LYNX XI:2
June, 1996
This is a small section of
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"Blossoms" by Anna Holley
"Yellow Paper Poems" by Tom Clausen
"Coronary Care" by Sue Stanford
"One Flight Up , Third Moon on the Left" by George Ralph
"Moonshadow" by Keiko Imaoka
"Chinese New Year" by Alexis Rotella
"Mockingbird, Weep in Her Voice" by Robert Henry Poulin
"Loving Extension Of" by Sheila E. Murphy
"A Minute" by Sheila E. Murphy
"Your Loss Again" by William Dennis
"Strong Vision" by William Dennis
"Ghazals 1 & 2" by Kenneth C. Leibman
"Clay on Your Hands" by Jane Reichhold and Keiko Imaoka
"Behind the Mask" by Jean Jorgensen and George Knox
"One-Line Musings on Forty-Nine Springs" by Alexis K. Rotella
BLOSSOMS
Anna Holley
strange as
a flower
blossoming
in mid-winter,
this happiness I
feel
growing in my heart
a single flower
on the moonflower vine,
with no
companion
doesn't it too, find
twilight hard to
bear?
you blossoms
scattering too soon
don't be
sad,
have you not escaped
the pains age brings?
though they say
the blossoms scatter
with unquiet
hearts,
theirs seem peaceful
compared with mine
in order not
to sadden the flowers,
don't
mention
please, that spring
is a fleeting thing
mistaken for
another stray blossom
scattered by
wind,
afloat in the shallows
the flower-white moon
at no other time
does it seem quite
so hard to
bear,
aging in the springtime
the flowers and I
does sorrow for
some hidden heartache
make them
descend?
blossoms that scatter
without any wind
~*~
Sunday evening
my wife on the phone
with her
mother
getting more beautiful
by the minute
can't sleep
without you
talking to
myself
about the things
I should have told you
John Sheirer
~*~
Yellow Paper Poems
Tom Clausen
seeing her by chance
I once had a dream about
her
years ago -
over time it's taken on
a substance
of its own
we live in an age
where just to cross the
street
can be a risk -
to meet you I must go
slow as
ever
by spontaneous consent
our subtle flirting
has
played itself out -
our friendship will be
all the
better for this
how it becomes
so long ago, a dream
to remember
that night
inside you,
deep in your city
I watch my children
joyfully, little and
innocent
of everything ahead -
too much I know,
too
much to tell
these days housebound
if only we could agree
to
keep our words
silently
to ourselves
how can it be
I have more books
than I can read
-
all this time the creek
flows on and on
the trees swell
with wind
this lazy Sunday,
a
friend sits beside me
with little to say
a house, family
my health, a job
it occurs to
me that
even with all this, at times
I struggle and
despair
for years we used to talk,
now to look at you
closely
I have a feeling
that I remember you
better
as you used to be
my father
used to point out
birdsongs
how his
face froze
to listen
leaves blow coldly
this late autumn day
its best to
keep moving
and certainly you'll know
how alive you
are
years are passing
unable to shed tears
for anyone
-
will I wait to the end
to let it all go
CORONARY CARE
Sue Stanford
a flock of white
cockatoos demolish
the
geraniums;
squawk on the roof of a house
emptied by
ambulance
father in coronary care
(blue neck, blue
feet)
recalls walking home from a dance,
torso
blanketed in fog
above his head clear to the stars
mother weeps on the phone;
sings how doctors have no
cure
for love
how 'golden ring and glove'
did not
habituate her heart
I hold this hand
so hard to warm -
remember you
built a sled
and set us laughing
down the sparkling
slopes of night
my daughters' first tic-toc clock
in the heart of
grandmother's
sleeping house -
steady drip of the
thaw
hollowing hard-packed snow
ONE FLIGHT UP THIRD MOON ON THE LEFT
George
Ralph
soundless sunsetting . . .
