October, 2013

A Journal for Linking Poets  








 Mary Cresswell
 the island breathes out against its skin
 we smell old bones beneath its skin
 seeds lie for years and years in the mud
 they sprout in the swamp and break its skin
  dem bones rattle as dem bones must do
 around them we build a camouflage of skin
 sparks collect and the mountain grows
 it explodes with fire at the touch of skin
 shrunk in body and mind, we turn away
 the gales from the ice assault our skin

 Autumn Rain by Ramona Linke

Mary Cresswell
 Search for your roots, they said back in the day.
 No one noticed that ghosts slip back in the day.
 We queue up for pleasures – the party rolls on,
 champagne for breakfast, arrack in the day –
 and bloom in the evening, diamant and dreams.
 We don’t always get the knack of the day.
 Daisies and dahlias inhabit bright fields.
 Night-blooming jasmine falls slack in the day.
 In a secret cold crevice it’s the start of the end –
 fault lines emerge. They will crack in the day.
 Seagulls stop screaming, the wind-gauge hangs still:
 we are waiting – pulled taut on the rack of the day.


Mary Cresswell

Days turn dark and (I reckon) judgment calls.
Is it time for us to make some judgment calls?
The world is sere and withered, a poet said,
watching drought-torn Niagara without the falls.
These things are important. Don’t forget
the succulent goddesses who inhabit marble halls.
Too many arguments, too many words!
Truth is lost in soul-destroying brawls.
Frightened men go fighting, fighting, fighting.
Deep down they know time has got them by the balls.
Night is cold and coming faster than we’d like.
We sit and shiver under thin and wear-worn shawls.

 I assume I’m exempt because I sit around all day,
 reading thrillers, writing predictable ghazals.

Gene Doty

meadow on a ridge between creeks: frozen grass
reflects the shimmering billows of aurora borealis

neighbors on a night journey in a horse-drawn corn-wagon
the old woman points up, calls “Orion” “The Tea Table”

my first lesson in naming: the Bear, the Wain,
the Dipper Cassiopeia's Chair shaped the initial of our name

midnight in the Flint Hills, coyotes call under moon
and stars bright & brighter, yet silent, Sirius leads the chorus

look, Gino, at this January night: no clouds, no moon Kansas sky,
every star a gem shining in Indra's net


Gene Doty

writing a ghazal in thirty lines or less but always an even number,
never odd unless the ghazal is Arabic or tercet or feckless

sometimes a ghazal never has a mono-rhyme but even then words will
always rhyme because we insist on patterns of sound

reader, did you hear what I didn't say? the voice in the flood
has its own way chains of syllables give
meaning away



Steffen Horstmann

Blue starlight welding the moon's scimitar.
Silver rain laving the palms of Malabar.

Fluid light in the mirrors of the Charminar.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

The Ganges, the Sind, the Jamuna.
The indigo shoals of Kathiawar.

Mirages shimmering like lucent mandalas
On the road to the oasis of Qarqar.

The winged dance of a ballerina's shadow
Spinning in the marble porticoes of Sennar.

A spectrum shone on bridges of vapor,
Arced above bamboo groves in Shinar.

Paisleys forming in sunlit water, arabesques
Wind-sketched in the pulsing sands of Qatar.

The note reverberating from a sitar.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

The night's quilt of needlepoint constellations.
White lightning woven into blue gazar.

Diamonds of starlit rain glinting
On the gold minarets of Dhankar.

Shiva materializing in heat waves
Rippling on the road to Madar.

The comet propelled from a burnished horizon.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

The sacred herald. The spectral dance.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

The evanescence. The elliptical night.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

The still waters. The vortex of light.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

The liberation. The transcendent dream.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

Colossal clouds. The holy enchantment.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.

The white corona. The ecstatic dissolution.
The flight of the incandescent jacamar.




