XXI:1 February, 2006

A Journal for Linking Poets 




James Fowler

CW Hawes


CW Hawes


C W Hawes

WILL by Ruth Holzer


Tree Riesener

Tree Riesener


Lynn Edge

C W Hawes

C W Hawes

C W Hawes

Larry Kimmel

Francis  Masat

Francis  Masat

Zane Parks


Marita Schrader


UNTITLED by an'ya

Edward Baranosky

POSTCARDS HOME by Helen Buckingham

Helen Buckingham

Gerard J. Conforti

BIRTHDAY  COMBO by Andrew Cook-Jolicoeur

gillena cox


CW Hawes

Ruth Holzer

Elizabeth Howard

Kirsty Karkow

CHRYSALIS by Giselle Maya

R.K. Singh

ROSE by 
R.K. Singh

THERMAL ENERGIES by Barbara A Taylor

Aya Yuhki



C W Hawes

Kirsty Karkow


Dawn Bruce

James Roderick Burns

Gene Doty

Sanford Goldstein

C W Hawes

June Moreau

Cindy Tebo



John M. Bennett



James Fowler

Night-fishing beneath the Ascutney Bridge, I hear the drivers
in their metal cages crossing over. No light falls on the river.

When winter forces itself upon the water, warmth-seeking winds
rush down from the north and plagiarize the voice of the river.

In their wisdom, the ancient ones named the river Quonoktacut
Their blood flows in my veins, so I call her the never-ending river.

I, the pickerel weed and the cattails think the best day of the year
is when the red-wing blackbirds invoke spring back to the river.

After twenty-five years away, I again walk the banks and fields.
Last night, I dreamt I unloaded a ship. I woke beside the river.

The heron knows the frog. The northern pike believes in ducks.
Summer's slow surface hides the unrelenting truth of the river.

The walleye sheds its skin, wades out of the shallows a woman,
knocks on the door of the lonely man and becomes his river.

Each droplet of water in the rollicking thunderhead remembers
when autumn sun rowed the dark line of night across the river.

Standing on the cliffs, at midnight, I see stars above, stars below.
Squirrel, it has come time for you to swim the twofold river.


CW Hawes

I look out my window and see today it is raining.
I've places to go, things to do; but what the hey?  It's raining.

The soft drumming sings to me of something primeval;
I sip my mug of tea, all the while weighing it is raining.

I think of you and how you love the sound of falling rain;
Cuddled next to you is where I'd like to stay when it's raining.

Driving in the car, wipers beating time to sad love songs;
Mile after long, lonely mile I survey it is raining.

And when Akikaze at long last pulls into the drive,
You can wager he will be praying it is raining.

CW Hawes

Working overtime every day, who takes time to smell the roses?
Sitting in the freeway parking lot, who takes time to smell the roses?

Once I knew a woman who had flower beds by the dozen,
But rarely did she take time to smell the roses.

Millions living crowded together in dirty cities;
Where are the flowers so one can take time to smell the roses?

Driving in the countryside, we spy a cottage covered in blooms;
But who is there taking time to smell the roses?

The question must be asked:  what is so all-fired important
That no one takes time to smell the roses?

So let that musician over there finish this poem;
Akikaze takes time to smell the roses.

CW Hawes

Let me kiss your lips every day tenderly;
let me love you in every way tenderly.

All of those vibrant, dancing green leaves of summer
flutter to the ground in autumn and decay tenderly.

On those nights when the moonlight hides the stars,
let me slip off your negligee tenderly.

In the morning, when prayers ascend to God,
your name will be on my lips as I pray tenderly.

The days and the months and the years pass quickly:
the new wine becomes old, lay it down tenderly.

An apple plucked from the tree and eaten;
the span of our years to say what we say tenderly.

For Akikaze, it matters little what should be;
on his guitar, love songs play tenderly.

CW Hawes

After the soft spring rain, I went for some fresh air in the woods;
What a delight to see the deer and turkeys there in the woods.

A hellish week this was of working long hours for the man;
Came the weekend I beat feet, played solitaire in the woods.