treading therefore on
moonlight
daydreams scattered through
fresh snowfall:
the church bell tolls
each tree whitens, disappears
a flashing moment
of moon snow ice-glinted
streets
before winter winds
silence deep-throated
hounds' howls
and dark clouds smother the stars
once more walking past
vacant windows in dark
homes
not knowing whether
the denizens are out or
in
the pale moon keeps flickering
ancient eaves dripping
through mid-January thaw
in
pasty moonlight
emerging from rough brickwork
shadows
stretching toward us
this moon a sliver
vehicles race past the rim
gray
fog descending
to bury the roadway deep
in hollow
distant hornsound
vines clinging closely
to the wall and still
climbing
while across the moon
dark silver rivers of
cloud
hint of an unmapped journey
yellow lantern light
tracing the bone structure
stones
forever inert
why do these old pack mules
keep
falling? staring at red moons
out of a night's haze
with its moonspattered
shadows
in the gazebo
final words fading,
darker
under a mosquito's whine
moonfall darkening
the darting butterfly then
the
scurrying ant
silently escaping and
still welcoming
Mother Death
the birds'
arch singing
I crept
through
moonglow
and they screamed
a heartfall
in vaporous fumes
across the
lagoon
some moonlight
fastens the mind: wait
on the window
moon and bony maples
scratch
a dog
whimpers
at the door
the old house
falling finally
wispy
ghosts
rising at noontide
in dust. . . out lost
path
MOONSHADOW
Keiko Imaoka
cheeks held
in your hands
searching for love
in
the moonshadow
on your face
tears mix
with blood on my lips
the taste of your
kiss
forever bitter
and dark
a lizard tail
on my palm
has ceased to
twitch
calling your name
I let go of love
hearing my name
I turn
into the breeze
scented
with unknown
flowers of the desert
we are still friends
she said
to how many
men
behind the haloed moon
thin clouds move on
gathering
the shattered pieces
of a mirror
I
send you my smile
friends we shall be
CHINESE NEW YEAR
Alexis K. Rotella
Chinese New Year -
we barely graze their car
in the
parking lot -
both husband and wife
start waving their
fists.
In the restaurant
a tray comes to our table
of
deep-fried toads -
one for each man
who disappointed
me.
"Hang in there,"
the psychic
says,
"he'll come around,"
but inside
I
know better.
Our neighbor's yard
floods again -
she starts
dialing numbers
looking for a neighbor
to blame.
After the late late show
that made us cry
the
berdache from next door
kisses me hard
on the lips.
Unable to sleep
I hear him pick the lock
tip toe
into the living room
to retrieve the shoes
he left.
Standing in the sound
of monarch butterflies
one
clings to the tip
of a young girl's
braid.
MOCKINGBIRD, WEEP IN HER VOICE
Robert Henry
Poulin
for Nancy Ford-Poulin 1947 - 1996
the time since you departed
stretches
the lone
moments I sit dark
room weeping
I ride a wooden horse
into infinity
in grief I pass nights
while moon hides: I
seek!
wind at my open window
in comes that
fragrance
and on it, you, here you are!
riding on the fog
I gallop over pine trees
flying
over moonbeams
I struggle chasing you,
wherever now
you exist!
blast! you screamed
the pain so intense
in your
blue eyes,
I sit on a pine root
watching a clear
sky
what has this to do with it?
I love her still
with
the passing
I cross over floodwater's arch
walking the
miles to get there
the storm of my heart
the wind blows over
lost in
love's thoughts
these little weeds -
oh, my
wildflowers!
she croons no moor
in mist, or storm:
mockingbird,
sing me
the greatest of songs
in her weeping voice
LOVING EXTENSION OF
Sheila E. Murphy
Summer thoughts of icicles imprint
voices on the
fibers of young skin.
License to use syllables is painted
topaz maybe maybe
yarn perhaps gold.
She rinsed her mail in salt water
protectively left
leaves to dry.
Night defined by memory elapses
into solo heat that
self erases.
He moved where nobody would recognize
his penmanship
and started signing checks.
Weeds in the new yard grew fresh and tall.
He, loving
extension of his beard.
A MINUTE
Sheila E. Murphy
A minute of the neighbor's abstinence from silence
s
enough to last through winter and another season.
Pigeons own this tract of land with houses
interrupting
randomness that allows building and brains
inside to breathe.
I drink peppermint tea with rice milk sweetened to
taste,
as imprecise as breathy mirror with life
showing.
Letters no longer physical appear on screen
evolving
toward communion bereft of touch.
She recycles wrapping paper which happens
mean less
and less each time that it is used.