Steven Carter
      So the Pueblos took to the trail—not a trail of tears; their inner and outer worlds were too dry for that!—which led to—what? The edge, I suppose. But still they had hope.
      —The voices of shamans, chanting for rain in the dark; if not  on the trail then at their destination, wherever that might be.
       But the Darkness followed them, caught up with them, and—
       Not one postcard from the edge.
       500 years later, 1500 miles from the Deadly Desert—”my dark moods babysat by the lake—these words cross my mind: earth; air;  fire; chardonnay
        And these:
        Lift up your eyes unto the hills—
        I do. And clouds from last night’s dream re-appear on the
 Mission ridge, murmuring:
       Gods (for by now the Lost Ones assuredly have become gods)
 don’t send postcards.
       With the clouds come two Irish accents from down the lake.
       Tis dark—
       —Usually is at night.


                                       How have we offended?




Sun and Flurries by Adelaide B. Shaw



Gerard John Conforti

the world will unfold in love and flowers in the morning sunlight
the spring rain unfolds in the sun as the day unfolds with an embrace

buttercups pour with the dew of golden rays

at this hour early in the morning I sit facing the wall in a chair
writing, the only sound is a wall fan blowing against the paper
as I write on turning part way open

the ink fades from the pen no more writing

tonight, once again, I cannot sleep
the world overlooking my shoulders
the burden is heaving not knowing
when there will be peace and no war to come

I touch her lips with mine love is greater than war

I sit on the steps of the house
gazing into the garden where the
flowers are silent in moonlight
the dew forms on the bricks tonight



James Fowler

Four A.M. I lift my head from the pillow and climb up to the attic, stretch out flat, and tuck towels into the eaves. When I close my eyes, the sound of the freezing rain, sluicing down the roof three feet above my head, reminds me of water rushing along the hull of the USS Worden, three feet from my bunk. But here, war arrives disguised as winter. Too much snow, temperatures too warm, then too cold, too warm again deploy to create a line of ice, not just along the eaves, but halfway up the roof as well. Yesterday, while I cooked supper, I noticed a dinner-plate sized dark spot in the ceiling. An hour later, my wife came out to yell at me as I raked the roof, “Sweetie, there’s another spot in the living room.” I raked the other side too. Every two hours, I swap towels between the eaves and the dryer.

Punxsutawny Phil
doesn’t see his shadow
early spring



James Fowler

At seven, one of my chores was feeding and watering the hens. I pretended I was Festus taking supper to the prisoners in the jail. Sometimes, as I passed the sheds, something appeared in the halo of my flashlight. The skunk or hedgehog became the town drunk as I circled around them. In the coop, I filled the water can, scooped grain from the barrel and counted the prisoners. When I neared the house, Matt Dillon’s voice whispered from the back porch, “Well done,” and my father and I would go into supper.

nothing on TV
except reruns



Penny Harter
 ~ v. to be faithful to / not swerve; to preserve or maintain
We keep the hours, mark them on our walls, wear them on our wrists, hoard them in the chambers of our ticking hearts, faithful to the cycles we’ve ordained for sun and moon.
each year a higher
mark on the wall—

I keep your memory in cabinets of papers, on shelves of books, in drawings and photos, while the dust you’ve left behind has settled in a pillow that no longer keeps your head beside  mine, though I embrace it nightly.
tide table
the old fisherman
doesn’t need to look
 ~ v. to tend, as in sheep or garden; to watch
 over, defend from danger, harm, or loss
  n. British: pasture for grazing
I have seen sheep—wandering white puffs glimmering in hillside pastures—though I have never tended them. My mother kept a garden, spoke to the earth with veined hands, raised smiling pansies. Years ago, I tended vegetables, worked to stir good topsoil into clay. Pole beans, squash, and ripe tomatoes tutored me in rhythm.
morning rain
worms float up
from the dark
I have watched over husbands, parents, children, and dear friends, kept dogs and cats, and would defend from any harm those whom I love. But what of dangers that brook no defenses, losses that outrace the wind?
after the storm
an old hornets’ nest
for compost
Our words, a flimsy hedge against their aim, may fail to hold them in restraint, may crumble in our mouths.
boundary wall—
every stone dug up
by human hands
 ~ v. to restrain from divulging; to withhold
 I never told you that after you fell ill, I often woke in the night and turned to lightly
 touch your back, confirming breath. Or that I entered the child’s room, leaned over the
 crib, and did the same, before I could sink into sleep.
on the window-sill—
the evening breeze
 What else would I keep back from those I love? That when we wrap our arms around each other in the dark, we hold light—hug the flickering atoms that define our flesh? Or that our eyes have descended from stars?
meteor shower—
so fast the dying




