A Journal for Linking Poets


XX:1 February, 2005





James Fowler


WHEN WILL THIS WORLD . . . by Gerard John Conforti, PASSINGS 2002 by
gillena cox


Kevin Paul Miller


WWW. by Werner Reichhold


BEYOND THE SKY, THE SKY by hortensia anderson, 

GOF by John M. Bennett, 

YLIAD by John M. Bennett, 

ELGNIS by John M. Bennett, 

COLOURED IMAGES by Elaine King, 


Ross Clark, 


  THE FINE LINE. . . by Melissa Dixon,   

RICH MOUNTAIN ROAD by Elizabeth Howard, 

LOSING A PET by Origa (Olga Hooper),

 JUST ONE AUTUMN DAY . . . by Origa (Olga Hooper), 

MEMORIES by kirsty karkow, 


ONE TREE ISLAND by Larry Kimmel,

 DANCE OF LIFE by Angela Leuck, 

Thelma Mariano, 

THE DIVA WIND by June Moreau,  

 WOODEN SEAT by Anna Rugis , 

R. K . Singh, 

MOTHER by R.K. Singh, 

R.K. Singh, 

COME BACK KEROUAC by Sue Stanford, 

TSUNAMI by Geert Verbeke


AWAKENED AT MIDNIGHT by Gino Peregrini, 

HOSPITAL NIGHT by Gino Peregrini,

 MONSTERS by Gino Peregrini


Ana Cagnoni, john tiong chunghoo, Philomene Kocher,





Edward Baranosky
     Entre Morir y no morir
       Me decidi por la guitarra.
                            - Pablo Naruda, Testamento de Ortono

circling seagulls cry over Christie Pits,
white wings stacked for landing.

the elegant scavengers settle
among startled squirrels

busy with fast moving leaves,
autumn acorns; rock, paper, scissors,

a basic theological dispute
disturbs the sleepy

baseball diamond, soaked
by the early morning rain.

scissors cut paper:
ten thousand kerigami

cranes migrate with paper kites,
strings sharpened by powdered glass.

rock breaks scissors:
this force is resistible, being slower

on land than skipping across water,
surfaces already still with skim ice.

paper wraps rock: lake effect snow
whispers of a starker landscape to come,

hugging stone walls with a layer
of white dust more dense than frost.

this season is full of unresolved desires,
unrequited memories, possible dreams.

The brilliant trees hoard multiple selves,
suddenly turned inside out.

good morning heartache,
a taxi radio searches for an audience.

a pentacle of crows sweeps by,
a welcome sight, indeed, five.



James Fowler

I did a two year tour on an aircraft carrier;
a presidential letter named me warrior.

A boy, lost at the circus, found the sideshow.
In his dreams he becomes the tattooed warrior.

The petal tips of the rose lose their color;
blood seeps from the wounds of the warrior.

The scent of jasmine interrupts my writing.
The maiden has come to greet the warrior.

The cemetery gates are locked from the outside.
What would happen if I freed the warrior?

In right-of-passage, a boy dyes his hand red;
he learns to hate the blue-handed warrior.

The brush on the can of paint, drips white.
The sticky-wall shadow dances the warrior.

Does any one know the names of the constellations?
Does any one still look up and see the warrior?

Your martial side loves you more than you love it,
Squirrel, you must yield and accept the warrior.




Gerard John Conforti

When will this world stop rolling across the universe circling the heat of the blazing sun. When will this world cease the tides of the ocean and flood the earth with water. When will this world cease burning the ozone layer and let life exist without destroying us. When will this world know that it’s time for peace around the globe. When will this world cease destroying the creatures surviving in small numbers. When will this world know love and compassion it has lost only to create atomic warheads. When will this world ever learn going too far will be the end of us. When will this world laugh joy rather than with pain. When will this world know we are all human. When will this world get along with its neighbors. When will this world know the end is coming with fire and ice. When will this world know life is precious. When will this world cease polluting the air. When will this world have pity for the misfortunate.

