Febuary, 2014

A Journal for Linking Poets
with Symbiotic Poetry




 Steffen Horstmann

Whirlwinds teem amid monoliths built
Over centuries by slaves in  your country.
On coastal plains the sky is a sea surging
With clouds shaped like waves in your country.
The iridescent plumage of nocturnal birds gleams
When an oceanic wind raves in your country.
Kings are entombed in icy chambers sealed
In a labyrinth of caves in your country.
Seething funnel clouds surge through wastes
Occupied by warring enclaves in your country.
The sun throbbing like a heart evaporates
Blue mists flowing from caves in your country.
Sages summon rain with the percussion
Of timbrels & claves in your country.
Voices of massacred nomads stir in the dust
Of their hurried graves in your country.
Groves of Empress trees burn as a phoenix
Propelled by thermals raves in your country.
The radiating light of the firmament
Bursts into indigo waves in your country.

 Steffen Horstmann
 Mynah birds burst from a cloud of ash that billows 
From pyres on  the Manikarnika ghat.
Jasmine incense swirls in a fuming gust that blows 
From pyres on  the Manikarnika ghat.
Moths with flaming wings whirled in smoke that rose 
From pyres on  the Manikarnika ghat.
The apparitions of gazelles cast leaping shadows 
From pyres on the  Manikarnika ghat.
Sparks pulsate in latticed smoke that flows 
From pyres on the  Manikarnika ghat.
Rings of embers convulsed as phoenixes rose 
From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat.
Chanted sutras are heard in crackling echoes 
From pyres on the  Manikarnika ghat.
Through curtains of cobalt flames Shiva rose 
From pyres on the  Manikarnika ghat.



Maire-Morrissey Cummins


Gerard J. Conforti

I am lead out of the steel doors of the psych ward. For a moment the spring breeze is in my hair. No where else to go, I head back to my room in a rooming house. After arriving there, I put all my belongings away and then fall into a deep sleep on my bed. I awake in the pitch-black room and turn on the lamplight. I am still not feeling well, but I don’t care about going back to the hospital, where I wasn’t treated well and suffered great emotional rejection and pain.

spring night the sound of stirring trees outside

I already know I won’t be staying very long in my room. I gaze at the capsules of pills. I’m still very depressed and psychotic. They let me go too soon. In an armchair I think for hours about life. I take a handful of pills with a glass of water.
I can hear traffic going by; drivers honking their horns. I jump at every kind of noise. I take the pills and fall once again into a color of dark sleep. I jump up sweating and my sheets are wet through.
The morning arrives. I sit up and gaze at the blue painted wall. I know I must get help. When I tell my landlady what has been happening, she phones for an ambulance.
When I’m back in the ER the doctors and nurses began to detoxify me.

For six months I am back in the psyche ward taking a lot of emotional punishment. They are out to change my life all the way back to childhood —back to the present adulthood. My emotions tear at the rejection and pain. They want me to cease writing and find a part-time job. After leaving the hospital I am still angry about what the staff has done to me. I find part-time work and continue to write despite the heavy odds against me.

years pass into the glory of God helping me



"No more hurting people Peace" *
Janet Lynn Davis

with pebbles
I prop them back up—
my lavender
barely past seedling stage
uprooted by wind


April 15, 2013, mid-afternoon. Staring out the window, I notice that some are bowing heavily, a few others passed out. Just a couple of days ago, I had planted them carefully in a neat row down the center of the bed. Now, I must painstakingly tuck them back in.

After I return inside, I learn that a horrific attack has occurred at the Boston Marathon. Much more news would follow: so many serious injuries, a child among the dead. What do parents say to their children, even those not immediately affected?

* Words on a sign made by Martin Richard, eight years old, one of the three people killed. first published at Haiku News, August 2013.


Elizabeth Howard

            Excited to be waking near the Gulf, we step out to enjoy sunrise on the beach. The cherry-red sun is already hot as a breakfast tart, far too hot for bare feet. At the waterline, fish skeletons frizzle, breakfast for vagabond flies. Gulls circle and squawk; voracious terns chase the wavy waterline, the surf washing their starry feet. In the distance, fishing boats idle, belly-deep, lights blinking like sleepy eyes. A jogger chugs through the deep sand, his teeth clenched with pain. 

