XIX:3 October, 2004

A Journal for Linking Poets 




 THE TIME IS UP… by T. Ashok Chakravarthy

DISMANTLED LONGINGS by T. Ashok Chakravarthy

REIKI RAIN by Tree Riesener

FINAL RITES by Tree Riesener


IF I COULD by Gerard John Conforti

PAINT CHIPS by Gene Doty

TRAVELER'S MOON by Karma Tenzing Wangchuk

I MISS THE MOST by Betty Kaplan



Serena M. Agusto -Cox, Victoria McCabe


hortensia anderson

BLUE by Dave Bachelor

REPAIR GANG by Tony Beyer

TAROT MEDITATIONS by shirley cahayom

FOR OCTOBER by tom clausen


A POSY OF ROSES by Amelia Fielden

Mary Rand Hess

NEW YORK NEW YORK by Ruth Holzer

PLAINT by Elizabeth Howard


JAZZ-FILLED NIGHTS by Thelma Mariano

FROM A GARDEN by June Moreau

A L O N E by R.K. Singh


Richard Stevenson


Gino Peregrini

Tree Riesener

Tree Riesener 


MASK OF MADNESS by Jane Reichhold

CASKET IN THE HEAT by Lewis Sanders


an'ya, Cristian Mocanu, kirsty karkow, john tiong chunghoo, June Moreau, James Wren, Betty Kaplan, Lawrence Fitzgerald, doris kasson, Victoria McCabe


TOPSOIL by Sheila Murphy

HAND ME DOWNS by Sheila Murphy




T. Ashok Chakravarthy

The flowers of martyrdom
Wilt without attaining freedom
Their blood has gushed out
To transmit life to a new plant.

The chill wind which often blows
No doubt, blew across the dew
The advancing season of summer
Unfolds several of its true colors.

A flower itself is a dream shattered
Its aspirations are at all times fated
The chill wind slices its petals delicate
The hot Sun snaps the life in haste.

Similar is the position of own life
Surrounded by travails and grief
Dreams shattered, the love-lorn heart
Like the doomed flower is about to wilt.

The moment of martyrdom is precise
The freedom from agony is imprecise
The element of love, I transmit yet
I know, the time is up for the ultimate.


T. Ashok Chakravarthy

A poem finds fertility to sprout
From the seed of a disillusioned thought
I assume, it’s a beginning perhaps
To reach the peaks of a new musing.

Enclosed in self imposed circumstances
When can we share peace and serenity?
Moving within, as creators and destroyers
How can we establish a kingdom of peace?

The tide of peace had already run ashore
Desperate, we stretch hands unto the giver
Without a nest to dwell, the dove of trust
Flew-off across the sun beyond every view.

Until the burst of violence rocked everyone
The time gave many a chance for peace
When engrossed in joys, we ignored its worth
Now, the same tendency flocks for peace.

The fastened doors of peace lay abandoned
Instead, brutal and vicious violence greets
Together they plough and trample peace
The longings built seem dismantled forever.

Like a sower who scatter seeds in a field,
Who can scatter the seeds of peace now?
If the field itself is soaked with unholy blood
Does a scope exist to plant a garden of roses?

Tree Riesener

Can't depend on curing your recurring ills yearly with Easter cake and champagne?
You need a hand on your head, traffic director conducting the green light of reiki rain.

Keep prowling lions and the angel of death away by concocting covered dish suppers;
feed the shift sleeping inside and the ones sleeping their week in the joint-achey rain.

Not a paper towel, sponge or tampon, healer, keep a finger in heaven's dyke; don't let curfew ring until we're strong enough to be cured; hold back the breaking rain.

Terror! No one here for your remaining days; a watery bit of gold, a cold grey sky;
at breakfast endure with all-night-soaked cornflakes, watching snowflakey rain.

Throw mercy into the mix.  Tomatoes benefit from a pinch of salt, corn from sugar.
S and M, who's on top today, who's on bottom?  Slaughter hides in mandrake rain.

London bridge is falling down; lovers suckle in our arms, the door turns, universal 
jumps with toothpicks.  Fear no blessing wounds in heaven's gentle slaking rain.

Single lustrous feather tumbling from branch to branch; crow become looping, lapping
sky mass, abandoned tree slowly rebounding, refuge still there in reiki rain.