Night and day
rolling around and around
the fiery sunlight

When will this world help the homeless on the city streets where miser exists. When will this world know empires rise and fall. When will this world learn hate brings only unhappiness to oneself. When will this world not abuse anyone emotionally or bodily. When will this world fix the damage that’s been caused from indifferent human beings. When will this world give knowledge to the unfortunate. When will this world learn how to treat all people equally. When will this world learn not to tamper with nature. When will this world ever learn the history of the past.

Flowers flourishing:
they seem to ignore
its beauty

When will the world plant more trees than tearing them down out of greed. When will the world know there is always an autumn. When will the world know the pain of winter’s fury. When will the world not use up all its resources. When will the world learn other ways of energy. When will the world cease being so cruel to animals. When will the world know THAT time is coming. When will the world know the same mistakes over and over again.

A shooting star:
a trail of light
rises over the sea

gillena cox

We pass each other at the elevator lobby; him going out and me coming in or vice versa. He  smiles; I  smile. He is smartly dressed and very polite. Then our paths cross in a more definite manner:  at a three day workshop; Finally I know his name and he knows mine. Shortly after; I see him on the street; he waves; I wave: he waved, I waved his passing shocking news

Sitting at my desk; taking a break; I  check my e-mail. One letter informs me of the passing of  a friend; dear  to the haiku world, and invites me to submit a haiku to the list of poems penned in his honour. What should I write; I never knew him;  his work -- remains a reflection of him. I pick up my pencil; glancing at my pen lying on my desk; I muse I must buy a pen sometime later today.

death of kyosei
my ball point pen dries out
Monday in March

Will the fighting never cease? The Holy Bible  tells us about wars and rumours of wars (Matt 24:6) ;  but also of His coming that we may have life to the fullest (Jn10:10.) He died that we may live. The fighting  in the Middle East and other areas in this troubled world  continues to trouble and sadden us (Exodus 12:23).

He' ll passover
the sign at the door post
His promise




orange peels
off the setting sun…
the other hues remain

                   Kevin Paul Miller


many birds fly south
those that stay all know
the winter songs

                  Kevin Paul Miller

haiku winter
an empty pen heads east
into the wind

                   Kevin Paul Miller





Werner Reichhold

double you     double u      double you

double it

                      double her

                                                 double us

double his   double hers    double ours

Part The First
The scenery looks a bit as if it was copied from a Greek vase where couples used to rest on stone beds. But here, at an American home before the TV, we are seeing a sofa where a couple and their pets gather for ball games, one partly on top of the other, serving two purposes, a twofold victory or defeat. Double-bind, double-blinded, double-breasted as you like it. Dope plays a role, for sure a double-edged situation because the cop may drive by and call it a double-park.
Wanda gets up, shuts the curtains.

Look at that  my goodness, this discussion is going on and on, telling us how we can double-quick increase the number of our offspring…

Do you mean, after all we have discussed about not having children - remember it was you who insisted we stay DINK (double income, no kids)  do you really want twins?

Oh, give me a break, sweetie - by gum, no! I have other things in mind.

So what the hell are you referring to?

Well, look: There is the NET, hanging around inside of the invisible, unknown spaces. Did you hear of the guys who think the net is double-faced, and we are caught into it? They are not wrong - we are occasionally feeling like someone’s catch, still jiggling. But check closely - how about the fun joining the net as a double-digit way of radiating messages out to neighbors, friends, even to enemies? Think of people who respond to your 5-liners when you used the technique of phrase and fragment - besides incorporating a double meaning. Or, well, in case you want to let your self flow, into 5-liners…

 Aha! Poetry is what you are talking about? It sounds cool, but you are making me hot. Gee, can I double, triple myself, write a sequence, collaborate with all of my senses, with my unenviable past, my bubbling presence, and oh my Lord, can I channel down images of spiritual pathways, and go pivoting with them as far as my hands can reach out?