This the perfect time to orchestrate
what we promise
ourselves we will recall.
Homeopathy does not tweak symptoms
the doctors keep
bothering to unveil.
My video recorder only plays,
just as few people now
initiate.
YOUR LOSS AGAIN
William Dennis
Memory's tiers all
lend
The heart their drops to blend.
Your door had hardly sighed;
I lived your loss
again.
Age could have saved us; I just
Had to poke in your
den.
I'd question Socrates
For you in Plato's heaven.
My birds home on you,
Knowing your hawking
reception.
Not even a tent in the sand ...
I'm haunted by home,
my friend.
The foolish young Yeats of my youth,
I envy his age
near my end.
STRONG VISION
William Dennis
Extinguished, I'll leave, still bright with desire for
more living;
I smoke in the socket, disturbing my friends
of the evening.
Height, width, depth, curve, color and brightness enter
the mirror
Clangorously - insight scattering, judgment
muffling.
Love's loosened cinctures slip the veil from
beauty;
Exposing the tender eye to strong vision.
Hobbyist husbandry of the heart has grown
profitless
For love of heraldic beasts, for love of its
native kin.
My dear Asad, as we know, humor and love both are
cruel;
Neither phlegm nor bowel, as we have known, is what
it has been.
GHAZAL 1
Kenneth C. Leibman
crossing these liveoak boughs in cathedral arches
for
matins nones and vespers birdsong
after allnight rain a bloody sun transected
later on
more rain and more and more
and on the evening news more blood more blood
and
every morning too more blood more blood
after twilight the chuck-wills-widows frantic call
at
false dawn barred owl's crazy laugh
the words unspoken under the hidden moon
under morning
sun falling into your kiss
GHAZAL 2
Kenneth C. Leibman
the redness of the rose seizes me
the petals drop too
soon
in an ecstasy of anticipation
the cat rubs across my
leg
oh yes another drink if you please
i need all the
courage i can get
slow rocking on the front porch
the song is of another
world
kenneth when you find the hour here
it has been gone
too long
CLAY ON YOUR HANDS
Jane Reichhold
Keiko
Imaoka
opening the door
the clay on your hands
awakens my
past
flame long dormant
firing the kiln
a glow on your face
as you speak the old words
kneading, wedging
centered in my palms
cardinal's call
gibbous moon
mouth of a crooked pot
the same size
into the darkness
voices disappear
time warps, leaps
then stops - two
hearts
pounding
out the dried lumps
dust hides us in its shape
reflections
in the temmoku glaze
days gone
by
earliest vessels are formed
mud pressed into a basket
textures
shifting
as the sun rises
her wrinkled face
crackle glaze a success
the rough spot hidden
deep
beneath the burial mound
haniwa dolls
saved in a place of honor
one from the T'ang dynasty
butterfly's dream
caught in mid-air
the monarch
vessel
wing patterns in the coils
thumbprints seal earth to
earth
pit-firing
with cow pies and twigs
desert night
incandescent with stars
sparks fill the raku cup
such openness
strongly supported
just like her
delicate fingers
shaping a porcelain bowl
what a hunk!
the broad shoulders and muscles
of my
teacher
sweat from the brows
joining the slabs
rigid lines
incised with a tool
ah a cool breeze
cycling home at midnight
lampshadow moonshadow
reflecting light
shiny pages of the new book
new
ideas
images toss, turn
then burst forth in a dream
rainy day
the underglaze runs
into a surprise
quartz inversion splits
a platter in two
sand in my teeth
plates in the beach picnic basket
also nitty-gritty
details come alive
bubbles in the Shino
orange moon
rising over the canyon
tile mural
warm again at high noon
by the treeless north wall
damp-room
leather-hard sculptures
sweat
under cover
growing smaller every day
the crazy idea of the big
pot
arms full of roses
he bursts
into my studio
sharing a workspace
sharing a love
Started: February 27, 1996
Finished: March 19, 1996 -
Done by E-mail.