Penny Harter

 ~n. a short passage to another room
 Once a strange door hidden in a wall came out on wheels to divide one room from another. I don’t remember that it closed off grandmother’s dining room from the living, yet it does so now, emerging from its cavern like a fall of water between me and that table set with stone utensils on white linen—no, not stone, only seeming so as I reach through to lift them.
lost in the estate sale
that green glass globe—
my mother loved
 As we advance in any air, we enter something other, layers shimmering as we pass. Sometimes, strands will brush our cheeks as we move from here to there, from now to a time we don’t remember; from one world to the next  through the wormhole that awaits us.
buried in sand, my feet
emerge again— grains
falling one by one


Alzheim by Beate Conrad


Alexander Jankiewicz

It's a warm spring evening and we're on a date. We're seated on the outdoor patio of a Chinese restaurant. A little boy at the next table is turned around banging on the back of his chair. I don't understand why his parents can't control him. He becomes completely annoying. Just when I'm about to say something to them, my wife turns around and faces the boy. She simply makes eye contact and smiles. She doesn't say a word. He transforms into the most well behaved kid a person could ask for. When I ask her how she did it, she just shrugs her shoulders and wonders out loud what Chinese pickles taste like. It finally sinks in that "my date" is the mother of my child to be.

on the menu
a list of baby names
from a to z
starting with my own
indecision fills my plate



Adelaide B. Shaw
In a local bookstore, in the back, there is a café. Amidst the clatter of cups and the rolling fragrance of coffee and cinnamon buns, people read and talk and eat. Most of them probably never even notice the mural high up along the walls.  Poe, Shaw, Dickenson, Elliot, Shakespeare, the Brontes, Falkner and many more.  The list is long and varied.


faces of the great
looking down on me
as I scribble words
their works humbling me
when I think I can follow




Ed Baranosky

Wonder of black strokes
healing the wounds of space
in the color of the sky
sliced by steel girders
moving cranes between.

Hidden traffic
moving across windows
of wounded souls
girdered in this threshing circle
the shadows of giants.

We remain transfixed
seeking words to mail into
unredacted silence
impenetrable sounds
to hear their echo.

There are no weak dreams
in the glare of the winter sun;
unadorned branches
trace the dark labyrinth
under a raven¡¦s wing.


Ed  Baranosky

             You can turn the lights out. The paintings will carry  their own fire.

                                                             Clyfford  Still

There is no wind.

The turning flames of color
rotate as mind ignites.

In the thick of 1949
No. 1 engineers depth of field.

The doorway turns
on an invisible hinge.

A ghost of electricity
exposes the fallacy.

Yet your Star-gate burns,


Oil on canvas, 60 x  60 inches (152.4 ¡Ñ 152.4 cm)
Ed Baranosky

             In 1967, he wrote: “ free, unmanipulated,   unmanipulatable, useless,  unmarketable,          irreducible,  unphotographable, unreproducible, inexplicable icon.”         
                        Ad Reinhardt


Unforged fame
the sailors disembark
without ambition,
desire furs, gold, trade,
and themselves untouched.

Their uncertainties
of paradise are unmatched
by the uncertainties of earth;
the Titanic presence lures
them away from complacency.

And still we daydream
as we sleepwalked into birth;
allowing the gods
to settle their grandiose affaires
with mortal artists.

Take a shaman’s advice
to paint your own footsteps
back to the cave’s mouth
where the dead live still
infracted by fractal dreamers.


Ed Baranosky

             The artist makes things move, and is moved. He who makes
 things move also creates rest. That which aesthetically is brought to
 rest is art.
                         Piet Mondrian, De Groene Amsterdammer 27 March 1920

                         The algorithm
                         turns a Foxtrot into Jazz
                         Boogie Woogie;
                         toe and heel and toe fades
                         now that you can see the dawn.

