XVIII:1 February, 2003

A Journal for Linking Poets 

GHAZAL by Joshua Gage, PATRON SAINT GHAZAL by Joshua Gage, GHAZAL by Joshua Gage, THE FLYING DUTCHMAN by Ruth Holzer, LONG WATERS by Andrew MacArthur, STRONG RHYTHMS by Andrew MacArthur, WRONG ANSWERS by Andrew MacArthur

jim kacian, THE SECOND WEEK by
jim kacian, WAVES by jim kacian, SLATE by Sheila Murphy

Excerpts from THE TRIP TO AMERICA by Ion Codrescu, WINTER by Tomislav Z. Vujcic

Susan Butler, A SIJO SEQUENCE by Kirsty Karkow, 

ROMANTIC ESCAPADE by Victor P. Gendrano

by Victor P. Gendrano

Tom Clausen, TANKA FOR J.R. by Gerard J. Conforti, HOT OFF THE PRESS by
paul conneally, ULSTERVILLE NIGHTS by brendan duffin, JANE'S GENJI by Sanford Goldstein, HIROSHIMA AND MAGASAKI by Annie Gustin,
  Momi Kam Holifield, Ruth Holzer, ANTIQUE LACE by
Elizabeth Howard, BIRCH TANKA by
Kirsty Karkow,
Larry Kimmel, WHERE I CANNOT FOLLOW by Thelma Mariano, June Moreau, K. Ramesh, TANKA by R K Singh, Bill West

Sheila Murphy, 
SHAPE by John M. Bennett, IG NORE by
John M. Bennett,
R ANT by John M. Bennett,
YANK by John M. Bennett, LUSTER by John M. Bennett, RUBE by
John M. Bennett, OR by John M. Bennett, PACK by John M. Bennett







Joshua Gage

The sun refused to shine its rays inside
Where blackened angels bowed and prayed inside.

Deep in the cannoned halls the ancients laughed
At meager prophets fighting their way inside.

Their Christmas photo flashed white teeth and lied
Saying that life was all okay inside.

She charged the Andalusian spike through skin
Herding the poison to buck and spray inside.

Sick by the stench, the firemen searched their trash
Finding flies on the baby thrown away inside.

Made-up and bored, she sauntered and spread her legs
For any and all who wanted to play inside.

Wrinkled with smoke and booze, Josh seems dead,
          But hides the rhythms and songs of the Fey inside.


Joshua Gage

Candle flame halo altering beat
Mummified box from hand snap bring beat

6 ft. smooth Sunday elephant straight
Echo hand silence warm blessing beat

Filthy not young bearded and grease
Lotus and whiskey phallusing beat

Reverse the fingers by toes smile silk
2-year-old world peace to sock frogging beat

Virgin jock mescaline guided to keys
Nightmare abortion clean cutting beat

Futuring almond pastel sink beneath
Horseman by dance tongue damning beat

Empty plus roads in south growing blue
6 breaks to 30+ vinyl sing beat

Blonde plaid velvet hobbit hole song
Bansidhe holiness echoing beat

Babies are faceless to walls melted orange
And bald personified cave glowing beat

JDs or saints hang holy glass
     Noosed by tomorrow up sweating beat

Joshua Gage

The leaves danced daily and survived in vain,
Trying to last Autumn alive in vain.

The ambulance engine smoked and flamed.
The medic cursed, trying to drive in vain.

She gave up her legs for a white horse prick,
But it carried the virus that thrived in veins.

The bees work their wings to a life stealing blur,
Pushing the flames from the hive in vain.

Feral with words, the Prophet ravishes the page
                    Refusing to believe that he strives in vain.


Ruth Holzer

Who is it that sails proud as a Flying Dutchman
and comes to suspended grief, but the Flying Dutchman

From the port of Amsterdam another mariner
ships out, the lean and bearded Flying Dutchman.

Cursed as the rest of us to wander, yet for my sake,
he paused to sigh in Venice, the Flying Dutchman.

What remained after the rounded the Cape:
only the weird red glow of the Flying Dutchman.