                                    hip-deep in the shallows
                                    a man casts for mullet
                                    a rhythmic dance
                                    a ballet of light and shadow
                                    sun dancing on water   


Maire-Morrissey Cummins



Ruth Holzer

Uphill and down, you never reach the end of it, even though you do your best to keep going. Bars, scaffolding, crumbling walls, bars, vacant lots, construction sites, rubble, squats. Down in the harbor, a pilot boat is already leading your ship out.

         a locked gate—
            this isn’t the way
            to the Tower



Ruth Holzer

The first and only house they owned, finally buying when his employment seemed secure: a two-story brick duplex with a rental unit.  They stayed in it for over 40 years, and although later she got mugged a few times on the way back from the corner grocery store and his car was stolen from the driveway and the last set of tenants trashed their apartment before absconding. There they would have remained to the end of their days, clinging to life, as he said.  But then he had a fall.

       seepage  the dark at the bottom of the stairs


Bob Lucky

every blossom
a moving target
the patience
of a hovering sunbird
in search of nectar

the shadow
of a cedar sapling
dapples the grass
in a coiled garden hose
I imagine the serpent

This time of year the wind never dies, whistles the tune that keeps the world spinning. The ferns and banana plants, the roses and impatiens, the pomegranate trees and jacarandas dance all afternoon with butterflies and bees. From the verandah I watch like a boy without a date, pet the dog that comes to console me, and think of making a pot of tea before I close my eyes and let the wind shape my dreams.

in the garden
my wife and I
take inventory
so many things
yet to be named



Adelaide B. Shaw

 They come nearly every day for coffee, six, seven, eight young men. Sometimes the group includes two or three women.  They call on their cell phones, text messages, talk, laugh, sip their coffee drinks, go outside for a smoke, two or three at a time or all of them, come back  in and resume their talk, laughter and texting.

family dinner
the same old chit-chat
as last week


Alexander Jankiewicz

We're standing in front of my mother's childhood home. I've waited a long time for my daughter to be old enough to understand. This is the place that my mother spoke so much of when I was younger, before I lost her to dementia. I flashback and think of earlier times when my mother was so happy recollecting her youth. It can be strange wondering what your mother was like as a child. Sometimes a moment comes through when you see her in a seemingly helpless situation and can see in her eyes that she's too proud... or too afraid... to ask for help: a brief moment when you can see your child in your parent.

in my mother's footsteps
my daughter asks
if grandmother stood there too
when she was a girl

Maire-Morrissey Cummins


Jeanne Jorgensen

         Winter in Edmonton seldom arrives all at once or with a Bang. I have lived in Alberta for 70 years, but I am always surprised by the first killing frost. I no longer get upset but am saddened when all of our annuals in pots and barrels turn black almost overnight.
         All is not doom and gloom though, for I now can ramble around our front and back yard and be grateful for all of the trees and perennials that will greet us again next spring. And, joy of joys, the mosquitoes are gone. All kinds of birds are migrating south and the leaves have turned to shades of gold, crimson and rust. Oh, and  the air seems fresher as well.

                 thin ice
                 on the backyard birdbath
                 puzzled robin

         My husband fills all of the bird feeders now for the birds that remain in our neighbourhood. Fairly regularly, a Jackrabbit arrives to clean up the grain that falls onto the ground. And then comes our first snow and the wonder it brings. Snowflakes large or
 small fall thickly onto eyelashes, age lines, and hair, then weighs down spruce boughs and tree branches. It also forms mounds upon everything it seems.

                 yesterday's visit
                 with our granddaughter
                 . . . snow angels

         Although we are both elderly, my husband and I try and remain active even when the weather gets cold. With old age comes wisdom (thankfully) so we dress warmly as we go out and about.
 Dick helps our daughter-in-law build a backyard skating rink as well as shoveling/snow blowing not just her sidewalks and driveways, but ours and our neighbours as well. I continue attending yoga and stretch classes. Neither of us ski but Dick still skates and I enjoy walking anyplace that I know is free of ice underfoot. No broken bones for this lady if she can help it!
         By mid-December our coloured outdoor lights are turned on to brighten up the night as well as celebrate the coming winter Solstice. My personal joy is writing our yearly newsletter and sending it along with photos and cards (often) to stay in touch with
distant friends and relatives as well as expressing our love to those close by. Hot coffee no longer just warms our bellies but hot chocolate and mulled wine our toes and souls as well. Winter in Edmonton, for us, is: a time to slowdown, walk carefully, attend
 seasonal concerts of many kinds, snuggle deeply, travel safely and write more poetry and non-fiction stories. Most of all, it is a time to be grateful that, in Edmonton, we can enjoy all of the four seasons.