                         Shared ideal Broadway,
                         a lost dance in a lost dream
                         in danger of forever,
                         falling weightless out of time,
                         the evenness of mortality.

                         Your eyes that feature
                         more than the sum of its parts,
                         light without chroma
                         borrow a raw color
                         in a leafless season.
                         What is the new weight
                         from the center of light
                         that you carry? Absence
                         sees you in the early dawn,
                         the Victory unfinished.


Island by Maire Morrissey-Cummins


Ralf Broeker

airport shuttle
outside they fight
the wind

fish’n chips
so difficult to get some
malt vinegar

Mount Royal Hotel
the friend I do not know
recognizes me

tramway construction
we talk about

walking along
Molly Malone

oak smoke rye juniper

it’s nice


One O’Clock Gun
tourists set

all these stories
about my father’s father
in the War Museum

firth of forth
snow covered hills

I can’t find
the exit

bought some dino’s dung
my wife is keeping
our son

Whisky Experience
most of them
I know

bottle 3801
has been waiting


through the Highlands
black fields amongst
dry heather

there seems to be a spring

scent of yeast
the old guide remembers
a Chinese millionaire

singing songs
we refused to learn

don’t you want me baby
I ask a would-be swinger
who did that

blues music this beer tastes like home

at Harry Potter’s grave
two boys kiss


Royal Mile
a Japanese girl pushes down
her tartan mini skirt

High Street
hen laugh
and laugh

Scottish Parliament
a toddler does not want to see
the Queen’s Home

bursting for a pee … now we talk about politics

last order
our fair haired waiter
tries to hide


 Owen Bullock

the celebration
cups of tea
after the funeral

the celebration
Father puts his pint
in front of Gran

the celebration
mother of three
doesn't want kids there

the celebration
lost in the crowd
all his guests

the celebration
hoping they'll come
knowing they will

the celebration
over Bowentown head

the celebration
his life in

the celebration
song and craic
every night

the celebration
his first birthday party
aged nineteen

the celebration
WOMAD comes to life
with the people

the celebration
a family friend, never met
just as welcome

the celebration
tears in his eyes
as you open the album


Unnamed Grasses by Maire Morrissey-Cummmins


Sonam Chhoki

is this an awakening
this pitting of cleaving halves?
to the west
the gods clang the Dharma bell
summon with their mournful conch

the east
beckons with lime white lilies
yet to bloom
rainbows still to be traced
under the archway of stars

shrouded faces
crowd the edge of night
sleep is now
the ebb and swell
of incoherent voices

soaked with darkness
karmic wounds bleed, bleed, bleed
but at dawn
the sun is still adorned
with Samsara

'death and impermanence' —
the mantra reverberates
in sacred caves
by moss-blackened lakes
on prayer wheels and banners

nascent dreams
fall through my fingers
like water in a sieve
like the autumn wind
in a winnowing basket

Lama Kheyno!
We each had another birth
long before we met
we might not meet in the next
what of our dreams in the bardo?


Elizabeth Howard

a chilly breeze
my usual path
growing shorter

all the trees sport
dazzling white beards

an eiderdown nest
in the birch’s crux

snowbanks melting
fairy rainbows pirouette
in the sunrays

a long walk
counting wildflowers
violet, primrose, buttercup


Ruth Holzer

deathwatch days  a cloud of gnats

April breeze  grieving for the living

Thursday’s child  she doesn’t know it’s there anymore

so often crying wolf now the wolf crying for you

no more lovable when terminal

nursing home wing  they call it  Transition Care

at journey’s end another journey

disappearing into the light spring rain mother


Marilyn Humbert

The garden is strangled
beneath wisteria and jasmine.
Bamboo clumps cast shadows
where crows congregate 
within the wire and star picket fence,

and summer’s breath
snaps the bare earth
in honeycombed delight.
Tears aren’t enough
to keep the creek trickling.

Twilight splashes scarlet
on the tin and pine board shack
snug in leathery peppercorn arms.

I trip in an empty pond
days gone, tossing stones
ripple rings skating the water-pane
disturbing the sun’s radiant face.