That was the name, Ruth, you gave him when the mainmast fell
and his face dissolved in waves, your own Flying Dutchman.


Andrew MacArthur

These are the verses the drowning may say
meeting the Savior on long waters:

Treasures from scuttled ships tumble ashore.
What is wealth for, in the long waters?

Boundaries are crumbling, the sands wash away,
adding their weight to the long waters.

Andrew's tongue misses the salt of the land,
tasting the blandness of long waters.

Nobody knows where these long waters end.
Horizons contend with the long waters.


Andrew MacArthur

Look at the tapestry's masterly spread!
weaving each thread into strong rhythms.

Lovers are worshipping, mimicing God:
blending their bodies in strong rhythms.

Is kneading your rosary better or worse
than feeding your verses on strong rhythms?

Andrew's new recipe quickens the flow -
sending his poetry strong rhythms.

The strong rhythms: capturing, shattering me.
Enchanting to be in your strong rhythms.


Andrew MacArthur

Falsehood and truth blend in my song:
frightened men long for the wrong answers.

Merchants are counting their gold with a laugh,
folding the profits in wrong answers.

Prophets have stumbled away from the light,
trading the right for the wrong answers.

Andrew keeps wisdom so well out of reach,
defeating his teachers with wrong answers.

Wrong answers echo insistently. Lie.
Soon we all die of these wrong answers.


jim kacian

in Djokoumatombi, between the carcasses of warthog and buck, exposed to the dust and the onerous flies, are the perfectly flayed hams and thighs, livers and kidneys of humans, and haggling is expected

            tropical heató
            the long skirts
            of the venders


jim kacian

traveling by myself i cross the watershed, and everything that once ran one way now runs in another, down and down

      on the surface
      of dark water
      my face


jim kacian

Looking out my porthole on a ship in international waters the announcement being made but I canít hear the words, only identify the language by the inflection and lilt: English first, with a segmented strength; now French, glissading; Italian, rising to double-stopped peaks, then swooping off; the white noise of German; finally Greek, with phrases moving liquid dropped from a thin point of attachment and ending bulbous; and I have no idea what they mean . . .

     waves, waves
     the endless falling back
     into the same sea


Sheila Murphy

I will brink her. I will sacrifice. I will loathe offenders when she finds them. I will alter speech and charity. I will offend my reach. I will occult my way into the dimly after-bother gap in stultifaction. No young portico cements the specked diamond fossil as I do. And no opinion pings the way my sullen goatee rues the broadside norms. No minions will have gathered falter fuel the way I mince my chaste event one seedling at a time. The only purified retainer of an avenue is how you work your way out of the slender highway. Nautical and brief and simmering the way we ought to do. A pint is good as grog when you are mutually reminded of a spark of tree. To wit, it works as reverence begins to blush to do.

One class craving struggle to legitimize the lack of rationale for safer hate




Excerpts from
Ion Codrescu

the path that takes us

to the lake - here and there
the pine fragrance
torrid day...
a line of Canada geese
in relaxed poses
as I round the lake
a distant cloud disappears
behind the mountain
lingering by the lake
the endless ripples
the endless wind
sounds of the mountain
vanish into the vastness...
no aim for my wandering
mountain trail -
a fern leaf stands out
and waves in the wind
the middle of the way -
two dry pines lean
one on the other
 on the old wooden house
the sign of the last flood
is clear yet
on the ground
a detached butterfly wing -
airplane's distant roar
waiting in silence
the blue heron and I
the stream between us



Tomislav Z. Vujcic

Waiting for a crow
the nest on the branch blocks
gusts of winter wind.

First snow.
Following the first tracks
of wild animals.

Under the eaves
in the swallow's nest
two mice spend the winter.

Double refugee am I -
escaped from the enemy
and now - winter frosts.

Down the snow path
a skier's shadow
rushing after him.

Snowy winter night -
remembering spring
and my youth.

Snowstorm -
in an old house

On a cold morning
sweating from the heat -
freedom warms me.





