daylight fades into night the moonlight closes his eyes forever.

a sunflower bows its head away from the window below his eyes full of tears


Ruth Holzer

On the way back a few weeks later, the same sights look much less interesting than they did the first time.  This is just another medium-sized city with the usual congestion.  I’ve been to all the parks and museums. Last night, there were shots outside the motel, then sirens.

gray afternoon—
homesick now for
a foreign country



Elizabeth Howard
        based on Abandoned House,
          photograph by Alfred Eisenstaedt,
            Oklahoma, 1942
In the 1930s and 40s,  photographers traveled across the United States recording the effects  of the great depression on families and individuals.  They depicted  the loss, pain, devastation in barren fields, migrant camps, soup  kitchens, dilapidated shacks, in broken-down jalopies, boarded  factories.
Eisenstaedi has captured the plight of the farmer in a single photograph, a deserted house sitting alone on a  hilltop, no trees or shrubbery, nothing but one post, the remains of  a broken fence, and weeds as far as the camera can see.  On an Amtrak  trip across the Great Plains recently, I saw the same scene repeated  over and over.
a scruffy coyote
lopes up the hill
toward sunset


Alegria Imperial

Weather report: Cloudy yet again. The haze on my dresser mirror dissipates on my weary eyes. I watch my spirit sag. What weighs me down so? The faded green of oak leaves, perhaps? Shadows on the dwarf cypress? Darkened roots I imagine on a patch of listless marigolds on a curb across the street?

Swishing water on the sink reminds me of rain. Periods of sun, the weather reporter adds. As if it matters. What matters for me is to leap out of this mirror image. The eyes of someone obsessed at withdrawing. Its soundless whining. Not me, I cough. Loudly. The image on the mirror leaves. Sinks into its darkness.

Out on the window, the oak wriggles. Tickled by the breeze. A spider web catches a glint from someone's eyes. The Rhodora bursts into a hot pink. Wind chimes break into a cheer. Someone chuckles. Not me. The mirror does not say so.

find me
among leaves turning
this and that way
always uncertain what mood
the sky dictates



Ramona Linke

there is the familiar smell, as she opens the front door. . .
she takes a seat in one of the basket chairs, closes her eyes
and thinks: memes

in the attic
. . . the noise if the bolt
locks down

Ramona Linke

beim öffnen der haustür schlägt ihr der vertraute geruch entgegen,
sie lässt sich in einen der korbsessel fallen, schließt die augen
und denkt: meme

auf dem dachboden
. . . das geräusch wenn der riegel



Chen-ou Liu

When the fire dies out, she rises, picks up her torn wedding dress from the floor and puts it on inside out. She turns and meets his indifferent gaze. For a moment, silence darkens the room. Finally, she runs out through the back door.

village well at dawn...
the bride penetrating
a winter sky



273 dennis

Haiga by Dennis M. Holmes



Johannes Manjrekar

That brief stab of light in the darkness – I’m sure that was a firefly.

I’m sure it wasn’t. This is no country for fireflies.

Beyond the garden fence, there is the sharp little sound, like a tiny explosion, of a match being struck, but most of the light is trapped in the smoker’s cupped hands. Then the beedi takes over, its red glow waxing and waning in the dark.

midnight –
without a moon
the silence deeper




Scott Terrill

I get out of bed and on the laptop check Facebook. The Americans are up, busying themselves on the other side of the world; not much for me though. I turn the computer off. It is dark, silent, except for an air-conditioning unit humming in the room somewhere, humming. I quietly make my way to the toilet and urinate. I stare at the stream. It reminds me of a headache. I turn off the light. The digital display on the clock tells me it is 3:08 in the morning. Angles catch and I notice something; the led light display is illuminating two glass bottles and the clear liquid they contain. Both bottles, bedside, one filled with cologne the other aftershave, are for the briefest of moments, an instant and a lifetime… It is 3:08 in the morning.

whale voices
strike an iris
in the face



Jane Reichhold

 a leaping fish
a door opens
in the lake

Is that a haiku from Paul Célan?
Did he write haiku?
He was French. He surely had access to French translations.
He was not French; he was Romanian. Born in what is now known as Chernivtsi, Ukraine.
But his name is French.
No, his birth name was “Antschel.”
But he spoke and wrote in French.
As a second language. He first learned to speak German.
I still think it would be good to accuse Jane Reichhold of stealing that poem from him.
The haiku is too good to have come from him.
The idea is sensitive enough to be one of his.
But is it his? I don’t know but isn’t it a great idea?
The lake with a door in it or needling Reichhold?
Getting back at her. That bitch needs to be taken down a notch or two.
You would do that by accusing her of something she did not do?
Sure. How else?
What if the haiku is truly hers? What if she sues you for slander? or libel? or both?
Do you think she would?
I would.