To meet God in a Cathedral on Sundays is okay;
Yet I'd rather smell His scent and breathe my prayer in the woods.

At the ball I consent to being stuffed into a tux,
But in the back of my mind I see me bare in the woods.

How long ago was that luscious, sensual summer day
When we went off together as a pair to the woods?

The autumn leaves blow in the wind, yet where are the answers?
Akikaze spurns such things:  there's no despair in the woods.

C W Hawes

I have tasted the wine of my beloved;
I am drunk from the lips of my beloved.

In the deepening darkness of the night
comes the ecstatic cry of my beloved.

In the waning darkness of the dawning,
I gently stroke the hair of my beloved.

Calculating budgets for a client,
suddenly there's the smile of my beloved.

In the depths of the night I hear murmurs:
prayers rising from the lips of my beloved.

Today the dhow set sail for distant lands;
I hear "khudha hafiz"* from my beloved.

Akikaze sings a wordless love song
and the wind carries it to his beloved.

*meaning "God be with you"

Ruth Holzer

                        That day arrives, against your will,
                        however tardy, you know it will.
                        Where are the powdery wings of the moth?
                        What remains of its self-destructive will?
                        You lie in your tent by the golden fire,
                        hear the horned owl and the whip-poor-will.
                        A dog barks one note throughout the night.
                        You point your pistol, but lack the will.
                        Under a stack of paperback thrillers
                        the strongbox holding Ruth's last will.



Tim Jones

You float like a cloud in trousers
I stand with my cow in the rain

Your poems electrified Russia
Your dams were a hymn to the rain

Your empire crumbled around us
As here and as gone as the rain

The birch tree lies by the roadside
Its branches are wept by the rain

The smoke of my village drifts upwards
Its ashes retreat from the rain

Your red square has entered the market
Its cobbles are slick with the rain

The future lies inside the present
As close as a cloud and its rain.


Tree Riesener

Live in prayer: contemplative bee in amber,
fly fallen into the maple syrup jug,
Jesus’ downy head rounding Mary’s womb
soft and silky as the inside of a milkweed pod.

Wind tugs and finds a chink;
flying downy seeds gradually pull away into air
like baby birds or girls’ fragile grave-grown hair,
taking airy leave from a milkweed pod.

Twenty-five million bubbles in every bottle of champagne,
forty-four thousand people in the air
at any one time, but no one has counted
the seeds in a milkweed pod.

In lost places-- circles carved into corn or eerie silent sunlight
in the midst of fields standing
still at noon-- ghosts walk with backward feet,
free floaty flowers from a milkweed pod.

Comfort me with kisses, for I am sick with love;
stay me with apples; touch my secret places
soft as mouse’s fur or the excited slickness
of an open, shedding milkweed pod.

Filter sunlight with this stained glass:
silky seeds floating on a beam of brilliance
surrounding him, the prince of silk,
emerging pantocrator on a mandorla milkweed pod.

Honey-fertilized earth still visited by homeless bees;
cicadas, crickets and grasshoppers
have moved into the weedy circle where the tree grew;
left, the potential of milkweed pods.


Tree Riesener

At certain times and places, slipping through,
sometimes lingering, malingering, remaining fluid,
           the solid-packed jigsaw in air;
human, jaguar, stone, demon, angel tangled together.

A nose from me, a pinky from you,
someone else’s curving bottom, a craft class
     where lightning splits the air, things fall apart,
chimeras are devised, stitched, mangled, together.

Mary’s evening silver hammer shatters the peppermint pig,
no reassembly until the end;
     vengeful voters and governors fond of death
schedule fallen angels to be strangled together.

A new kind of marriage, my young face on an aged body,
your gray and wrinkles atop sleek young muscles,
      no place else to go;
we’re now a couple, newfangled, together.

Stitched together and lost, a little living;
the priests don’t care; they eat and drink richly doing others,
     but it’s Friday, creep into the down, into my arms,
we can be jangled together.

God will do a Baucis and Philemon for us
instead of oak and linden, make us
      a new constellation (the same heavenly bodies will do for each),
star-spangled, together.