Susan Butler

"Dawn always begins in the bones." Hymn to Ra, Egyptian Book of the Dead

Dawn begins on my skin, an anticipation of light.
Earth turns, the light proceeds.  Sun, a shiver of mourning.
Sorrow for the loss of peaceful night, my bones weigh heavy.


We laugh over childhood adventure.  Our treasure, living free,
living unconcerned with life, unaware of mortality.
Remembering when, by his grave, we were immortals.


The hard weight of my thoughts dissolved, now light shines clear as fresh rain;
each leaf and bud enunciates, a gleam, each stone in high relief.
This day of despair washed, there comes my son, walking home.



Kirsty Karkow

fleabitten grey flecked with mud no comb has tried his mane or tail
yet four neat hooves beat the ground with a clear and rhythmic drumming
the gait and  arch of neck belieóthis pride of Araby

men at the gate leap to get the number slapped on the bay hip
plunging beneath auction lights he drags his handler through the sand
a cowboy steps up and sees a masterpiece beneath the dirt

the horse stands square, head held high short breaths cloud the chilly air
bathed in the sweat of his own fear this young stallion frightens all
save one óthe man who meets the wild-eyed gaze and dares to bid

by Victor P. Gendrano
I visited Room 816 with its truly grandiose view
where I tried to recapture even fragments of memories
of that passionate weekend which turned out as our
final tryst.

by Victor P. Gendrano
eyes closed, she sways in rhythm
with the piped-in radio music
imagining with a smile
her well-practiced ballroom dance steps

as she waits in a wheelchair
for her first hospital visit


Tony Beyer

years as weapons
time has completed
a lethal assault
on the disused

chemical factory

every window pane
every suspect
asbestos roof sheet
cracked or frayed

true discoverer
of empty places
the wind
tunes its voice
through the walls

a crust forms
on waves
the tide brings up
to the railway siding
and leaves gleaming

yellow sky
in old film
of the region
exhaled above
industrial silhouettes

sulphur heaps

leached into the inlet
the harbour
and the planet's pores

imagine no rain
or movement of grass
or cloud hung
still in the
heat shudder

brittle trees
hold their shapes
colourless odourless
ready to shiver
to dust

bird life
nesting in ceilings
using the roof
for a lookout

over the mangrove marsh
and thin
creek channel
struggling seaward
acrid shadow

Owen Bullock

balanced on
the belly dancer's head
a tray with
four lighted candles and
the box of matches

on the way home,
a simple man says:
marriage is security
it means if you split up
no-one gets more than the other

hoping the couple
will ask me
to take their photo -
on my own
in a favourite harbour

in strong sunlight
the shadow of heat rising
from the top of my head.
negative thoughts
drift away

last time
a drink with father
at the local
now my oldest brother
takes his place



Tom Clausen

Before I was born
no troubles
yet here and there
these beauties
of being here now

in the attic
to set a mouse trap
I find a letter of long ago;
it was a fiction of a new love
that did not last

the blue sky breeze
like water falling
through the trees-
far from news and causes
this one hour carefree

even that adolescent fantasy
so hard to die,
this shaken sense out here
of a woman in need
finding me...

all these spring greens
and my one little heart
dog tired trying to keep up
this life on the backside
of a heart long fifty

blind duty it may be
to write of love
and longing
but in these time worn years
it got lost along the way

due to a premonition of death
he got married
just before going to Viet Nam
back alive he's now divorced
and driving for UPS

the event of nothingness
too sublime
to be considered a worthy event
yet there it is
with open arms and peace

pine scent
in the cemetery,
a limousine idles
this time
as I run by...

settled into the drive
I peek back
at my children
each at their window
so thoughtfully looking out

Gerard J. Conforti

Breath in the spring winds
into your warm heart
and hear the sparrows
singing in the tree boughs
and walk a path of flowers

There are times
when the sun shines brighter
upon the lakes and rivers
flowing toward your heart
where the stars shine gleefully

I hear the spring winds
singing with the sparrows
and feel in my heart
the winds of blue sky
and warm blazing sunlight