A screen door bangs
moths rise in homage
and circle in confusion
dogs howl … sirens scream
shattering rivers of star-glitter.
You dangle
near the black bamboo.

And my voice rattles
like a pebble
in a brittle hollow husk.



Mark Kaplon

In strange dawn light
I wake under strange eaves
in such certain
such perfect-fitting skin—
now whose life am I living?

leaning off the porch   
into colorless-white petals
the fragrance of frost—
it was chill distant moonlight
all night on the empty stairs
in the dappled shade and shine
of the moonlit glade
my mottled shrub-mushroom tent
sitting somewhere in the moonshine
old worn-out brown boots
how can I say what you are
 to me? in all these years
 the mountain roads and the dirt
 do the talking for us both!
 shouldering the load—
 together through it all
 the two of us still
 as we move on, rucksack,
 to yet another condition
 draining maple trees
 dye out bright and fiery
 to flame-patterned veins
 while across the freeze of air
 the sun sinks, further away
gazing awhile up
at the thin, cloud-gusting sky
radiant in the late
afternoon light— and below:
hairy, velvet-textured earth
 further down the road
 into the cool green country
 when my footsteps slowed—
 tall, lofty eucalyptus
 sway so soothingly and soft
awash in the drowsy
malaise of my eyelids on a
cloudy afternoon—
I wake up to solid rock
to wild rock, the shock of the real


M. Kei

no signs say
"Welcome to Baltimore"
along the train tracks,
just the littered debris
of ruined neighborhoods

traveling by train,
I arrive behind the mask
of the city, and it is I,
the stranger, who looks out
at you from the familiar face

the problem of cities
lies in the broad boulevards
and potted trees,
forgetting the narrow alley streets
and all the people hidden within

Baltimore's brown fog
reaches all the way to
the Eastern Shore . . .
smog warnings and asthma attacks
in the green aisles of the countryside

traveling by train,
I see the rears of stores,
warehouses, cities;
undeceived by their bright facades
I find the places we have truly made

trains, like ants,
crawl across
the scabs of cities,
you'll never find America
in a limousine



Chen-ou Liu

to leave or to stay. . .
the light and dark
of a spring wind

childhood summer . . .
learning the language
of butterflies

ninth autumn . . .
facing the Pacific
I undress my thoughts

a winter sunset
over the Rocky Mountains
I am not myself

New Year's Eve
after the fireworks
a moonlit cobweb


Chen-ou Liu

her soft, wet body
leans into mine
her legs, her thighs
move against me...
time and rain fall on

standing hand in hand
before our 3-bedroom house
now, we own
two Acuras
. . .and a golden retriever

autumn gust
blowing off my heart
her last words
You're like an onion;
the more layers I peel. . .

the distance
between sun and moon…
the apparition
of my ex-wife’s face
in the rush hour crowd

in the mirror
Father's face and mine
on New Year's morning
I take an ice-cold shower


Sergio Ortiz

I smell my anger,
tell my story, and people
turn away. . .
                     this tongue
                     bound by ice

clenched in my fist. . .
people assure me,
nobody dies from
brittle eyes

blue knives glint
through breathless autumn's
misty drizzle. . .
I scrutinize sepulchers—
who wouldn’t call on the wind

there are days
when thirst runs dry
and prayer lips harden. . .
nameless days
when rivers flow straight up


Pravat Kumar Padhy

billowing cloud—
summer rain makes
a tentative halt

summer morning—
the old man gathers
early warmth

burning hot—
the village pond
with wrinkles

brief relief
a thin patch of
summer grasses

Indian summer
passers-by gossip
under banyan tree


Debbie Strange

on the tundra
a caribou river
surging past
my inukshuk arms
carrying the midnight sun

beluga ghosts
undulate beside our boat
sea canaries
and whalebone harps
singing the horizon

with my snow eyes
opening into
negative spaces between
the ptarmigan and polar bear

blue glacier
calving into the narrows
a bloodless birth
our letting go of progeny
that too soon drift away

lithesome spirit walker
above the taiga
rainbow ribbons in her hair


Liam Wilkinson

summer cups its hands
around me
its fingers painted
with a paste
of soil and sweat