Under the new-born morning tree, shiny steel puzzles,
to practice open sesame charms.
     Later, a new take on Paul, a mutual submission game,
your arm and mine bangled together.




Lynn Edge

Five-thirty a.m. Sleep eludes me. Unseasonable winds lower August temperatures into low sixties.  My older dog, Heidi, lies at the foot of my bed. Becca, the younger one, presses against my knee.  Maybe we will walk early today.
Dogs in the lead, I hike a path beside the Guadalupe River which flows through the Texas Hill Country.  I wear shorts and a tee, but wish for a jacket. Cool air exhilarates, and our steps quicken. Low mist hovers over warm water.  Condos and apartments block the horizon, but as I reach the end of the trail and turn, I see the rising light of morning.  From the west, cries of sandhill cranes attract my attention, and I watch the moon fade as the sun rises.

      sunday morning
      chapel bells peal
      from downriver


C W Hawes

This morning I am standing in the dew-covered grass, my shoes soaking wet.  The air is still chill and I feel a bit of stiffness in my  fingers.  But the sun is beginning to gain some height in the sky and soon the dew will be gone, the stiffness eased, and my shoes dry.

the watch hands
counting out the numbers
"September Morn"

C W Hawes

Memory seems to be long or short depending on one's location.  In the city, who remembers one's neighbors?  Moving vans and pick-up trucks bring and remove people and families with such regularity one scarcely learns a name before a new one must be learned.
In the country, memories are long.  When we moved to our small farm, folks would ask where we lived.  After a few moments of explaining, they would come back with, "That's the Gjere place, isn't it?"  And we would say, "Yes".  Then they knew where we lived.  The owners previous to us, who bought the place from old man Gjere and lived there for twenty years, no one remembers their name.  Twenty years from now probably no one will remember ours either.

in the autumn wind
the leaf flutters and tumbles
out of sight

C W Hawes

Wanting respite from my noisy office, I went for a walk to the lake across the road.  Standing on the shore, I took in the sight of what had to be acres of lily pads.  Aside from the traffic, the lake was quiet.  I noticed there were no frogs.

an old lake
amongst the lilies
water's silence

Larry Kimmel

When you were a boy in Niche Hollow
     and woke in winter to a fresh snow,  you ate breakfast quickly
and took down your skis and hurried
      to make the first track on Bittner's Hill,
And if you were not first something went out of
the morning and it didn't matter
      anymore to hurry and you didn't care as
much as you might have, but still you
      enjoyed the skiing along with the others,
And if you were a good skier you enjoyed it
more than many except for, perhaps, the
      first to make the track because he
bragged and you could not take that brag away
      from him, because you believed in that brag,
But you enjoyed the skiing just the same,
And as the snow packed it improved,
And when the day ended you compared this snow
with other snows you'd known
      and you agreed and disagreed with
comrades according to how well you had skied
      that day,
And in the mining town below Niche Hollow this
new snow was already turning sooty,
And you thought of newer snows to come,
And then you went to bed tired and happy and
telling yourself it was still good skiing
      even if you hadn't made the first track
down Bittner's Hill and that maybe you'd
      get the next snow first,
And then you slept.

some things
are never going to happen again
never again, that way,
and still others, never  *

* the above tanka was published in Lynx: Feb. 2004



Francis  Masat


plumped sparrows
in a train's snowy wake

I sigh with relief as the stinging cold of my trip yields to the heat and smells of Mom's kitchen.  The windows are frosted over:  crusty baked potatoes, macaroni and golden cheese, creamy rice pudding with raisins and nutmeg, pie made with cinnamon and sour home-canned cherries.  I pitch in to set the table, stoke the fire.  I pour steaming tea.  Though hunger is said to be an ancient spice, warmth and aroma complete the recipes this night.

fireplace -
warming ourselves
with pieces of the old icebox

Francis  Masat

New Year's Eve.  The snow has stopped.  I'm handing out cookies at the homeless shelter.  The cookies were a Christmas present to me.  I'm not allowed to eat them.  On a whim, I brought them to the shelter.  I am so glad that I did.