                 so many beliefs
                 Quaecumque Vera*
                 still true                   

* Latin phrase: "What soever things are true"



Adelaide B. Shaw

 An afternoon alone. Children at school, husband at work. The early spring sunshine lights up the woods across from our apartment. From the fourth floor, looking down and across, the trees appear to be dusted with a pale green fuzz. I don boots and jacket and follow the call to get closer.

I walk along a stream, the ground squishy with decomposed leaves.  Wild primroses– yellow, white, pink–small and delicate, barely noticeable in the leaf debris.  Zig-zagging my steps, the squelching mud splashes inside my boots.  The stream, clear and cold, ticks along, changing its voice as it meets rocks and fallen branches. No sounds except the stream, the snap of twigs, the cheep, cheep of an unseen bird.


woodland ramble
neither meditating
nor day dreaming;
just an empty vessel
ready to fill



Maire-Morrissey Cummins



Jenny Ward Angyal

I listen
for the sound of water
in a dry stream bed . . .
the pulse of yes
beginning in my veins

a spring
rises out of the earth—
I drink
from its oak-dark eye
a glimmer of starlight

like silk against my skin
I swim naked
in a sea of words
waiting to be born



Ed Baranosky

      Longing we say, because desire
      is full of endless distances.
                —Robert Hass               
                                Meditation at Lagonistas

High, a circling osprey
calls the late morning sun.
Sandpipers whistle
through the azure haze
of the breaking surf.

Pine branches arch
Marble paths to the sea road,
marking the tide's swell
where the shallow bay conceals
long hidden shoals.

Tacking sails return
scattering reflections
out of a dark fog;
Shoreward timbers converse
with the spars in the wind.

Windfall apples
roll into the wet sand
with ancient quinces;
Pilgrims marooned anchors,
forsaken stowaways.



Neelam Dadhwal

  my dreams
  as the dust sparkled through
  sunbeams of a bamboo groove
  settling unsettling in
  the pawn of life
  drenched in a raindrop
  the wrinkled remnants of
  a sculpture listening to
  the silence of sea, curtain
  falls in the mist
  measuring the air currents
  she lays her hands molded
  in the willow sipping from which the
  *Bihu songs flows
  this last drop of ocean in
  ceaseless direction
  with forces unbinding
  cast its own spell to
  shower down
  the north wind in its blossom
  the life slowly labyrinth of
  the lotus buds unfolding to
  the call of jay birds descending
  on clear waters of ecstasy
  *Bihu is celebrated as the New Year in Assam in mid April,
  composing of festive days for cows and buffalos and man. Bihu songs   are energetic sung to the beats of drum, pepa, and gogona.

Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic


Neelam Dadhwal
  winding road… 
  the fog settles my journey 
  to the nearest herb
  winter song… 
  people walking through the fog 
  as their shadows
  nestled new born chicks 
  under the leftover blanket 
  a long road and home, the fireplace 
  in courtyard of a stranger
  winter sunset… 
  in an old boat 
  I hear the music of oars
  nut cracking… 
  the amber of fireplace 
  in my mouth



john martone

late in bed
legs warm
dreams departing



one morning
this morning
nothing hurts

rods & cones
pines encircle his shack

grey matter
the white matter

under those pines
that orphanage

his mind

up to
his ear

& sea

under each pine

the last stick
he smells of wood smoke

amyloid placques

what’s left
of a dream

winter sky
his blanket



Jeanne Lupton

My father told me
I would live through a man
I finally found him
my 84-year-old client
who has dementia

How many shrimp
in this shrimp fried rice?
I saw one.
It’s probably
the same one I saw.
Are my sisters around?

No, they passed away, Larry.

Oh, hell!

I’m sorry to have to tell you.

Are my sisters around?
Where am I?
What am I doing here?
How did I get here?
How long have I been here?
Do I belong here?