Across many mountains
and flowery meadows
I hear your voice in the winds
blowing on this spring day
where my heart is warm with love

I draw you to my heart
like the moonlight
flows into your eyes
from a drifting cloud
bringing forward your love

I hear the tree leaves
blowing in the woods
where the silently falling snow
covers the dry leaves of autumn
where violets bloom in the spring

a series of links between found prose and poetry
paul conneally

Our Baby's Toe

The Times (London) Dec. 13 2002

transfixed in horror
by a case of cannibalism in which
an apparently respectable software specialist
mutilated and ate
a microchip

March 1998
30-year-old man in Italy eats two-year-old daughter

February 1999
Venezuelan confesses to eating ten men and says
"I never eat women because they have not done anything wrong"

March 1999
three Finnish men and a woman eat fellow member of Satanist cult

October 2001
two Kazakhstanis sentenced to death
for killing seven prostitutes
and making kebabs out of them
the meat was shared with

October 2001
Six Belarusians arrested for eating a man's raw liver


a night of piercing cold
in bed a family keep warm
playing games with the baby
round and round the garden like a teddy bear
this little piggy went to market

i love him so much i could eat him up

december winds
the feel of our baby's toe
in my mouth



brendan duffin

these visions
covered in

in the lamplight of the

my plump pink

behind the
blond haired walker
black haired walker
brown haired walker
green tree

in the small room
turning and turning
endless arms
stretching and stretching
endless fingers

from the tip of
my forehead to the tip of my toes
slab of blackness
deep stars


Sanford Goldstein

no Genji
do I find in
our modern world
where in the after of a morning poem
colors of passion prevail
from one bright flower
to another did Genji
select and savor--
today's world is without brush,
without textured paper


Jane's Genji,
I move
through Heian
where subtleties intermingle with pine

which Genji
do I prefer?
I ask myself--
the Don Juan Genji?
the Genji in exile?

what was it like,
Shining Prince,
to slip away
from those eyes
that watched your startling moves?

wanting my poems
to echo the sadness
of the race,
again I read
Jane's Genji

once more
the face of another
inspires me--
is it Jane's?
is it Genji's?


Annie Gustin
shadows stuck in stone--
the people were vaporized.
silhouettes of souls
leaning, pointing, pedaling...
laughter melted into walls.
hot baked potatoes
we dug up right from the earth,
piping in our palms--
sweet robust pumpkins roasted
still clinging fast to the vine.
all burned and bleeding
face melted like candlewax
she sat on the curb.
as i passed, my sister's voice
parted her lips with my name.
we were so worried--
would green ever grow again?
but new life sprouted.
grass blades, velvet moss, lush leaves...
bittersweet spring of lives shorn.


i am a poet
impregnated by the bomb.
that summer morning
blindfolded me in a flash
--garments torn by a typhoon.
thrown, ravished by fumes
hot fires, sperm, blood and black rain
--they found me barely
breathing amidst the fallout,
pen fused like a sixth finger.
i'm still a poet.
sentences scarring paper...
see my verse turn green
in the dark. my two-headed
offspring, my mutated words.




has me at second
backing towards
second childhood

Momi Kam Holifield



in circles I rake
smooth sand around the pond
the way you taught me
I wait on the footbridge
where are you tonight?


he shows me
the medieval village
where he was wounded
secret sharer
the enemy soldier


a braided candle
divides light from darkness
sacred from mundane
I shake the silver spice box
flame gleaming on my nails


feeding in the woods
all of our stories
the end

Ruth Holzer



Elizabeth Howard

             A spider sits on a doily
               in the cafe window--
               little grandmother
               spinning poetry
               white-lace haiku

             hie to the pond
               to see the blue heron--
               morning by morning
               the dinosaur bird
               flapping away

               sketching the precise arches
               of a historic bridge;
               the pen, distracted
               by a frenzy of swallows,
               draws childish squiggles

               signboard in the weeds
               Sampson's Mineral Wells--
               where grandmother bought
               jugs of sulfur water
               a well full at home

               country church
               a belated funeral
               for a Korean War soldier
               only a photograph
               to mourn

              grandmother's dinner bell
               how we argued
               over the ringing--
                   now no one to claim a turn
               but me

               a plaster bust
               of a Victorian girl
               on the library shelves
               among so many books
               her book unchanging

               as night falls
               thin clouds envelop
               the harvest moon--
               antique lace enfolding
               grandmother's opal