I can smell the death
of a hundred lawns
it drifts into my window
like a bee with the breath
beaten out of it

my trusty old jacket
in all its pockets
hangs stiff from a hook
the shape of an old self
beneath its creases

listening to the applause
in a glass of lemonade
in his burning room
this writer of bare branches

cold morning air
rattles my pipes
I lie into the ear
of a typewriter
slick with sweat



Autumn Woodland by Maire Morrissey-Cummins


Tamara K.Walker

midnight excursion
the crunching over fallen leaves
in suddenly frigid air—
walking past a daycare center
decorations bathed in florescence

feeling forms and patterns
of lyrical vessels
washing through my arteries
the gestating silence permeates
nests of slumbering birds

at an intersection
returning again to the signs
and scent of cinnamon bread
stretched out before me—
the long, wide path of winter

the pleasantly familiar smell
of baked goods and firewood
in the cold—
sensations of others' homes
prompt me to return to mine

sleeping underneath
a thick comforter again
for the first night—
lulled by the musty fragrance
of the storage shelf


 Liam Wilkinson

let us try walking
the tightrope I've suspended
over the chasm of
darker memories
see if we can't make it across

scarf of a harsh word
unraveled and chucked
I guffaw into familiar hands
suddenly under autumn cold

grief made a rock of you
a rock that refused
to rupture and reveal
its lines and lines
of memory

I'll write and write
all night
if I have to
just to find that one poem
with my tongue between its teeth

you play the rim of you
bang out a beat
on your voice box
when all we require is
the song of your usual self

I play the battered pianos
of old notions
and though they've lost their tune
a few notes shimmer
like the dark around the stars

these months ensnare me
with flourishes
of rusty wrought iron
I'm the heart of the sculpture
of the poet I'd rather not be

what I take to be
a barn exploding
is a murder
of crows
taking off

the present like a wine glass
into tiny blue shards
of the past
no receptacle for what's to come

the fish of my mind
swims away
and night is a bell
struck starless



Gene Doty

Tender monsters sport in wet chaos, curvet and cavort before Yah.
Behemoth and Leviathan, tease the Angler with fluke and flank.
Flimsy pages turn wetly, blown from the empty Center.


Cosmos by Maire Morrissey-Cummins


Tamara K.Walker
a strong purveyor of maternal medicine, you use it now through this
iconic tool, narrow canal of sound, I whisper-- timorous confessions
among beats of my vulnerable heart

listening softly to my heartbeat you gaze up into my eyes we join
mouths for a slow and drawing kiss as you transfer the ears pressing
it to your chest I link my eardrum with your pulse

I hear the essence of your being as fragile and brave as mine your
innocent giggle breaks the philosophical silence fear not, for as long
as it thumps, we shall forge on ahead





beneath fat clouds
a man with no umbrella
dryly waits
for rain to lose
interest in falling
             Robert Annis


after the flood
a library of drowned books
bleeding poems
the wounded words dissolving
into the memory of water
            Debbie Strange


I breed sparrows
that build altars beside my bed
wake to the smell
of his hair without recalling
his name or my own
             Sergio Ortiz


holding hands
on the sunlit beach . . .
our footprints
trail us till the end
of where we go
             Nu Quang

the seagulls
circling above the nests
in the cliffs
                Tatjana Debeljacki


strong winds 
  flying past my face 
  yesterday's news
            Rachel Sutcliffe


graduation day
classmates pose for photos
with their parents . . .
I imagine Mother
smiling at me proudly
             Nu Quang


ghost of my mother
 once upon
 a moon
 winter dreams
 a tired smile
            Steven Carter


found a tongue
to haunt me. . .
sweat between the breasts
of sloe-eyed strippers
             Sergio Ortiz


I’ve forgotten
the name of every star
strong enough
to shine through
suburban light
             Robert Annis


you've been dead
a third of my life—
milkweed flung
from the pods of my soul
             Sergio Ortiz