Tree Riesener

The children could hardly go on carrying the coffins,
their dead playmates were too heavy in the coffins.

Rain-soaked, sun-stricken, they walked on, eyes ahead.
Had they been such bad boys, to be responsible for the coffins?

So many miles, they couldn't hold the boxes steady;
the gaily-colored prize-day banners slithered from the coffins.

Finally they could carry them no more, eased their burden down,
breathed a moment before starting to push and pull the coffins.

Sliding on the new graves' overflowing floods of oil,
they slipped into the gaping holes very easily, the coffins.

The snake-oil man tried unction with his claiming sign,
but the mothers cried, don't let that touch them in the coffins.

I saw this just the other day, passing through the streets,
but they have stern rules:  you must not photograph the coffins.

Now, under the trees, in their last home, silence, but I am troubled
that, in those graves, they are awash in oil, floating, the coffins.





For My Mother Julia Conforti
Gerard John Conforti

If I could I would reach for a star and hold it in my hands. If I could I would cease the raindrops falling with the autumn leaves. If I could I would bring the sunlight to your heart and give you all the happiness you deserve. If I could I would bring buttercups from the spring meadows and give them to you. If I could I would walk a million miles to be with you. If I could I would take away the emotional pain you feel deep within your heart. If I could I would stand upon the mountain summit and watch the moonlight spread light upon the green valley below. If I could I would gaze at the nightly stars and know there is a God. If I could I would I would seek shelter from the storms raging across earth. If I could I would walk a lonely road and pick a white blossom from a tree.

Spring meadows:
pools of rain ripple
my heart in sorrow

If I could I would seek the sunlight wherever it shines in the birth of spring. If I could I would I would walk with you down the roads lines with white pines and know the silence you held within you for years. If I could I would never be alone without your memory. If I could I would never leave you alone to suffer like you once had to. If I could I would gaze up at the towering pines and see the full moon shine into my eyes.

Lost tonight
I go seeking love
this autumn night

If I could I would know where there is darkness I would bring you the sunlight in spring and seek the spring clover in the meadows. If I could I would bring down the walls which held you so long. If I could I would bring the love from the bottom of my heart and know the pain you feel. If I could I would give back the years lost to you when there was isolation in your heart. If I could I would begin again and make what happened to you never again. If I could I would bring the spring moonlight on nights when you are alone in your thoughts. If I could I would do all these things and know you’ve been a great mother of four sons.

Summer shade:
cool winds blow beneath the leaves
stirring in my heart



by Gene Doty

swift boat captains steering into a hail of hostile pixels paint scraped from the wall falling in a swirl of chips the twigs limbs stems trunks of the vines the bushes the rattle of bullets inside the TV tube sounds like nothing so much as silence between syllabic holes stitched in a cicada's song unraveling the grape vine running the spell-checker on the divine word yields too many coinages not enough tattered phonemes trembling where the moon completely free of brush and vines shines in a haze of darkness four flags rippling from the SUV recall the desire the fear the agony the hope no one stands on the moon or anywhere near it

The way I heard it, my friend, the astronauts carried cicadas
With them to the moon, carried buckets of blue to paint the lunar sky.



Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
The Bodhisattva Institute

Last night I left my room in central Tucson and began a residence at the Dakshang Kagyu dharma center on the east side of town.

In fall of next year, four members of our sangha are scheduled to enter a three-year meditation retreat in northern California. I moved to the dharma center in order to make preparations.

Leaving one
temporary home
for another,
a waxing gibbous moon
my companion and guide.


Betty Kaplan

     I miss him most not when I climb into bed at night. I've grown used to that. 
It is the long day and all the little things we did together. 
I wash the dishes and think of all the dinners. 
I fold the laundry. Where are his socks? 
Emptying the grocery bags, I miss the surprises he put in when I wasn't looking. 
And those very special long trips. 
It's all of this plus more.

      Oh darn!
      the light is out
      how to change the bulb
      it's up too high

      I'll have to climb


Werner Reichhold

We have been invited to a grandchild's heyday. After the wedding ceremony, dinner was served at the community room of a church in Oakhurst, California. The guests have been placed at twelve round tables, each of the tables equipped with a digital camera for taking pictures of relatives or friends, resulting in over four hundred photographs to choose from.