Ed Baranosky

            One crow sorrow
            Two crows joy
            Three crows a girl
            Four crows a boy
            Five crows silver
            Six crows gold
            Seven crows a secret
            never to be told

One crow sorrow:
My mother’s passing was anticipated
All week long the crows’ clans
had been massing in the park.
One morning a diving crow, opened
its wings inches from my face.

Two crows joy:
My departure to the airport
was attended by a fluid flight
of birds gradually breaking off,
leaving just two to guide us
directly into Departures.

Three crows a girl:
Waiting for a lift at Logan
in Boston, I noticed a nearby
light stand with three crows
perched beside the gulls
as my niece opened the door.

Four crows a boy;
Welcomed by my brother
near the stairs to the driveway,
I looked back to see four crows
settle in the off-shore breeze
into the nearby black branches.

Five crows silver:
A sliver of silver moon
attended the morning and evening
of the memorial service. Five
silent crows followed the last limo
into the cemetery lane. 

Six crows gold;
Returning as before,
the neighbor’s cat had left
a mouse at my door.
In that week the trees had turned
golden where six crows watched.

Seven crows a secret
            never to be told:
The morning after I watched
a clan of seven crows line up
to dive and soar one at a time
in a secret game. I featured that night
reading the series, “A Foot In Both Worlds.”


Ed Baranosky

             dusting old poems
             no remains of snow shadows
             among these old clothes
                                Ed Baranosky

always too close
to my birthday
Groundhog Day’s
recurring nightmare
for the golden marmots

even the chocolate migraines
of Valentine’s Day’s
disillusioning memories
can seem a brief relief
to the Promethean nightmares

constructed of heart-shaped
doilies pasted clumsily
on scarlet cardboard
scrawled with the inevitable
naïve blushing verse

to test the haunted
courage of too cute for words
losing taunted honor
to more damning embarrassments
assuming the others must know

the first unlabelled date
misunderstood disappears
stood up or forgotten
always too close to memory
as the last party of one nears


Ed Baranosky

             Things are always at their best in their beginning.
                                                    -Blaise  Pascal

Herring gulls, glaucous gulls;
black-headed gulls, all-white arctic
gulls; fairy terns and kittiwakes,
the sailors are in port, shore-leave
from the big ships lying-to,

drawing the land sharks
camp followers, barracuda
and the big gray vans of the Shore Patrol
picking up the early
unconscious and the lost late wanderers;

breaking up overlapping brawls
from train to bus to Back-Bay pub
rolling from door to door, listing to port,
and listening to the
scuttlebutt, the loose lips that can sink ships.

A high soaring albatross
cautiously turns into port
following the Navy wake
while calling to its missing mate
weaving among the flocks.

In the dark corner of a bar,
a massive sailor kicks back alone
against a table; depth-charge in hand,
a beer with a whiskey chaser, a
submariner insignia.

A dark shadow slips,
silent running, deep under the arctic
ice, sonar’s constant searching
for the point with one way-out
rotating with the planet;

Secret AWACs shuttle
their awaited signals
from the surface code readers;
silence then a loud murmur crosses the bars;
and even the brawls pause.

The submariner has departed
the beer glass unnoticed as the chaos lingers;
overturned whiskey
glass placed by a gull’s feather leaving a damp scrawl,
Nautilus Ninety North.


273 foam

Haiga by M. Morrissey-Cummins



Ruth Holzer

Interstate, Turnpike—
hold a steady course
due north

run round
and round the pocket park
white girl

another tube of lotion
to Walgreens

high above Hemlock Falls
without the Scouts

attend Seders
in due season
attend funerals

listen to jazz
all night on good old


Joann Grisetti

opiate dreams
not the ones I have
summer afternoon

hammock swaying softly
touched by warm breezes

loud enough
to close the window
cicada song

fills the oak trees
summer twilight

one bat
then several others
hunt at twilight

buzzing mosquitoes

shattered pieces
of the carnival
on to the next town

lying in the rain
until next summer



Autumn Noelle Hall

first day of school...
I mask my saddle shoes’ scuffs
with sponged white polish,
their laces—like my tanka—
tied up in knots

how many books?
how many pedagogues?
how can I ever
cram all of this into
a tanka backpack ?

winks and whispers
giggling from behind
the cloak room door
this tanka has a secret
it refuses to share

vintage desks, their
hinged writing surfaces
paired to their chairs...
alphabetical seating
puts “T” for tanka last

on the diamond
the captains taking turns
choosing teams...
odd man out in the dugout—
my tanka warming the bench

a brazen bully
in the cafeteria
elbows me hard
cutting his way in front
to nab the last sweet tanka

the way light leaks through the cracks
between these pieces...
my tanka, not unlike
this fissured picture

here lies my tanka
amidst the pencil shavings
and hall passes...
perhaps the janitor
might pause to read five lines

dusk and snow falling...
outside the clubhouse door,
my tanka shivers
in squares of mullioned light,
the password forgotten