Yeah, and with the however so curiously shaped views of others - connected to www., we may invite a third, a fifth, a seventh party to join our efforts, and enlarge the concept of symbiotic poetry. On the threshold to spirituality, collaboratively written poetry takes on the role to evaluate the unknown, the so far unarticulated

            cells swim upstream
            night visions
            the bodies to the same oar

May I add on twisting / shifting / leaping? In fact what we are doing here is transmitting light particles of a digital system to the surface of a screen and thereby electrifying the neuronal system of the apparently lonely ones.

You know the drill. It makes me think even more about combining text and verse, written either by a single poet or even by a double-tongued one. There, the tanka can be set up and functioning as a vertical plane, visually constituting the power of a column at the core of horizontally arranged prose-territories. Want to try it out?

Let’s sniff on it  work out a concept. May I borrow your Montblanc? By the way, here is Machi’s cell phone number. Please give her a buzz and ask her if she’s in the mood to share our party line at 10 pm., theme: The very nature of greeneries and affairs of the heart in times of war.

 Winfred goes to arrange comfortable chairs and sets up the I-pod for the scheduled night session.

Please remember our voices will be broadcasted; we should have liquids available - what is your preference for tonight?

Irish coffee.



hortensia anderson

                    (Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai découvert en moi un invincible été.  - Albert Camus)

deep freeze --
i drift into the snow
wrapped in fever
breathlessly breathing
through bands of ice

the strata of day --
persimmon, grape hyacinth
and nectarine
before washed away by light
gray and gray and gray

not quite
the summer in winter
Camus had in mind
although with enough drugs
i may be invincible

wind swirls through space --
a flock of birds takes flight
in random order;
time keeps on passing
for more of the same

then shines the frost moon:
flat round mirror of nothing;
as i awaken
hour after hour in pain
... night disappears



John M. Bennett




John M. Bennett

           shot            blunt

daily ,relbmuts ,flags ,onrop ,rash ,tongue ,rosserped ,hands ,rebmun ,flogging ,epiw ,gash ,knurt ,seeping ,buh ,boot ,yrecorg ,table ,etaruppus ,leans ,tah ,fog ,odraih ,tunes ,deelb ,corner ,sag ,focus ,repap ,lash ,fat ,kael ,arm, pmuts, mra, leak, taf, hsal, paper, sucof, gas, renroc, bleed, senut, hairdo, gof, hat, snael, suppurate, elbat, grocery, toob, hub, gnipees, trunk, hsag, wipe, gniggolf, number, sdnah, depressor, eugnot, hsar, porno, sgalf, stumbler, yliad

           corn            cow

John M. Bennett

           tank            tsol

single ,wodahs ,lock ,maerts ,bulb ,dum ,pane ,elop ,reflector ,nug ,key ,evac ,drop ,tsuahxe ,gravel ,gniklaw ,bullet ,stekcop ,brick ,smuh ,"book" ,redluohs ,reek ,niar ,stairs ,rood ,sriats, rain, keer, shoulder, "koob", hums, kcirb, pockets, tellub, walking, levarg, exhaust, pord, cave, yek, gun, rotcelfer, pole, enap, mud, blub, stream, kcol, shadow, elgnis

           hoof            welf



Elaine King

immerse myself   in the silence
    of distant hills   and green

only one magpie   in the pine   silhouetted

                      dust drifts   from the road
hedges and cars in front   shades of shapes

in the water  broken stars  against the stones

rain remnants   the single drips
               flash   on the ferns and litter

pausing on the way out   curled leaf   on the step

corrugated iron   oozing rust
     wind's sting   and brassy song

dark patches   sweep the bay  and the white sails tilt

the wriggle of cars   and people
        in the window   mottley

the stream's signature   silver between the trees




Tom Clausen

I avoid it for awhile
having been told
I use the computer too much,
the construct and deconstruct
of dark thoughts on the bus

how can it be
with all this spring
going on and on
I feel very little of it
growing in me

no matter where
when you look warmly
you see the warmth-
this way sun filters
through colorful leaves