    One of our grandchildren, age sixteen, a first prize winner of the National Horse Riding Competition for Juniors, seemed to appear at the party very absent-minded. Where was she? Suddenly she pulled out a tiny computer and started typing. I asked her what she was writing about. Her answer: "Want to read it?" -  "Yes please" I answered rather shy, and she showed me this:

                                          r no 1- 6
                                          (  ) e Mon
                                          luv u 24/7

This means short for:
'rents* not home from one to six o'clock pm
'moon-cycle' ends Monday
love you twenty-four hours seven days a week

'Instant message'?
Secrets of shortest poetry, reduction-madness?
Bon jour math-destruction?

(*rents: a rented couple of grown-ups, all mixes of genders available)

    The incident reminded me on what I copied out of a newspaper more than ten years ago, later published in our magazine Mirrors. It is the last part of the end game of a Chess World Championship

Lautier could not
well answer Kasparow's
sharp 14d4 with 15de?!

because 16Ne4 ed?
17Qb5 Bd7 18Nf6 Qf6 19 Qd3
Og6 20 Qg6 fg 21 b5 Ne7

22 Be4 c6 23 Ne5 Be8
24 b6 wins
for White

in this hypothetical line
16 Bc4 is also bad
because of 17 Nf6

Qf6 18Qe4 Rfe8 19Rfe1
Kf8 20 Ra7!
Ra7 21 d5 Ne7 22 Ne5 d8

23 Ng4 Qd6 24 Bf4
Qd7 25 Qh7 Bd5 26 Qh8
Ng8 27 Nfg! Gh28 Bh6 mate.

    One can't help but to admire the highly calculated links and shifts reflecting here the Chess players' ability to adaptations in a similar way as we are all asked for in everyday situations.

    At the same time, doesn't one feel that those lines somehow fulfill most of our expectations about writing a poetic sequence? Please look at the 'leaps,' deconstruct where and when they come into effect. In this game, done by partners, and likewise elsewhere experienced by persons catastrophically in love and put on the spot, still hesitating to decide for a move but finally almost absent-minded, paralyzed acting, and becoming a mate or getting 'mate' - do they react by choice, or not quite?





Negative twenty
frozen tears on my eyeball
the wind swept you out.

                      Serena M. Agusto-Cox


white skin, concrete head
red nose chilled with wind
stubborn, glued to you.

                      Serena M. Agusto-Cox


lipstick kissed away
dark smudges 'round sparkling eyes
cheeks flushed and flaming

                     Victoria McCabe


sky tinted teardrop
pale silk cheek of riverbed
lip tremble velvet

                      Victoria McCabe




hortensia anderson

morning fog -
the sound of seagulls
from somewhere...

dozing on warm sand -
a few clouds drift off
into the blue...

red hibiscus -
the hummingbird's wings
leave me breathless

ripe orange hips
on the wild rose thickets –
lingering heat

spreading on the oaks -
I step through shadow

wandering home
with buckets of blueberries -
evening cool


Dave Bachelor

    out in the cold
    in the silence
        old words
        rattle in my head

    outside the
    pulmonary clinic
    nurses in white
    puff on

    solitary bag lady
    trudges past
    a church
        round a bit of candy
        grackles chatter

    after these years
    of yearning
        a tiny stone
        drops from
        my shoe

    great ideas forgotten
    where do they go
        after the windstorm
        dust beneath
        the door

    one day we are born
    on another we die
        the blue flowers
        of the iris
        again and again


Tony Beyer

tea break
bib and braces overalls
and roll yr owns

rag of flame
the wind tears apart
under the billy

boots crunch
deep gravel
between the ties

who said ties
they're sleepers

part way
into the tunnel
tracks still gleam

first mild
spits of rain
the hut awning

rolling freight
slow pour sideways
the shunter waves

day's end
this time the job
takes them home



shirley cahayom

           5 of cups  :  you look at the overturned cups
                             and feel deep sorrow
                             have you forgotten the other two
                             which symbolize hope
                             that you can build on ?