I dose him
with anti-anxiety meds
so that I
don't run screaming
from the building

you are a good kitty!
Isn’t she?

Yes, she’s a good kitty.

Yes, Melba, you’re a good kitty.

cold night
Larry rests on the couch
listening to bluegrass
I cook rice and veggies
to feed him is to love him

against the autumn sun
Larry with dementia
in the pose of The Thinker
his green shirt, his bright heart


Do we have food for Melba?

I just fed her


Shouldn’t we feed Melba?

he says of me
to the head assistant
when she asks
that he would prefer
someone intelligent

I forget his cane
when we go out to eat
as we leave the cafe
he takes my hand in his


Sergio Ortiga


Chen-ou Liu

writing haiku...
the cock crows
as if possessed

the vacuum humming
I revise
a spring haiku

color of the sky
like a cat dead for weeks
my summer haiku

a pause
between haiku

writing haiku...
autumn sunlight breaks
through a wall of gray

winter solstice
a haiku lost and found
in my dream

the porridge
on my coffee-stained desk
rewriting haiku
(for Jack Kerouac)



Ram Krishna Singh

Plodding  away at
season’s conspiracies
life has proved untrue
with God an empty word
and prayers helpless cries

I wish I could live
nature’s  rhythm free from
bondage of clock-time
rituals of work and sleep
expanding haiku present

on the prayer mat
the hands raised in vajrasan
couldn’t contact God—
the prayer was too long and
the winter night still longer

the mind creates
withdrawn to its own pleasures
a green thought
behind the banyan tree
behind the flickering lust

I can’t know her
from the body, skin or curve:
the perfume cheats
like the sacred hymns chanted
in hope, and there’s no answer

the soul’s pursuit hidden
by its own works:
the spirit’s thirst, the strife
the restless silence, too much

unable to see
beyond the nose he says
he meditates
and sees visions of Buddha
weeping for us

the mirror swallowed
my footprints on the shore
I couldn’t blame the waves
the geese kept flying over head
the shadows kept moving afar

the lane to temple
through foul drain, dust, and mud:
black back of Saturn
in a locked enclosure
a harassed devotee

not much fun—
cold night, asthmatic cough
and lonely Christmas:
no quiet place within
no fresh start for the New Year



Debbie Strange

I am
the black
and holy roundness
of stone
and water

I am
the loon
singing lamentations
to the four winds
and seven seas

I am
the bonedust
of winter
on the
bent jackpine

I am
the broken
guitar strings
a rusted vehicle
of song

I am
the bruised sky
of January
a poet ghost
in an empty chair



Alexander Jankiewicz

under the desert sun
burkas flow
through the landscape
leaving me behind

on a mountain top
beyond the black rises
a call for prayer

with black flowing
the cityscape
colors hiding from my view

the whisper
of a glance from behind
the black
eyes try to say hello
bidding peace without words



Wolfgang Beutke
Photo: Courtesy of the Estate of Edward Steichen


Scott Mason

railroad ties climb
past the falling leaves
pre-game bonfire

global warming
a Winter Carnival sculpture
Dali might admire

rites of fling
Frisbee practice pays off
at graduation



Scott Mason

opening bell:
blocks away, no ring
for the charging bronze bull

Mott St. storefront
the glazed look
of a Peking duck

zazen duo
each with a pigeon topknot:
Patience & Fortitude

on Museum Mile
a mammoth
mummified snail

uniformed children
surrounding the unicorn
in captivation



Helga Stania

Wind peitscht
rauschendes Licht
Blaue Männer
laden das Salz
der Verlorenheit

als tanze es
hebt ein Reptil die Füße
vom Sand
unbemerkt singend
wandeln sich Formen

grüne Wogen
auf dem Grunde des Sees
im Strom
geladener Teilchen

auf Caféhaustischen
reihen sich Dominosteine
tönt sich die Kasbah
unter dem Mond

für den Flug zum Mars
früh einen Platz bestellt
ein Blind-Date vereinbart
mit vielerlei Diensten

freundliche Worte
zum Jubelfest
am Denkmal
erklopfen wir
den hohlen Klang

hinter dem Fenster
ein mürrisches Gesicht
schenk ich mein Lachen
den weißen Wolken