when she was hired
our department
all in love with her-
these new flowers she brings
to replace those from yesterday

cast as a man
yet no hunter or fighter
have I found in me
this dreary day walk
just to air out my thoughts

home with just the cat,
free of my human script
I look knowingly at him...
he stretches and runs
to the door to go out

for Corinne Buckland
Ross Clark

leaning against a straight trunk bare as hope amidst the granite and winter wattle

from below on a gyre of air one white butterfly rises towards a joy-flight’s drone

raptor’s hovering eye seizes the moment      parabola

counterpoint of noonday cicadas and creek’s droughtsong melodious yet

now can look only through the lens of syllables their falling water these marks


Rob Cook

(NYC, any Sunday at dawn)

Streets empty except
for stray bottles
the early light is crawling from.

Two years in the city,
I keep hearing crickets
in the deli flowers.

Sunday morning, dark,
now where have the revelers
hidden us?

Drinking coffee at dawn
so the sun
can come back.

The early city,
Stacks of lit windows
The crickets left

A woman sipping coffee—
her face lost
behind steam.

I rest the phone against my ear
and listen
to the cherry blossoms breathing.

Pruning the daisies’
yellow faces—
the sky smaller today.

Even with the approaching F train,
this one guitarist
plays like a sleeping pigeon.

Sick from too much rest—
how will I tell
my cactus blossoms to live?



Parts of me from kindergarten
falling in tonight’s rain.

Father, was it from loneliness
you let those cockroaches live,
those years before winter?

Coffee with nothing in it—
now I see you, homeless men
asleep on the moon.

I have certain friends
I’ve shared coffee with
and not spoken a single word.

Only when I crush
a cockroach
is the world dying.

My mother, who keeps
the weather to herself,
mixing sleet with today’s laundry.

Night with a book
that ends early,
rain that I know.



The autumn city—
holding bags filled
with $20 wind.

Tonight’s rain, cold
and with no clouds, beginning
in a scarecrow’s mouth.

The book closed, its words,
the insects I’ve abandoned,
gone on ahead to the evening shelf.

The autumn city—
walking my umbrella
past the rain shops.

Cockroaches, what have you learned
there, behind
my portrait?

Coffee without cream—
I can taste
where the sky has burned.

Waking up early,
who wove these crickets
into my sheets?

I followed a cricket
to Long Island City, both of us
visiting the same poet.

The day’s last umbrella
going inside—
the end of the rain.



Pulling up potato roots,
tonight’s moon covered
with trails of earthworms.

Drinking coffee after the late news—
it’s not me
keeping the city awake.

Only when a building
filled with crickets burns
will you hear the songs they’ve made.

Prowling the woods
the night before my birth,
my shadow loses its face in the moss.

I leave a book in my field
where it’s maturing
with the frightened crows.

Ripening tomatoes—where
do you grow
during the moonlight ?

Surviving through a night
of coffee—six words
for the sky that’s gone.

Frightened by wind
that starts in my coat—
following home the possum tracks.

The autumn birch—
what do you cockroaches know
of it, so deep in my walls?



August with enough rain
to keep one family—
the scarecrows thin this year.

Afternoon lull,
sneaking between books,
dry houses where the rain’s been through.

Midday boredom—
songs the scarecrows
bring back from the sun.

Book that lasts all night,
looking for the page
where the scarecrows begin.

Weeks hiding in bed
from the deer
carrying the cold on their backs.

Waiting to hear its stories,
I feed the cockroach
one drop of coffee.

My father looking
for his violet patch
in last night’s moon.

Bored noon heat—
songs the sun
brings back from the scarecrows.



Night-time lull,
waiting for the grasses
to return.

Coffee at dinner
so the meatloaf won’t hurt me
with its loneliness.

I eat black coffee
under the morning’s
black sky.

Snow fall in the winter house—
deer licking powder
from the moon

What I thought was my cat returning
is only the snow
beginning to fall.

If I drop two cockroaches
into my steaming coffee,
will they still not talk?