            8 of cups :   say adieu
                              to a broken relationship
                              though it is hard to bear
                              time to move on
                              grab the chance to start anew

            the hermit :   this is the time
                               to leave your busy world
                               go deep within yourself
                               to find the guidance
                               from the inner recesses of your soul

            the star:        there is a release
                                from difficult situations
                                life opens up
                                be inspired by your sense of hope
                                and follow your dreams

              the sun :      after all the pains
                                 sorrow and suffering
                                 the sun always shines
                                 you can open your arms
                                 to embrace its light



tom clausen

winter sunrise
as I sit on the edge
of my bed I wonder
what thought, if any
will seize me...

it was the two hours
before dawn
when it rained so hard
that I could not sleep
sifting life thoughts

for all the progress
in our world
an old woman on the bridge
slowly pushes an empty cart
talking to herself

on my work break
I see no way out for a tree
but to stand there
and take it, growing
and reaching for all it can

this unholy thought
that the young couple
with their lovely baby
are mere organisms
being used by life itself

something awfully sad
that my own son
in the comfort of our home
would simply enjoy
a movie about war

could be I'm tired
or lost, but to close my eyes
and nod off
while the world goes on
gives me certain peace



Leslie Einer

country road
unpaved and puddled
curving into pine shadow

through the heavy air
of a summer noonday
burst yellow butterflies

golden stepping stones
cross an ebony sea
pathway to the moon

gusting night winds
the tap-tap-tapping
of a broken shutter

a stand of aspens
shivers in the chill wind
autumn music

a cold rain
drizzles on winter-bare fields
drips from rusted barb wire

pale moon
clutched in arthritic fingers
of black winter trees

glints of starlight
glimmer coldly in the blackness
of a desert sky

pale sliver of moon
anorexic cousin
of autumn’s full orb

a foghorn moans
the waves come rolling in
from a blackened sea

hanging fat and full
over fields of frozen stubble
harvest moon

spring thaw’s trickle
gathers volume and a voice
roar of the rapids

in the lake’s evening mist
a diffusion of moonbeams

brazen ocean breezes
the shifting dunes

old southern town
a passing tornado
integrates housing

‘neath a moonless sky
the rolling surf unfurls . . .


Amelia Fielden

it was hot,
nearly empty bus
with a driver
massive thighs bulging
from uniform shorts

she was plump
and blond and pretty,
all in black
with a chunky toddler
clutching her tight skirt

one hand held
a posy of roses,
one a purse-
stepping up on high heels
she says "excuse me

excuse me,
does this bus go to
the cemetery ?"
"we go to Woden" -
the engine is idling

"which bus goes
to the cemetery then ?"
urgently -
"no bus to the cemetery,
taxi stand's over there."

"you can walk
from Woden terminus"-
a passenger
wants to get going,
looks at his watch

he doesn't see
the shoes, or the toddler
or the tears
streaking mascara -
she begins to back off

there's a lady,
the old-fashioned kind
in the front seat -
"sit down next to me, "
a voice to obey

she's talking,
the blond in black, can’t
stop now that
someone will listen -
"it's my baby there,

my Ryan,
four months he was,
had cot death.
only I've never been
back to the cemetery

Jason won't
take me, reckons no point
in flowers
neither - stop whinin' 'n
I'll give you a lolly"

the lady
decides - "you're coming
home with me,
we'll have a cup of tea,
then my husband and I

we'll drive you
to the cemetery"-
I'm ashamed
to be just listening,
just listening and hot


Mary Rand Hess

A jar o f water,
Burnt Sienna, Cobalt Blue –
a picture yet unknown.

Brushes sweeping
across a rain soaked city
and a girl – alone.

Her shadow
hovers by closed shops
reflecting off the streets.

One raindrop
smears the cheek
of a girl made of watercolor.

The city needs the dark
but she’d leave
if she could walk off paper.