Kirsty Karkow

a whirlwind
strips bark from the birch
pale skin exposed
I hear my mother's voice
accusing me of lies

softly tan
the belly of a birch
laid bare
all my past transgressions
beneath his scathing gaze

white birch bark
curls falling on calm water
in summer sun
the curve of a gullís flight
against a cobalt sky


Larry Kimmel

awake all night
I sit in the moonless dark
hoping against hope
for direction
that still small voice

but for the fridge
the night
would be totally silent
if only dawn
would never arrive

this long winter night
cold mountain beckons
still and all
a cigarette wouldn't be
too bad


Thelma Mariano

the low score
on her geriatric tests
at summerís end
how swiftly the river runs
to where I cannot follow

crickets chirp
beneath my bedroom window
all night long
as if they sense how badly
I need a little song

a ritual
that began with her Alzheimerís
she waves goodbye
from the balcony the tightness
in my chest as I wave back

seagulls and swallows
fly helter-skelter
under leaden skies
itís time to make it legal
her reasoning is gone

how quickly
the tea cools in my cup
I cannot keep
her mind from falling further
by wishing it so

first snowflakes
as leaves continue to plummet
from the sky
how powerless I feel
in light of these changes



if only I knew
how it felt
to be a butterfly
I could paint my heartbeats
on the wind!

June Moreau

evening of crickets...
i stand before a picture
of a swan flying
towards mountains in


walking away
after saying bye
to every one,
suddenly i remember the tree
now out of my sight


sunlight on trees-
my elderly friend
asks me to put his chair
by the window

K. Ramesh


R K Singh, India

Dancing on
the car top a girl
holds the mike
to express her love
twists the audience

Fears to see
his own image in
her eyes so
avoids seeing her again
betrays his cowardice



Sometimes, I wonder
if you lie comfortably
beneath your grave's grass.
Does the ground's embrace warm you?
At night, I lie cold sometimes.

Bill West


Sheila Murphy

I was learning to be tracing pink, and then this washed away. A hand in front of me through fog enough. And diming, darling, meant the caveats were usually burgeoning with still shots left to percolate in iso(metric)-lation. Our economy is yours. Uncanny how the wives tales brim with lasting eminence through science and tenacious auditory flames. Come on and taint me in my lucid tracks. The sensatorio is brave enough to wash. Is ivy and is sandwiched between obvious young ducks. If I were mercied all the way to studios I would befriend a frame against good looks. Is thus precisely where you fit in, folded in vines of origami lounging among sparks.


John M. Bennett

rock, slab bleeds fueling
half cloud heeling


John M. Bennett

home, muddy bucket seat
roam shifting hall


John M. Bennett

block, camel shitter spooky
scant luggage supper


John M. Bennett

cooling, sprawl lobe sample
lube shawl louse


John M. Bennett

keep, dream score spotty
cream door sleep


John M. Bennett

oil, boat rough meds
smote cluck rope
hail lang saids, feel


John M. Bennett

rinse, true shadow lank
crub meet sank
nor loofa left, cry


John M. Bennett

dub, nitch ralo era
slink rio mort
soga monda too, ball


  Submission Procedures 

Who We Are

Deadline for next issue is 
May 1, 2003.

  Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2003.
Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2003.

Find out more about Renga, Sijo, Tanka, Ghazal.

Check out the previous issues of:
LYNX XVII:3 October, 2002

LYNX XVII:2 June, 2002

XVII:1 February, 2002
LYNX XVI-3 October, 2001
LYNX XVI:2 June, 2001
LYNX XVI:1 February, 2001
XV:3 October, 2000
LYNX XV:2 June, 2000