(On seeing a bare maple in December)

This maple needs to lose
one more leaf
before becoming a buddha.

In my garden—
rocks waiting
for the deer to move them?

In a forest where no people are,
a tree falls many times
before the moon comes out.

A bear carries its mother
into the lake
where she looks just like the moon.

The poet kept walking
until he came to where
I was digging a new river.

A mountain that wasn’t here
fawns forming out of the morning dew.

Following a night bird
to its hole in the trees—
moon no one is looking for.

The sun throughout childhood—
image on water
where a paper boat went down.

For months
my father growing a beard—
his own father is gone.

planting tomatoes in the moonlight
my grandfather made.

A man who listens
to no music—waiting to hear
his name in the grass?

Today at the house
where I grew up, listening
for its twenty years of rain.

We buried
our cousin today—
why didn’t the autumn begin?

The fall night too quiet—
gutted for crickets.

In the initials of lovers
carved on the oak tree—
a caterpillar hiding.

Looking for deer—
wind a birch makes
taking off its clothes in autumn.

The hawk repeating its name
through the trees,
a fawn grazing, hidden by rain.



Melissa Dixon

once I worked
as an art therapist

in a psychiatric ward -
I observed the staff’s fine line
between Us - and Them

the young immigrant
her art work suddenly soft
with images of love -
the ward doctor isolates her
from the sex offender

the woman addict
in-and-out of hospital

now discharged again -
asks me will I be her friend?
will I?

I greet him -
the schizophrenic, his face
a managed mask of pain -
and I can only
shake his hand

severe depression? me?
but I need you to know-
once I worked
as an art therapist
in a psychiatric ward...

Elizabeth Howard

        Smoky Mountain overlook
        a primitive white church
        shines in the cove

        a bobcat crosses the road -
        from the tangle of bushes
        its piercing eyes

        icy spring
        a doe raises her head
        water dripping

        drumming in the woods
        a ruffed grouse hen's
        perky steps

        a steep curve
        flaming orange azaleas
        along the gully

        tree canopy
        a red-tailed hawk's
        hostile eyes

        chipmunks scurry
        down the rutted hill -
        rue anemones

        a strutting turkey -
        startled by the motor
        he crashes down the bluff

        rippling brook
        a wispy crawfish scuttles
        between mossy boulders

        mountain evening
        a raven sweeps down the spill
        of daylilies




Origa (Olga Hooper)

last warm day -
coming from the vet
to the silent home

October night -
the cat's empty bed
with electric heater

long autumn night -
my cat knows nothing
about cancer

low clouds
accompany my stroll
thoughts of the sick cat

blustery day -
the way home avalanched
with leaves

rustling leaves -
and I hear the breath
of my sick cat

autumn garden -
under the apple tree
a small fresh mound

late autumn sun -
and no refuge
from the piercing chill

cold afternoon
a card from the vet:
"Your sadness is shared"


Origa (Olga Hooper)

warm September
over the morning dew
a titmouse’ chirp

autumn sunrise
a limpid dew
painting leaves

a little dog
with collar around her waist -
fall equinox

fighting in the tree top
two squirrels

park stroll with grandson
the old fir's limb shelters
a young maple

Indian summer
bronzed muscles
in the sunshine

local market
laughing faces on kids
and pumpkins

windows here and there




kirsty karkow

In the background of my life
        there's a tapestry of bird song.
Best of all were the gray doves' calls
        woven into a desert childhood.
Now raucous gulls and throaty crows
        awake me  every dawn.

In the background of my life
        oceans roll as a constant force;
 long voyages, sail and freighter,
        rocked in the cradle of the deep.
Now quiet waves lap at granite
        along a fir-lined shore.

In the background of my life,
        is belief in native goodness;
Knowledge that sadness fades away
        as sunlight touches dawn-dark hills.
Now constantly I hold in awe
         the spark in every soul.