Ruth Holzer

                        into the tunnel -
                        a flag and a sign
                        Lest We Forget

                        this clean place
                        I don't know it -
                        Port Authority

                        on Eighth Avenue -
                        a Greek vase

                        subway racket -
                        indistinct dialect
                        of my city

                        talking of brownstones
                        we stroll past
                        women in boxes

                        uptown restaurant -
                        twice I upset
                        tumblers of water

                        craft fair
                        under white tents -
                        summer drizzle

                        who's first in line
                        Haitians or Russians?
                        a Babel of fists

                        missed express-
                        waiting in fumes
                        for homebound local


Elizabeth Howard

                                Smoky Mountain cabin
                                where five sisters refused
                                to yield to man or government
                                flycatchers sweep in and out
                                feeding fledglings

                                twilight blizzard
                                a thrashing limb flings
                                a kestrel into the beyond
                                I quaver about the hearth
                                face bathed in a rosy hue

                                the boss's party guests
                                gather at the lily pool
                                watch a black carp swim about
                                snapping prey

                                like the orphaned lamb
                                I fed with a bottle
                                you lie in wait to butt me -
                                if you'd allow, I'd cuddle you
                                against my bruised breast

                                note penciled on the door
                                CLOSED FOR FUNERAL-
                                so like the country store
                                site of a murder-suicide
                                and childhood dreams of blood

                                Statue of Liberty closed
                                we tour the grounds
                                see the icon from all sides
                                snap photos of French soldiers
                                mourning our loss of freedom



Fran Masat

country lane -
a lone tree’s shade
where she used to lie

barbed wire fence -
black plastic flutters
in the wake of a car

stopped on the road
flecks of blue twinkle
through rushes

roadside shoulder
a motionless snake
with its stomach to the sun

an open window -
tomorrow’s weather
through a lone overpass

riverbank -
sunlight reflects
off the bottom of a bridge

prairie interstate
dark line
of cattle on a trail

alone on the road
I climb the last hill

hot black night
red and green lights
far above a field

Summer in Montreal would not be the same without the Jazz Festival!
Thelma Mariano

darkness descends
as I surrender
to the sound of blues
beyond the moist night air
the smell of hot dogs and beer

my body sways
to the rhythm of his guitar
taking me
to another time when
all I had to do was let go

music that
I hoped would help me forget
she sings
"baby, I need your loving"
the night you are gone

the fluid motion
of hands on African drums
a staccato beat
like the constant rhythm
that plays out between us

the slow tempo
of this number reminds me
of you or is it
the way he moves his lips
on the harmonica?

pale orange lights
and a legendary moon
all the props
the two of us did without
to make the night magic



June Moreau

it comes from a place
that has no name
and it is
the very heart of beauty –
the red rose

in a garden
with red roses
a child’s song
is a sky
for the dove

in the twilight
of a spring day
it is the friend
of my solitude –
the white rose

it is so far away
I can’t believe
how far away it is –
the sound of a violin
in torrents of rain

it settles here,
it settles there,
in doing so
it settles everywhere –
the red dragonfly

the white moth
flittering along the path
I think it flew
from the window
of a dark, gray stone

at midnight
the sun decided
to come back
I thought it were
a huge marigold

when I looked
into the mirror
this morning
I saw the song
of a bird



Waiting for the train
  alone on the platform
  swatting mosquitoes

After the party
  empty chairs in the lawn -
  new moon and I

All guests gone:
  after the late party
  night and I

Nothing changes
  the night's ugliness
  in the lone bed

5 Alone
  in a shrunken bed
  aged love

In the well
   studying her image
   a woman

Knitting silence
  my wife on the bench
  after lunch

A moth
  struggling for life
  on wire

Between virgin curves
  he deep-breathes evening mist
  rests in the hollow

Shell-shocked or frozen
   he stands in tears on hilltop
   craving nirvana

The lone mushroom -
   a pregnant woman
   stares out of the window

Facing the sun
   the lone flower
   dying to bloom

A dead leaf hangs
   by a spider's thread
   invisible in sun

Under a tree
   in meditation sunken
   a lone stone

    on the National Highway



Slung-jawed awake
   two grinning skeletons sit
   bolt upright in bed
   hear the shrieks next door but
   too scared to call the police

The nightly ghosts crowd
   my mind's passage to forge
   gods' names in disguise
   I fail to scan the face
   of thought and life in the dark

The chill outside
   deprives me of the bright moon
   I breathe in my fears:
   asthmatic bouts haunt and
   jealousy itches the throat

Night's prisoned friends
   keep me wake with planes
   flying over the Ashram*
   every now and then I watch
   the direction matters       