Leslie Ihde

with his iPod
and a pillow
he settled down
            for his longest sleep
            just part of a song

in your brief stay
did you enjoy
the open sky and
            these blue gray waters
            my distant brother?

young friends with dark faces
move slowly to greet
your aged parents
      they too ponder
      the silence you left

those stupid nurses
don't they know
when someone is sleeping?
      may this son
      awaken to another life

the plants that froze
when the gas was shut off
I remove them now
      at the centers
      tender fronds of living green

on skis your wings
sliced cold air and snow
why did you fly
            from this world?
            ~ your broken mother


Jeanne Jorgensen

white wine chills
in a mountain stream

hardly there
her 'baby bump'
under his warm hand

a long kiss
before they spread out
a picnic lunch

beneath an ancient pine
lots of time to cuddle . . . enjoy
their slow paced honeymoon


Chen-ou Liu

petals on pink
she asks, what will happen
after I die

her cat got your tongue
lingering in my mind
those summer kisses

harvest moon...
a shadow shifting
across my poem

the recurring dream
of the mouth in Not I
winter light


Chen-ou Liu

I yell out
I'll stay drunk on writing
her silent tongue
like a scissor
cutting my words to shreds

rain pelting
the windows of this rooming house
I hear voices
rising towards the ceiling
jostling for survival

my mind complains
it's hard to live by words alone
tongues of fire
lick the flesh
and stay for a while

I conduct
the Fifth Symphony
inside my head
the doctor sees nothing
but a poet's failed dream

a wolf
howling at the cold moon
face to face
with my own demons

after wishing
on a shooting star
all that remains
of my attic room
 a shadow on the wall



for Phil
Hannah Mahoney

clouds drift
behind the half moon . . .

the drip of chemo . . .
a siren wails
in the distance

to stop the treatment . . .
late-winter snowfall

the midnight call
with the news that he’s gone . . .
as I walk to work
a butterfly flutters
at my chest, then flits away


Hannah Mahoney

my mother draws the drapes
my father checks the locks
that the jackal lurks within
waiting for the quiet, the dark

the creak of a stair
the turn of a knob
I grope on the nightstand
for a talisman, a charm,
but the kind old witch was a dream

a shadow in the doorway
a path of light across the floor
steps, weight, breath, grope
the freshly laundered sheets
still smell of the summer air

on a moonless night
I wake in a sweat
trying to scream
on my own silence

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

my fingers trace the names
on the cool stone
of my parents’ graves
a wind chime murmurs
in the apple tree

deep in the woods, a hut
from her pouch, the hag
extracts a blue stone to repel
all those who prowl and slink
I take its smooth heft in my hand

she leads me to a clearing
a sacred spring
in its steaming waters
old myself now, I finally reclaim
all that was snatched in the night




(mud dauber)

John Martone


books on his floor
extension cords
sweat streaming down —


mud dauber
legs dangling – longer
than sapiens’

mud dauber
circles his window-sash


all yr generations
come to this house
mud dauber


all those lives
lived alone
mud dauber


no struggle w/ solitude mud dauber

mud coming to life mud dauber


spittle & dust —
mud dauber

are you drawn
to my sweat
mud dauber —


anthropos — lost
in mud dauber’s
nest chambers


people evolved
to build houses too
mud dauber

mud dauber
searching my house
for spiders


mud dauber —
a wolf spiders cowers
in the cellar stairs

wolf spider
solitary too
mud dauber



A French Quarter Vignette
Kathe L. Palka

Lenten morning—
in magnolias on Decator
the gleam of beads

near the Café du Monde
kitchen plaques for sale:
beignet done that

on Jackson Square
a young drummer beats
an empty bucket

St. Louis # 1—
counting the XXXs on
Marie Laveau’s tomb

riverboat  tour­
the guide points out what’s left
of the Ninth Ward

midnight blues
along Bourbon Street
a police horse dances



Nu Quang

November chill
the last ray fades
behind the pines . .
Hermia dreams
of tomorrow

at the vet's
I pat her head
one last time
telling her:
we love you

December sun
too soft to warm
the space
where she left
her footprints

by the lilac tree
I throw a handful of dirt
over her urn
wishing her
a happy afterlife