City Park -
bare limbs quake
in the brisk wind



Zane Parks

Buddy is very playful. We buy him the usual toys. The way he chases and bats a rubber ball or toy mouse back and forth across the room is a marvel. He fetches. He drops a ball near me. I toss and he races for it. This repeats until one of us tires. There's usually a collection of balls and mice under the couch. Just out of reach. And feathers! Shake a stick with feathers on it and he'll leap three feet.

But Buddy doesn't limit himself to bought toys. He's happy playing with a discarded strip of plastic from the litter bucket. Pens are fascinating on the counter. They must be knocked to the floor. On the floor, they're uninteresting. He'll play with a round bit of cardboard just the same as a ball or mouse. We keep the feather duster out of sight.

shoes slipped off ...
what prey make you of
these laces?





Spring festival -
the woman’s legs in
aristocratic whiteness

Frühlingsfest -
die Frauenbeine
in vornehmer Blässe

Marita Schrader

Cloudy sky -
a child beheads roses
no one says a word

Bewölkter Himmel -
ein Kind köpft Rosen
niemand sagt ein Wort
Marita Schrader

First date.
he talks about love
after the third glass

Erstes Treffen.
er spricht von Liebe
nach dem dritten Glas
Marita Schrader

Smelling lilac-
an old dog is looking
for its shadow

Duftender Flieder -
ein alter Hund
sucht seinen Schatten
Marita Schrader

Late summer -
old and new shoes
next to each other

Spätommer -
alte und neue Schuhe
nah beieinander
Marita Schrader

5th birthday
she wipes the kisses
off her mouth

5. Geburtstag
sie wischt die Küsse
von ihrem Mund
Marita Schrader






for each mountain
I've managed to conquer
this bird of prey . . .
how easily it follows
never having to climb

my computer asks
"are you sure you want
to permanently
delete these messages"—
lonely winter night

ever since you,
I've known all four sounds
of the seasons
spring song and summer panting
autumn moans and wintry sighs

the red-tail hawk
swooping across cloudless sky,
it touches me . . .
a flutter of eyelashes
on binocular lenses

an autumnal night
from some bygone era

in this dream
I'm a traveler stranded
out after the curfew


Edward Baranosky

Constance paces
near the darkened window
fingering a leash,
mackerel sky obscured
by an incoming fog.
A pea-souper.
I'll take the Lab
for a run down to the cove,
she'll see before I do
and hear what I can't.
 A dying squall line
rumbles in the distance,
with a sharp flash of lightning
and a cold off-shore breeze.
Jamie rattles rusted keys.
You'll be meeting him again?
A dark moon rising –
the smugglers'll be in,
lamps dimmed, running silent
on muffled oars.
 The prehistoric
warning of foghorns
echoes from hidden shoals,
punctuated by seabirds' cries
driven shoreward by the storm.
Why do you say "again,"
as if it's some easy habit
to wear like a novice?
Can you see him now,
as he stands in the shadows?
The bright beam
off the point beacon tower
casts a light tunnel
sweeping periodically
across a ragged cliff face.
He can't mask that voice.
There's something about an accused man.
There is. Kafka said that
in another paranoid time.
Got your doubloons?
The accidental splash
of an oar cuts through
the roar of breaking surf,
with the sound of boats
dragged onto a rocky beach.
I know our paltry pence
won't buy pirates' treasure;
maybe corroded contraband,
or perhaps just swag traded
under a smuggler's moon.



Helen Buckingham

     summer vacation...
     dripping paint

     praying for sunshine...
     salvaging bananas
     for the banoffee pie

     midsummer traffic...
     stealing through a side street
                        jazz fusion

Helen Buckingham

     ...the terrier puppy...
     ...flags his territory...

        big wheel flickers...
     a candy-flossed tooth
          starts to throb

footnote: candy-floss [UK term] = cotton candy



Gerard J. Conforti

In my heart, yet there comes
the words I speak silently
when the pain is greatest
poems makes them go away
and bliss comes like stars

I face a wall
and there in my solitude
but they are only walls
and there between them
is a window to view the world