Memorial Day
he puts a pot of carnation
on his grave . . .
a father he's never seen
a stranger so close to him
             Nu Quang


hill walking 
  weaving my way 
  to the clouds
            Rachel Sutcliffe

draws blades of grass with bronze
a firefly in the night
                Tatjana Debeljacki


a certain kind of Eden
holds me captive. . .
your eyes
are a green twine,
the saddest of rope
             Sergio Ortiz


before baldness
overtakes me
I comb
a hand across my skull
and find you
             Robert Annis


he touched
my hand and for moment
I was a woman. . .
his trembling lips
whisper lies in the dark
             Sergio Ortiz


side-yard orange
wait among leaves
for breakfast
I’ll pick you
             Robert Annis

open bakery door 
  a pigeon 
  joins the queue
            Rachel Sutcliffe


I burn
in the dark fire of
. . . suffering
is one very long moment
             Sergio Ortiz


on a high ledge
a squirrel is nervous
enough to jump—
you speak of the discomforts
of love
             Robert Annis


I manage terror
by examining how things work,
count my sins,
and grip your rhythm to me
in the perfect form of stillness
             Sergio Ortiz


out back
jasmine dreadlock
in tight knots
the fence is lost
to wild-green leaves
             Robert Annis


  autumn leaves 
  the time 
  we have left
            Rachel Sutcliffe


I can wait
longer than sadness,
for hours in my garden
among the sweet narcissus
             Sergio Ortiz


white scarf tested
by wind that whirls the thunder-
thread and ears shadow
sheer cloth
             Robert Annis


  holiday downpour 
  buying postcards 
  of a sunny day
            Rachel Sutcliffe


across the bay
city purple in sunset
just off shore
fish breach the wind
and fall to splash slow
             Robert Annis


long queue
    at pathology-
    her endless chatter
            Rachel Sutcliffe


up to roof
circle of city light
there is no wind
I can see
only one star
             Robert Annis


castle ruins 
  sheep graze 
  in the kitchen
            Rachel Sutcliffe


from hidden swale
a sapling trespasses
each day up more—
closer to robbing the sun
closer to burning away
             Robert Annis

  railroad crossing 
  a train passes through 
  my feet
            Rachel Sutcliffe

a silver keychain
holding onto your house key
for months after
the divorce becomes final
when you remove the TV
            Joann Grisetti

in the beauty of the dusk
with the morning dew
breath me in
            Tatjana Debeljacki



Wildflowers by Maire Morrissey-Cummins


Gene Doty

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


Gene Doty

moon glowing behind high vapors
as the earth rotates its shadow
stringed instruments haunt the tune
oh, my Rosie, how hard to be
so far apart on this cold cold night














 Mary Cresswell

 Autumn Rain by Ramona Linke

Mary Cresswell

Mary Cresswell

Gene Doty

Gene Doty

Steffen Horstmann



Steven Carter

Sun and Flurries by Adelaide B. Shaw

Gerard John Conforti

James Fowler

James Fowler

Penny Harter

Penny Harter

Alzheim by Beate Conrad

Alexander Jankiewicz

Adelaide B. Shaw



Ed Baranosky

Ed  Baranosky

Oil on canvas, 60 x  60 inches (152.4 ¡Ñ 152.4 cm)
Ed Baranosky

Ed Baranosky

Island by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Ralf Broeker

 Owen Bullock

Unnamed Grasses by Maire Morrissey-Cummmins

Sonam Chhoki

Elizabeth Howard

Ruth Holzer

Marilyn Humbert

Mark Kaplon

M. Kei

Chen-ou Liu

Chen-ou Liu

Sergio Ortiz

Pravat Kumar Padhy

Debbie Strange

Liam Wilkinson

Autumn Woodland by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Tamara K.Walke

 Liam Wilkinson



Gene Doty

Cosmos by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Tamara K.Walker



             Robert Annis  Debbie Strange             Sergio Ortiz       
Nu Quang
Tatjana Debeljacki
Rachel Sutcliffe          Steven Carter

Wildflowers by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Gene Doty

Gene Doty



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, 2012XXVII:2 June, 20

2XXVII:3 October, 2012

XXVIII:1 February, 2013

XXVIII:2 June, 2013

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