273 ramona

Haiga by Ramona Linke





summer grasses
my dreams extend
into night
            Máire Morrissey-Cummins


from this rocky hilltop
the clear, blue sky above me
west . . . across the bay
a stinking brown haze drifts
from the pulp mills of Crofton
                 Jeanne Jorgensen


on pointed toes
like ripples, why not?
if floating
the way we do in void
we find what matters
            Alegria Imperial


oh tabby cat
you are content stretched
on cool grass
in this garden which is yours
all your nine lives long
            Giselle Maya


like the opaqueness we dread
a crust
the guise soft hearts
take on to survive
            Alegria Imperial


the juicy plum
her painted lips
            Rachel Sutcliffe


hermit crab--
where can we exist
beyond this cloud?
            Alegria Imperial


on the prayer mat
the hands raised in vajrasan
couldn't contact God--
the prayer was too long and
the winter night still longer
            R.K. Singh


sand in my eyes,
what pain
            Alegria Imperial


my pen
dips into shadows
of the boat people. . .
endlessly I search for words
to paint their ordeal
            Nu Quang


your early
morning run …
my pillow
            Joanna M. Weston


deaf child
penetrates the room
with his smile
            Máire Morrissey-Cummins


is stillness
on the unlit moon, or the mute
rocking waves?
            Alegria Imperial


tough choices -
buying clothes
for a friend
            Joanna M. Weston


Christmas time
Salvation Army’s bell
in the air
another year passing
without revisiting my hometown
            Nu Quang


bare branches
I borrow a pen to sign
for the loan
            Rachel Sutcliffe


until i lay
my head on your breast
humpback whale
            Alegria Imperial


one tree not cut down
the farmer takes a break
under its shade

der einzige Baum, den er nicht gefällt hat
der Bauer macht eine Pause
in seinem Schatten
             Brian Robertson


a butterfly sits
on a bench in a playground
stretching its new wings:
a little girl waves her arms
catching her mother's keen eye
            Alexander Jankiewicz


before you were born
telling my granddaughter
about her mother
            ayaz daryl nielsen


golden rod
in full bloom
her blond rinse
             Joanna M. Weston



husband and I walk
to the haiku conference
these street kids we pass
seem so cocky, sullen . . . rude
are they afraid of us too?
            Jeanne Jorgensen


full moon eclipse--
everything dark, unknown
yet filled with light


first aid box
buried beneath plasters
a dead fly
            Rachel Sutcliffe



blood moon
the ruby eye
of a dove
            Máire Morrissey-Cummins


thin cloud
            Joanna M. Weston


at the flea market
we share a cigarette
then he drops the price

auf dem Flohmarkt
teilen wir eine Zigarette
dann senkt er den Preis
            Brian Robertson


sun dappled day
boats on the river
            Máire Morrissey-Cummins


picnic in the park
we nurse our ice cream
            Rachel Sutcliffe


a step-stool
just enough for a boy
and candy jar
            ayaz daryl nielsen


peach pie and ice cream
for the third night in a row
old classmate and I
smile and talk . . .  talk and laugh
such a marvel good food good friends
             Jeanne Jorgensen


the drying trees
live my age:
warms of new day
hot tea and singing birds
            R.K. Singh


front porch
a rustle of  leaves
rattles the door
            Máire Morrissey-Cummins





















Erin A. Thomas

Haiga by M. Morrissey-Cummins

 David Jalajel

 David Jalajel

 David Jalajel

 David Jalajel

 David Jalajel

Shelia Murphy

Shelia Murphy




 Steven Carter

 Steven Carter

 Steven Carter

Gerard John Conforti

Gerard John Conforti
(for Rev. John Budwick)

Gerard John Conforti

Ruth Holzer

Elizabeth Howard
Alegria Imperial

Ramona Linke

Ramona Linke

Chen-ou Liu

Haiga by Dennis M. Holmes

Johannes Manjrekar

Scott Terrill

Jane Reichhold



Ed Baranosky

Ed Baranosky

Ed Baranosky

Haiga by M. Morrissey-Cummins

Ruth Holzer

Joann Grisetti

Autumn Noelle Hall

Leslie Ihde

Jeanne Jorgensen

Chen-ou Liu

Chen-ou Liu

for Phil
Hannah Mahoney

Hannah Mahoney

(mud dauber)

John Martone

A French Quarter Vignette
Kathe L. Palka

Nu Quang

Haiga by Ramona Linke


Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Jeanne Jorgensen

Alegria Imperial

Giselle Maya

Rachel Sutcliffe

R.K. Singh

Nu Quang

Joanna M. Weston

 Brian Robertson

Alexander Jankiewicz

ayaz daryl nielsen


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
XXVI:2, June, 2011
XXVI:3 October, 20111XXVII:1 February, 2012

XXVII:2 June, 2012

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Next Lynx is scheduled for February 1, 2013.

Deadline for submission of work is
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