One thousand miles
   traveling together
   in tense silence
   he and she contemplate
   the next round of duel

I can't cement cracks
   nor save the frames from collapse:
   the wreck reveals the myth
   I need not knit new dreams
   if truth's so cold and stingy

(*spiritual sanctuary)



Fort MacLeod, AB, July 2004
Richard Stevenson

a day to go -
I buy extra camping gear
and a Donovan CD

only a buck
to see the headless woman -
the smile lasts all day

first time at the fair -
his bag of mushrooms lost
while riding the river

lobster boys -
too busy making the scene
to use sunscreen

new age hippy -
four decades late but still
the elfin dancer

short, squat, middle-aged -
she can wear an umbrella hat,
floral pantaloons

with his sunburn
he looks like a cherry freezie
squeezed out of the tube

Kimberly T-shirt -
If it's tourist season
why can't we shoot 'em?

"Church of the Long Grass"
the song the band is singing -
grass trampled flat

Yahoos on timbali
"hoping to be discovered"
at three a.m.

twigs in her hair -
dandelion gone to seed
fragile in the wind

Fuckowee tribe -
"where the fuck a' we?"
homeless and free

not just granolas,
psychedelic relics,
but soother cool kids too!

massing thunderheads -
ground sheet swathed speakers
pop and hiss



creek-bank sitters
     with cane poles
           plastic bobbers
wet with sun

snapping turtle:
    its beak pokes
            from deepest pool
of dark water

the water clear,
     my stringer empty:
         Oh, catfish,
where do you hide?

Gino Peregrini


Tree Riesener   

              Something new in bed last night.  Submit. Fall into the arms of God.  Perfume cool smooth sheets, my body, seduce prophetic dreams.  Cat leaping and stomping in the night, settling from time to time on open window sills, fitting his body along mine to await dawn.  My last thoughts before sleep?  Ascension Day stretching all the way back and all the way forward, placing us, humans, always with God.  Pentecost coming, the wind and the flames.  My last dream before waking? Oh, the bed is so soft.  I'll remember.  No, up and to my notebook, write quickly.

          Tall candle striding through the church  dark
in shadows and fragrance,

          flame overhead, blaze leaping to my eyes.
Turning to pass,

          so I refuel diminished candles  where choked
flames gutter low.


Tree Riesener  

Creation from void-- ball of string, two sticks, endless variation:  afghans, sweaters, mittens, socks. Fish nets.  Mouthfuls of air sucked in,  pushed out, manipulated by lips and tongue into songs of love. Slice of tree pressed flat, black liquid, sharp stick. Swirl and swoop, cross and dot,  leave behind trails of black design.  In front , nothing.  Behind, meaning, black marks that leap through space, cue rage, love, understanding.

                    Follow the pen, black letters
flowing onto the white page.

                   Dropped into the opening, go through
the tunnel; I cannot follow.

                   Emerge, leap into his eyes, leave
the abandoned page white.




Jane Reichhold

the skies unable to be
sun or rain

on dried grass and soft dirt
someone lies in the meadow

the moon so full
hills flatten into valleys
of shining

from the patient’s eyes
the twisted stream of mind

frozen fast
a tongue to the pump handle
is also iron

the solitude of winter
is like unto an illness

going far
to see a new doctor
my old ailments

his eyes looking into mine
touch shadows of my horrors

why do you hate
yourself a child of the gods
with a gift of life

love is a far country
where pleasure is the coin

unable to count
the nonsense of incense
uncurling smoke

what color is it?
touching skin to skin

petal soft
the white pink of ideas
before dawn

walking in dewy grass
because I want to be taken

budding trees
leaf out in a green
worn by nymphs

warm winds fragrance
growing begins in the south

I am a child burning
with shame

the Man in the Moon saw it
happening all night long

an owl hooting
soft feathers cover
sharp talons

the only sane day of the year
All Hallow’s Eve in my heart

trick or treat
I’ve never had a choice
in mice and men

the perversity of Santa Claus
coming down my chimney

there is cruelty
in the fairy tales
of life

which we accepted
not knowing any better

my face
given to me by my mother
slapped by father

the school of hard knocks
made of willow switches

tearing apart
the flower of mystery

only to find

the shimmering of moonlight
scattered by puddles

wanting a doll
to clasp my neck

and hold me

the plastic faces continued smiling
even when dropped on their heads

I am beautiful
even as I am dancing
do you love me?