Helga Stania

wind swirls
flickering light
Blue Men
loading the salt
of loneliness

like dancing
the reptile lifts its feet
from the sand
singing unnoticed
shapes are changing

green waves
on the lake bed
in the flow
of charged particles

on the tables of the café
dominoes in line
black and white
the Kasbah's hue
in the moonlight

early reservation
on a flight to Mars
arranged a blind-date
with several services

friendly words
and a joyful celebration
at the memorial
by knocking we hear
the hollow sound

behind the window
a grumpy face
strolling along
I send my laughter
to the white clouds


Rachel Sutcliffe

hospital guide...
the pathology department
marked in red

the space between us...
words left unsaid

results day...
the hardest part

clinic running late...
we reach for the oldest

the future
we had planned

hospital stay...
the smell of fresh air
fast forgotten

3 months...
we extend
our hopes

late autumn...

the years
we won't share...
winter sky

funeral service...
outside the church
cherry blossom



Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic



Dick Pettit

a small bird
skims into the hedge
winter sunshine 

a farm cat patrols
the side of an empty field 

the driver gets down
to open wire gates
for his spattered van 

piled sacks make a bed
after the farewell party 

the moon persists
hardly whiter than the sky
between tower blocks 

newspapers still in bundles
next to the closed café 

two violinists
from the Conservatoire
play for early commuters 

the escalator moves on
but the music stays

'The guy had headphones,              
was reading a book, and he says:
”Look where you're going.” '

the producer throws a fit —
outsiders on the set

two city suits
drop in after dinner
on the folk club

when the flowers were all a-blooming
on a morning in May

we walk through the night
and come over the Downs in time
for Brighton Races

let's move along the stand
two police coming this way

our new squad
will tackle hackers, scammers
and high-tech cyber-pinks

my computer's a minimalist
and I'm just not good enough

'You're like your father—
now in heaven - you have
to be perfect.'

light on a summer's day
lasting well past midnight

St John's Eve
children sleep in the car
after the fireworks

Dad's taken off, and Mum's
crying in the kitchen

the clear moon
turns hazy, and shadows blue
as dew forms

behind the long line of hill
a fox's bark

”The beast's a predator  
we just mirror to it
its natural habitat.”

leeches and poisonous slime
and the mozzy spray don't work

the delver
scrapes a bone, and saves it
for carbon dating

the bodies were soaked in petrol
but many didn't burn

woods come down
to small fields and farmhouses
they'd been here centuries

”There was compensation
but we can't rebuild the herd.”

”We decree a Europe
free of every trace
of corruption and disease.”

the retired surgeon still
scrubs up before engagements

”There's no-one under fifty
in the Choral Society
but it's still expanding.”

a coachload of wrinklies
turns into the High Street

A wet winter Tuesday —
and you can't move in York
for tourists

moorgrime so low
it wets each bump in the road

evening sets in
a hitchhiker turns down the hill
to walk to the village

the moon, still bright
has dropped to the top of the trees

bales of straw 
like giant reels of cable
strew the field

two boys out for rabbits
one gun between them

”Easy, Sarge!
We dropped them all
before they saw us.”

demonstrations are forbidden
but there's a funeral every day

no spring flowers.
in this arid land they take
blossom from the trees

hibiscus in her hair
is this a message?

the bar-girl puts
an electric hand on his thigh
just in passing

choc'lates, canapés, champagne,
and premature ejaculation

”Sorry, darling
it's just that I prefer
the missionary position.”

”I like sex: it shows
God has a sense of humour.”

a Polish officer
with eager eyes, dying
'for administrative reasons'

Bodie went, and after that
I haven't bothered

unmoving radiance
the quiet moon reveals
there's no escape

the past gives no direction
saying 'yes' to what?

the Company starts up here
”So far out!?” they said. I say:
”Far out from where?”

odd blocks, car parks —
it's looking like London Airport

the girl laughs as I shout
”Someone must do something
about my flight.”

the cock stands on a tea-chest
shaking his head at the hens

stinging nettles
poke through an old car wheel
without a tyre

under the trees bluebells
stretch away in a mist

this pile of slabs
was a grave mound
before the plantation

out of the shade, six steps
and we're lokng for the skylark

becoming larger
a balloon is about to land
on the Building Society

Thunderball comes on in style
sending the fans to rapture

bits of metal
picked out by moonlight
on the park bandstand

out to create an outrage
he blows himself up

a searing article
to make them search their souls
the cowards

”Doesn't the President know
he's skating on a bottomless trampoline.”