Larry Kimmel

fall colors             eyeglasses
on an eyeless Styrofoam head
- all this behind glass,
            and something antique
            about the gilt leaves of the locust

rated R for 'brief nudity'
one lousy unclothed manikin
I kid you not
            my first inflatable girlfriend,
            remembering her seamy side

always on the outside
looking in
            this life without sub-titles
            no better than
            a peeping Tom's

a band of gold or handcuffs,
what difference?
'I've seen it all' says Tom
            there's more here than meets the eye

vacant store front
graven in dust
a two-word audacity
            the blurting finger having writ
            rubs grit on a denimed thigh

when two raindrop rivulets
one drinks the other -
            never knowing which side you're on,
            the trouble with windows

the Waterford vase
on display
a spray of blue asters
            after the shock of eyes that cease to see
            - wildflowers in profusion

a calico curled
in the bookshop window
            between two snowflakes
            a spill of apples
            the surprise of seeing the book we made



Larry Kimmel

holding my eye
she undoes her blouse
my strict attention

an arch smile
then photons clothe her

wavelets lapping toes
the forest lake
there to receive her

wading out
till her breasts float

diving under
a flash of bare bottom

she waves
from the one tree island
an exaltation of larks


Angela Leuck

if I sit here much longer
I would be covered
with falling blossoms
were it not for the wind
and my own restlessness

off for the summer
to meditate in the hills
of India
he gives me a gift
of flowery perfume

a bee buzzing
from bloom to bloom
I sit in the garden
and gaze at the faces
of people passing by

dream of our wedding:
gathering wild flowers
for my hair
I wander too far
to find my way back

your flight delayed
I stare at a card with
giant white poppies
impatient for a glimpse
of your face in the crowd

after the sadness
of our parting
I walk in the garden
comforted by the glow
of marigolds at dusk

down by the river
beneath the big old willow
I gather
the scattered petals
of a rose never meant for me

ferns and
spider flowers waving
in the wind
I too have learned
this dance of life



Thelma Mariano

from the shore
the constant ripple of waves
as they move inland
much like the feel of your back
beneath my fingertips

how close we grew
as winter’s chill gave way to spring
alone in my room
I still hear the echo
of our whispers in the dark

determined to enjoy
my solitary state
at the jazz fest
I wander from stage to stage
seeing lovers everywhere

no room for sadness
in this world of sight and sound
I draw comfort
from windshield wipers the way
they swish back and forth in the rain

a plastic bag
carried off by the wind
spirals higher
I cling to your memory
even as I let it go

what’s left
of the love I felt between us?
at summer’s end
a few hot pink roses
to take me through the cold



June Moreau

on hearing a spider
a tiny ray
of light
enters my ear -
a snowflake falls

it sounds
most profound
in the snow-laden
branches of pine -
the diva wind

my words are sailboats –
the wind takes them
across the page
leaving roses, white roses
in their wake

the wind
is the color
of voice inside a poem
in my solitude
I paint the wind

just visible
on the water’s edge
a blue sash
of wind
and a faint rainbow



Anna Rugis 

Part 1

the switchback entrance
another turn to the left
old manuka stand
two streams meet at the culvert
can you see it yet?

                 an asphalt surface
behind the corokia
turns the other way
wild freesias on the headland
nobody’s looking

go back to the road
the signals don t reach down here
the trees deflect them
this is the way it founders
why you keep talking

a land                 so vast
no bird can fly across it
no bird lives that long
you can tell Gypsies to leave
but not where to go

magnolia flowers
bruising the gravel driveway
don t touch            don t touch
maybe in a week or two
look     the tide s in

you are expected
you will be mown and raked up
like next week s long grass
dandelion heads emerge
well under the cut

was there any doubt
I would return to you?
the pull of the oaks
sidling into their shadow
my eyes on my sleeve