the boy child only saw
a fish on a bicycle

the fountains of Rome
magic was in the hands
of bronze makers

coins crossing state lines
in the girls’ velvet purses

the brocade path
as trod by the Japanese
in these woods

a pond is a friend
of the circling moon

echoing crickets
sky grass gold

from mountain to hill
the Indian love call

when young
at the movies I understood
the pull of desire

the body old remembers
too well the other life

the virtues
of the blood pressure meds

for what does one scheme
when out of the chase?

religious attainment
remains in the myth of potency

the high price of mouth
to mouth advertising

how can they call it spam
such an offer comes brown bagged
the wine bottle

passes from hand to hand
in generations too

visiting famous places
seem worn and frayed
with rising mist

from Niagara Falls
on the starch box

the newly-wed
irons on his favorite shirt
more wrinkles

oft-creased letters
read again by grandchildren

giggling in horror
our ancestors were famous
and did it too!

"thou shall not covet
thy neighbor’s ass"

pornography ring
run by priests

between the birch trees
pagan church of the moon

reading something
in the autumn wind
red leaves

swirling around circus posters
bits of torn tickets

the train
leaves the station

picked for Valentine’s Day
a card covered with hearts

knock knock
who’s there?

Amsterdam who?
I’m so damn tired of love links

where I planted
the tulips

the brightest pink
in her lipstick

the perfume
all the way from Paris
an unpronounceable name

no logos on these clothes
or labels to scratch the neck

who is old now?
mums open whitely
under a new moon

a freeze predicted
picking green tomatoes

planning dinner around
the bounty

more children living in poverty
each year the rich get richer

trade the known governor
for an actor?

the recall election costs us
twenty-six million dollars

as plentiful as memories
in the spring

water gushes forth
in sparkling drops

before sleeping
the smallest bird chirps
with my prayer

beginning the journey
chanting to the pillow

scared to go
happy to arrive
the travel weenie

Big River even larger
seen from the kayak

how romantic
yet who can make love
in a canoe?

a pair of ducks
land on the lake

an island
no one knows where
they go

nightfall makes a sound
that is beyond spelling

the full moon
above the far ridge

going into the sweat lodge
thirteen women circle

on the beach
farewell to a body
diminishes us all

she goes to haiku meetings
only to meet the men

what a surprise!
she falls in love
with a woman

building a snowman
for target practice

icicles drip
in the warm sun
high overhead

contrails connect countries
without diplomatic relations

there is no peace
as long as one person
oppresses another

the roadmap blown up
by a suicide bomber

thin on the graves
of the young

ignoring the moon
fall previews of new shows

on TV tonight
cider and popcorn served
at the art show opening

city guests titter in superiority
as they narrow their eyes

the mountain girl
becomes a wife in spring
the age-old crime

cherry blossom virgins
flaunting their holy state

lessons in love
the acts of beasts
without words

padded with mother’s chest hairs
the nest for rabbit babies

our characteristics formed
by our inadequacies
such is life

the drama script
we live to write


Lewis Sanders

Casket in the heat
my sad steps
back to the car

From a tree
blackbird dropping to the grass

Empty farmhouse
forgotten house shoes
by her bed

Sickle moon
a beer in my silence

Night walk
only shadows
among the trees

Morning scent
of her in the house

to the city
her grave far away...





at summer's end
all that's left of this moth
an empty shell
the tapestry of its wings
the poetry of its life



Cafeteria -
         whitewashed walls, white tables
          We eat in silence.
           Peaches, plums in the fruit-bowl
           to remind autumn's colours.

                                                   Cristian Mocanu                 


piles of shoes
soup, fallen leaves and mice
all orderly
what on earth would happen
without gravity?