a clockwork orange
poppin: he'll listen
to your troubles

when she goes on stage
the others come to life

FADS' last night
even for the prompter
some forget-me-nots

the fields are cut
and poppies throng the banks

thick mist
no callers to disturb
my long morning

no parsley sauce on the tuna —
the cats won't touch it

a dainty dish
to set before the boss —
if she comes in

quiet work in progress
as the stick stumps up the stairs

no sander's come
the joiner was sent to Leeds
so we've done nothing

a handle for the lid
made from paper-clips

she's put
all the colours she can find
in his bobble-cap

he turns up his hood
as wind and rain come on

the moon speeds
from out the ragged edges
of turbulent clouds

dawn chirps briefly
from endless symphonic gloom

Neu-Jahrs Konzert 
tickets must be reserved
a year before

a good all-round performance
it has its points

half the ptice
is lost before you've driven home
from the showroom

a tired move at the exit
he's pranged the car-park gate

”Five Pounds, sir.
Slow across the grass, and by
the cowshed wall.”

Sunlight and drops of rain -
scurry at the Spring Gala

awnings flap
prices are blown away
in the open market

daffodils, cut short
in rubber bands in a tray

a single bloom
delicately poised
twixt thumb and finger

she dances with clear joy
to his stocky touch

a private talk
money, transport, supplies
till past betime

they've taken the old pump-house
it's a marvellous position

still magic
the moon on wet tarmac
bordering the field

where shadows fall on the road
that's where he grabbed her

walks in
takes the cash, walks out
and no-one sees him

a quick-change artist
losing track of who he is

parades the street
in a coat of many colours
the world at his feet

unimaginable corners
of ex-finite space

gold, silver,
lead: all are ways
to painted death

the book is leather, true,
but I'd use a paper label

be careful
someone's pressed a freesia
on page 94

put it with Spring flowers
someone may take it out




Tamara K. Walker

my heron snaps shut its beak to capture an elusive fish the same and
not the same, mirrored reflections slip away look!—
pale palms imaged in the water, somehow softer when painted

tossing a smoothed pebble forcefully into the distance while taking a
breath, the ripples eventually reach back to me I shed my attire and
wade in as the wind stretches my hair

breathing through a mask of pure oxygen by your bedside last week you
convinced me to paint my fingernails chlorophyll-green now they match
the ferns and moss in the fertile landscape of my mind


Tamara K. Walker

in the distant tunnel flanked by overgrown vines eerie pulsings of
longing fill the space, but I am at ease the warm haunting notes of
your viola lost in timeless limbo

your back arched against the shadows on a spring afternoon inside the
tunnel, decaying graffiti breathes whispers of will outside, you greet
a florid landscape fertilized by self and fears


Tamara K. Walker

locked into your diner, talking until well past dawn's break fresh,
surreal sounds of bright mid-morning leak through the door cracks the
world on a fine red thread, wavering as if it would drop

past sidewalks see clouds briefly eclipse the 3:00 sun parochial
doodles chalked cheekily where we walked as children your voice raised
in excitement as my soles print skies in the gutter

the program we were watching clicks video off as we sleep a quanta of
silence in between the subdued phases quieted souls rest as static
turbulence swirls off the screen


Tamara K. Walker

sprinting away from expired chemicals' combustion I come to sit on the
narrow lap of an aging see-saw underneath it groans with the weight of
belated apologies

on the old playground dusk falls as we set out our blanket a child
swings, soaring higher and higher with each well-timed shove like the
sound waves in your vowels resonate as you speak to me

along the creek children play under their guardians' eyes surprisedly
freeing fluff from picked cattails—soft, brown, and plain I
appreciate a seed pod—beautiful, spiny, and toxic

Maire-Morrissey Cummins





Sergio Ortega


the last flare
of sunset —
jazz trumpet
                        Joanna M. Weston


I miss
those glamorous companions
of yesteryear:
the ablative absolute
the dative of disadvantage
                        Ruth Holzer

day's end
here’s my chance to hold
the sun
                        Anne Carly Abad

it all in
champagne sky
                        Edward Cody Huddleston,


sunset light
through the cracked window
of the shed
I lay his tools
away for the season
                        Ruth Holzer

hopscotch traces
on the driveway ...
foreclosed house
                        Chen-ou Liu


a blue jay
perches on a half-barren branch
as if thinking
whether to fly south or stay
I have seeds for you
                        Nu Quang