Ganesh gets it right
a free park in Newmarket
as a reminder
a snail can sleep for three years
            imagine that

ten degrees off course
how to tell which direction
I don t have to tell
lemons or camellias
sunrise or sunset

were you waiting for me?
well             I m here anyway
strange to think
another one in the hand
is worth more than this

she grips my shoulders
as if to save me from a
runaway trailer
I hold my ground with the strength
of buttercup roots

seen from the east ridge
that is a tree I could haunt
his back in the sun
he doesn’t hear me coming
an interruption

at last     at last
            the bucket is full
in the meniscus
all straight lines curve and soften
I smile in my hand

a spring in the gorge
water rich in minerals
a glow-worm tavern
horses grazed here at one time
hard to believe it

my teacher s not here
he s gone to Rarotonga
and may not come back
my green jacket left somewhere
maybe in the hedge

a reclamation
with or without permission
a morepork watches
the blind shock of witnessing
I did not see this

safe from ugliness
you laugh at the idea
I am serious
I am deeply serious
you don t understand

my tongue stings my cheek
and it isn’t with salt
down hill all the way
too full              to empty tears
too empty to cry

these charming voices
I must have loved them before
in a former life?
perhaps that would explain it
this affinity

a view of islands
is worth a lot of money
and that old tree
always so many lemons
there s no counting clouds

and now we wait
spreading our hours out thinly
as if to dry them
fix things too long neglected
wait and see and see

Part 2

the first look at you
my scales turn into feathers
fall into water
a coral fish sees its cave
ah        there you are

ah            there you are
you were paying attention
                         I like that
everything as it should be
how about a song?

round about midnight
loud outdoor conversations
sound like naked looks
a language unknown to us
such as dogs might speak

             hold it               hold it
             what about the second verse?
I know you know it
alright here s a new one
but I m no singer

juvenile kauris
you follow in your white shoes
nowhere near the track
            we find them
amber and blue sky

the rope is too short
or the water is too low
or the well is dry
or the bucket is broken
I just made this up

swallow the half moon
and you’ll sleep like a flower
delicate shower
a shuffle down the tin roof
            see what I mean?

to make you question
to make you reach down deeper
you cannot break
what is already broken
or fix something whole

slowly over time
surrounded and cut off
louder and louder
but the perfume of roses
cannot be copied

                        you’ve got a good nose
                        a relationship with air
                                                it’s called breathing
                         it does it all by itself
                          so what's on the news?

some rich businessmen
are building their own spacecraft
yet another race
they want to be mega-stars
            to be heroes

expose the body
or wrap it in coats and scarves
look for what I see
the invisible shining
last call gentlemen

in this empty hall
where my shoulders won’t reckon
I doubt my body
that I can make it travel
even to reach you

                        it’s just a story
it doesn’t have to be true
you know I m coming
it might simply be a record
something overheard

though my mood mistook
your gesture for a prompting
you keep me honest
I will try to live up to you
like a wedding day

sell off the excess
one challenge per Saturday
plums in the freezer
the time to set imbedded
in the recipe

 just follow the scent
calla lilies onion weed
the temptation forgotten
to wallow in the
mystery of standing waves

                        it’s a certainty
statistics and averages
                        funny really
the mind of absolute trust
yes            a certainty

mid morning laughter
this is quite appropriate
what’s home anyway
a title search on a tree
birds don’t think of it

willing to be worked
you always find gratitude
no mind to resist
count the times you have fallen
            see what I mean?

my teacher came back
but not from Rarotonga
he thinks I know the future
                        maybe so

(To be continued)



R. K . Singh

His message to meet
at moonrise among flowers
sparkles a secret
on her smiling face passion
glows with charming fervour

She is no moon yet
she drifts like the moon, takes care
of him from the sky -
meets him for a short, waxing
leaves him for a long, waning

Before going to bed
she looks too sad to have
any sweet dream:
the lonely lamp glints no love
and no star peeks through the curtains

Yearning to meet him
she turns a silk-worm spinning
love-silk in cold night -
stands in a shade melting tears
like a candle, drop by drop

Stains of dried dewy
tears on the eyelids tell of
the load on her mind:
clothed in spring the willow twigs
reveal the changed relation

Locked in the shadows
of unrolled curtains her love
in the lone boudoir -
she plays tunes on the violin
flowers fade at the windows

She senses all things
changing as she passes through
the city again:
should I leave the old house or
lie in the grave before death




R.K. Singh

As a repose in
the wrinkles of her face
I feel her crimson
glow in my eyes her holy
scent inside a sea of peace

The room has her
presence every minute
I feel she speaks
in my deep

Is it her quietus
that she roars in herself
like a sea
waves upon waves
leaps upon herself?