                                      kirsty karkow

in this downtown
japanese apartment
i try warming up my feet
in a cold blanket

                            john tiong chunghoo


December, December
I turn into a crystal
someone puts me
on a little fir tree
deep in the forest

                  June Moreau


in the panes
a rose, blood-red, reflects
another hundred days in Baghdad
from my unkempt garden
petals fall orderly

                             James Wren


tonight the moon
went into its closet
to knit a dream
for the old bear
in its rock-laden den

                     June Moreau


mountain trails
                     city streets
                     can't find my way home
                     where do I go
                     when I go to sleep

                                               Betty Kaplan


this cloth left to dry
still at the backdoor landing
reaching to touch it -
was it April rain, March rain
last wiped from your mud-caked paws?

                                         Lawrence Fitzgerald - to Bastion di San Marco


the sight
of dawn's blue-tinged shafts
through broken clouds
a larger meaning
just beyond my grasp

                                kirsty karkow


doubled over
after a hailstorm of fists
a bloodied cherub
allow me this pretense--
         don't "cry uncle"

                               James Wren



the scent of death
spill from a ribcage
hide the rusty trap

                         kirsty karkow



Korean wedding cups
seven white cranes circle
cracked glaze
tossed into my backpack
how suddenly love shatters

                                      James Wren


this heart of mine
is a great horse
it has been known
to gallop
beyond the horizon

                              June Moreau


still waking daily
to this nightstand photograph
you crouched on my knee -
can it be just three short weeks
then your college years begin?

                                  Lawrence Fitzgerald - to Lauren Kate Fitzgerald


summer vacation around the corner
my parents whisper--
         off-guard, down-wind
         only kinkakushi in sight

                                       James Wren


almost lost
in memory
that café
frat boys singing the whiffenpoof song
someone asking for my hand

                                                    doris kasson


in a half sleep
        I roll over to find him
        no longer there
        all the years
        now yesteryear

                                    Betty Kaplan


snuffed out
a half-smoked cigarette
in a dark sea -
         filthy habits burn on
          but never follow the tide

                                  James Wren


               one daughter says "Hi Mom"
               the other "Hello Mother"
               so different but . . .
                which one loves mother the best
                I know they love the same

                                                 Betty Kaplan


                             some talk to a stone
                             others whisper to the sea
                             wherever they are
                             it is our hearts
                              that hold them

                                                         Betty Kaplan


inquisition kiss
maternal hostage rebuke
to ignorant child
sacrifice to elder lies
fire branded jubilee

Victoria McCabe


and now these crutches
i wonder what it was
i prayed for
all those years ago
all those genuflections

                           doris kasson


choking light escapes
the depth of superstition
transitory thought
the breath of liberation
shaking fist in heaven's face

                                          Victoria McCabe


comes around dawn
this surreal dream
you dying again
me finding the time
to kiss you goodnight

                           doris kasson




Sheila Murphy

contralto to a second shadow

turns to thirst across the makings of a sea

across the makings of a sea awash with

drift in toward the silence

to select the feather from the breeze

of change | uplift the season

of remunerative leaves that launch

these divots of the daylight

of the recent siege one sees

through juried eyes the pinch of blame

the sacral shortage

the endorphins thinned to woven seed

how are we to manufacture daylight

from the cover of the seizure of this day

give us our work

our simplified one step before the next

before such window light

Sheila Murphy

even cotton's something

slaughtered. wheels

pumped glasslike hems into

these borderlines. we curve

into potential

cures, vault over

natural rejection. relatives

turn matrices. the hemisphere

dips into its inverse.

a shadow limns brash although

shapely light. then din gives

in to quiet likened to

the chalk wings of this moth.

something does not matter, and I'm trying to remember
what it is
across the life span of dreamtables

lives the penny drum uplifting accurate, resplendent

information from beneath the veils of data

shelled from protein filaments turned to ash

a sash across my divan minimized the place to sit

he heard the nightlit foster care of avarice

begin to dim his lights / accounting for

the touch tone panty line approaching

tendencies one brought to writhe

upon the follicled young nest / there lay the test

that quilted even rivers while we worked beside

and brushed our hands across the night

what is present tense but an elastic band

of hope or fear slipped between heresy and a window

seat facing imagined truth then moving past

more quickly than anticipation finds fruition


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Deadline for next issue is 
January 1, 2005.

  Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2004.
Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2004.

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

Check out the previous issues of:
LYNX XIX:2 June, 2004

XIX:1 February, 2004

XVIII:3 October, 2003

 LYNX XVIII:2 June, 2003

XVIII:1 February, 2003

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