Love Soup:
the recipe book
I give her,
a former stranger
who warmed my path
                        Janet Lynn Davis


faraway thunder—
beating canned goods on rock
                        Anne Carly Abad


Year of the Horse—
my lucky chance
to pluck
a red and gold envelope
from the money tree
                        Ruth Holzer


lotus bud
droplets break on leaves…
                        Anne Carly Abad


wilted flower
have to think of something
to give
                        Anne Carly Abad


the deer's
my fingers changing
to antlers
                        Ruth Holzer


every day I sponge
her bulging tumor, her soiled
cinnamon feathers
still lacking the heart
to put her to sleep
                        Ruth Holzer


with a passport
I become a tourist
in my motherland
treated like a foreigner
who looks for old landmarks
                        Nu Quang


family reunion
even the mosquitoes
gets slapped on the back
                        Edward Cody Huddleston


summer breeze
my dog never tires
of sleeping
                        Bob Lucky


record heat
we rearrange the furniture
in our basement
listening to water music
I imagine cruising to Alaska
                        Nu Quang


clouds —
mother's hair
                        Joanna M. Weston


we disagree —
the lake ruffled
by ducks
            Joanna M. Weston


I scour
rust from the kettle—
in my mother's kitchen
suddenly too old
                        Janet Lynn Davis


her short life
packed in an urn
smell of winter
                        Chen-ou Liu


rainy season gloom
the cries of a broom vendor
sweep away my nap
                        Bob Lucky


nearly winter,
too dry and gusty
for burning—
we look for a place
to lay these old limbs
                        Janet Lynn Davis


ends of lines,
ends of poems ...
why must
I wait so long to say
what's most important?
                        Janet Lynn Davis


the bakeshop café
a cappella harmonies
waft from the kitchen
on cinnamon-scented air —
a teardrop steeps in my tea
                        Debbie Strange


that biting winter
my sister carried me
over hungry snowbanks
that swallowed our footsteps
before the bus opened its mouth
                        Debbie Strange


she proofreads
with an arsenal
of colored pencils ...
I stare into the white glow
of my laptop screen
                        Chen-ou Liu


I wear
the wind’s black breath
my raven disguise
wheeling over darkling mountains
haunted by moonbathing ghosts
                        Debbie Strange


first sunrise
the silver strand
in my hair
                        Chen-ou Liu


qr haiku2Quick Response Codes by Jim Babwe.











 Steffen Horstman

 Stephen Horstman

Maire-Morrissey Cummins


Gerard J. Conforti

Janet Lynn Davis

Elizabeth Howard

Maire-Morrissey Cummins

Ruth Holzer

Ruth Holzer

Bob Lucky

Adelaide B. Shaw

Alexander Jankiewicz

Maire-Morrissey Cummins

Jeanne Jorgensen

Adelaide B. Shaw

Maire-Morrissey Cummins

Jenny Ward Angyal

Ed Baranosky

Neelam Dadhwal

Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic

Neelam Dadhwal

john martone

Jeanne Lupton

Sergio Ortiga

Chen-ou Liu

WHITE SKY Sabine Sommerkamp

Ram Krishna Singh

Debbie Strange

Alexander Jankiewicz

Wolfgang Beutke

Scott Mason

Scott Mason

Helga Stania

Helga Stania

Rachel Sutcliffe

Dick Pettit


Tamara K. Walker

Tamara K. Walker

Tamara K. Walker

Tamara K. Walker

Maire-Morrissey Cummins


Joanna M. Weston,

Ruth Holzer,

Anne Carly Abad, 

Edward Cody Huddleston,

Chen-ou Liu

Nu Quang

Janet Lynn Davis

Bob Lucky

Debbie Strange

Jim Babwe


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, 20111
XXVII:1 February, 2012
XXVII:2 June, 20
2XXVII:3 October, 2012

XXVIII:1 February, 2013

XXVIII:2 June, 2013

XXVIII:3 October, 2013

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