Love is the efflux
from her body spreading
parabolic hue -
enlightens the self I merge
in her glowing presence

Your vacant eyes
reveal this city:
dim, humid, absent-minded
orchestrating bronchial noises
'quakes in the face



R.K. Singh

Red oleander and
hibiscus calling morning
to Kali

The lone hibiscus
waits for the sun to bloom:
morning's first offering

Without washing hands
he touches the hibiscus for worship:
her frowning glance

Love tickles
with erect pistil:

Narrowly escape
the midair web of spider
perched on hibiscus

A tiny spider
on the hibiscus sucking
its golden hue

on the spider's web -
a hibiscus

After little rain
lilies smile with hibiscus -
the sun in May

over the mossy roof
deeply rooted

Oleander and
hibiscus blaze with passion -
making love in sun



Sue Stanford

still dark
the sound of a grooming cat
wakes me
                 only her tongue: the drought has not broken

one paw
two paws reach for
the door handle
                colour returns to the trees: I miss the moment

afternoon sun
the cat comes between me
and my book
                offended: the cat who can't laugh can't laugh last

evening deepens
the cat keeps trying to pronounce
the word 'meat'
                using my haunch on the new fridge door: come back Kerouac


Geert Verbeke

the earthquake
displaces the water mass
forgotten shipwrecks

a great wave
in the harbor waters
orphan songs

on the beach
a naked fisherman
a shell in his eye

in front of a mirror
a drag queen

a tourist crying
for her jewels

in the hotel pool
encircled by books
the librarian

the silence
in which the moon swims
he drowned

after the tsunami
between two bodies
a rose

on the dead body
a fresh tattoo
three flowers

old fences
breaking down
in slow motion

the water returns
to its original oneness
a dead silence





Gino Peregrini

Awakened at midnight by a vague thought, a budding poem.
Scrambling eggs--habanero sauce dots the yolk like fresh blood.
Gibbous moonlight slants through the window; a bright noise / in my eyes


Gino Peregrini

A nurse to draw my blood,
another for an EKG.
A night in Intensive Care:
"Let's get those britches off you."
Awakened after midnight,
I look out at the golf course.


Gino Peregrini

Tenderly, Leviathan sports in the deeps of chaos.
His cousins, ungainly beasts, frolic with glee in sea-spume.
Ponderously, this pod teases the divine angler.




feeling somehow
unable to tell
fireflies from the sun
on the ocean

Ana Cagnoni

dinner's ready
this Christmas eve
one sparrow
across the purple terrace
my unborn child

Ana Cagnoni

new year
the scent of acorns
and pine needles
somewhere beyond

Ana Cagnoni



turning the tide
below the sky
now for a change
fish feasting on men

john tiong chunghoo

how calm
the sea lies
after all the ravages
this tsunami in me
that will take years to tame

john tiong chunghoo

Read John's eye-witness account of being in the tsunami on the island of Phucket..



her sixtieth birthday
my cousin and I
make a family
snowman, snowwoman
and snowchild

Philomene Kocher

the fake pearl has worn off
the glass beads
of my First Communion rosary
I hold their innocence
in my hands

Philomene Kocher


on the bus
the little boys
playing I Spy
one to the other
"let's both go first"

Philomene Kocher


  Submission Procedures 

Who We Are


Deadline for next issue is 
May 1, 2005.

  Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2005.
Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2005.

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

Check out the previous issues of:

LYNX XIX:3 October, 2004
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