BEHIND THE MASK
Jean Jorgensen|
George
Knox
kisses all around
at the New Year's Eve
party
behind that mask... who?
her domino suggests
a smile that forbids
nothing
a rock falls
the coal miner waits to see
if others
follow
the spelunker vaults across
a dark bottomless
chasm
dog's waterdish
the entire harvest moon
overflows
it
his barn will not hold the hay
he has to bale up
the rest
time for some fall fun
they head for San
Diego
winter in the sun
couples of all ages
twirl on the ballroom floor
not concerned at all
that my date does not show
up
midnight katy-did
tenderly she cradles
her new birthday doll
an attic scares me
I always search for
remnants
of my lost childhood
above the stalagmites
hundreds of sleeping bats
serene detachment
the moon's night view of
desert
death and survival
light drizzle at dawn
rocket soars off into space
"infinite" cosmos
new galaxies
discovered
billions of years deep
he adds and subtracts
using fingers and toes
Rose of Sharon
diurnal blossoms and
blasts
wherefore this sadness
scent of new leaves
in the Easter bouquet
May sun
warms her mother's kitchen
breaddough
rises
old yeasts are ubiquitous
we learn in home
wine-making
cream and mauve
the colors of the bridesmaids'
long
gowns
unlocking the old wardrobe
a rush of pent up
camphor
crude oil mixed with ice
washes up onto remote
shores
dead birds
depths of folly in our minds
older than the glacial
snows
for months
TV covers a murder trial
accused gets
off free
the heart's autumnal sadness
post-summer surfeit
of love
green and gold and red
the leaves in her
bouquet
elderly suitors
many species of fauna
mate often, others for
life
in the cool greenhouse
cacti cast eerie
shadows
harvest moon
praying for a late fall rain
he fails to specify
where
fierce desert winds
leaves from afar and
screeching
roof top exhaust fans
black antique car
wins first prize at the rally
botanical gardens
winter tours for kids
canceled
docent's lonely stroll
woodland buffalo
shed their heavy coats
dwarf Japanese quince
first blossoms white then
turn pink
leafing out later
their twin sons
born on the last day of spring
January 1995 - January 1996
ONE-LINE MUSINGS ON FORTY-NINE SPRINGS
Alexis K.
Rotella
- for anne
forty-ninth winter tiny lines around my eyes
early spring a solitary nightingale
pillow plumped for the third time where is he?
lump of light brown sugar the sunny breakfast tray
on a Russian linen tea towel rose-garden print
from blood oranges squeezing him juice
made in Italy the most elegant phrase
porcelain eggcup popping his navel again and again
in the old medicine cabinet a faded box of Q-tips
bulging in the realtor's pocket a ceramic doorknob painted by hand
perfect rosettes appear on the wedding cake
sunlight on the Venice lagoon sound of breaking glass
apothecary bottles don't know why I collect them I just do
age brings character at least to crackled glaze
lavender freesia jasmine ah the sounds the mouth can make
after his e-mail taking out handmade paper and sealing wax
already dry in the wind silk sheets
petals gathered all summer this teaspoon of oil
deep waffle pattern of the rug its imprint on our soles
silk charmeuse gown one pearl-drop button then it falls
cascades of rosemary on my evening walk again I have to forget you
a headboard a perch for courting doves
his fingers touch the frosted calla-lily on my eau de toilette
spirit-lifting flowers on the pillow case
sleigh bed away we go
Parisian flea market wooden box from the days of the Czar
linen closet a pink ribbon around each sheet
every bow tied by the spinster's mother
showering together smell of chamomile linden and orange
kilim piano stool right out of Matisse
on the gay priest's garage door tromp l'oeil cupids lift
Colette's paperweight it costs as much as a house
twin maples one infested with mistletoe
paperwhites that moment when they turn too sweet
black crepe-de-chine I wore to her wedding when black was still taboo
no cashmere no velvet under the tree
a jar of lip balm on the breakfast table raspberry taste
stonewashed silk the way it clings the way he held me in it
towels with tasseled fringe from a bath house in Istanbul
a crowd of purple hydrangeas on the nightstand
for cherry pits a tiny mother-of-pearl shell
starfish from the window falls and breaks
book of vintage wallpapers in the attic a dog-eared peony print
chirp of the bedside clock roman numerals ring its ivory countenance
a bouquet of tea roses on the vanity and a jar of green ink
red tulips in a pair of wooden clogs on a window sill in Cannes
both of us on Hopi time we never do connect
All poems copyright © Designated Authors 1996.
Page copyright © AHA Books 1996.