I could never forget, Jane
how much you've done for me
it's been a great love
I hold in my heart
a rose of memories

Thank you, Jane
for the card
it really brought joy
to this heart of mine
which is in a bliss of kindness

What has happened  between us
I hold no grudges
you've been more than kind
you've made something of me
in the verses I've written over the years

Let the tides
come through upon the shores
I can hear there a sound
even now and when I was a child
gazing at the starlit horizon



Andrew Cook-Jolicoeur

good morning...
the clock's pendulum swings
to billie holiday cd
something new 2 discover
even at 50

november noon
carefully turning over
the gift teapot
with royal windsor on it
nothing's 2 good 4 me

the thistle motif
as i pour
the clear genmaicha --
i can't escape my roots

at twilight
gazing out the window
a sip of tea
this year, sister
not even a card from you



gillena cox

New Year
the pop and crackle
of fireworks

sporadic bursts of light
enter the darkened room

the chatter of voices
from the street

filtering through the silence
of private resolutions

a dog barks
in the distance
a vehicle zooms by

the trees remain
immobile in the nightscape

gentle pitter
a drizzle
at dawn

perusing the public holidays
in my pocket diary


Janet Lynn Davis

outside the Kim Son
– our bellies filled –
koi and catfish curl and swirl
then swarm for crumbs
the other humans drop

inside the ravaged city
– their bellies stunned –
homeless stagger, stutter
              await the crumbs                
 of a new day

* * *

  no problem hearing
  the garbage truck groan and squeak
  down the street. . .
  but his ears forever closed
  to her "noxious chatter"

  her eyes affixed
  to the striking tie he says
  she didn't give him. . .
  one of many gifts she says
  he fails to remember

CW Hawes

you look
at the sticks we've planted
all afternoon
your face a question
I say, "There'll be apples."

spading soil
while adding compost
and guano
I think of the sweet corn
in the seed packet

checking his watch
standing at the bus stop
face a scowl
I turn the pages in my book
knowing the bus will come

standing in line
for my favorite ride
at the State Fair
I count those ahead of me
and decide it's worth the wait

swirling snow...
putting up the hummingbird
even the depths of winter
do not last forever

Ruth Holzer

                        crook-backed umbrellas
                        crows of misfortune
                        crouch in the snow
                        so many alike –
                        umbrellas in the snow
                        which one hides you?
                        umbrellas in the snow –
                        our long embrace

                                    Blind Willie Johnson
                                    sliding worn fingers
                                    over the strings:
                                    the ground was cold
                                    dark was the night


Elizabeth Howard

                                 daughter's e-mail
                                 requests bird identity
                                 describes the meadowlark–
                                 just now my meadow rejoices
                                 at its morning song

                                 broad-winged hawks kettle
                                 over the dam's spillway
                                 nature's idyllic current
                                 man's frothy uproar

                                 a white pigeon spent
                                 a fortnight with us
                                 where did it come from?
                                 why did it leave us
                                 watching an empty sky?

                                 a shadow cuts a broad swath
                                 across the flowered meadow–
                                 I look up, sunstruck
                                 by the glow, the wingspan
                                 of a golden eagle

                                 at the celebration
                                 white doves unscroll
                                 a banner in the blue sky
                                 hope of peace and freedom
                                 in all the earth



Kirsty Karkow

grief unfolds years later
in a dream
my mother turns away
ignoring my entreaties

weighty thoughts
as I prepare to nap. . .
how will it be
to lie down knowing
it is the final time

the waste basket
spills its crumpled holdings
scraps of foolscap
scribbled thoughts, lies, admissions
all my fears of age and death

gales today
and a prediction tonight
for scattered frost.  .  .
I need to pick
the winter squash

my dog
who loves rainy walks
nervously at the sound
of thunder

Angela Leuck

a rough wind
blows the waves
against the current
all those times
I loved the wrong man

old garden
the neglected birdbath
filled with rain and leaves
I try to make sense
of the clouded past

walking through
the heady scent
of the lilac garden
do I really want
to be in love again?

a plastic bag
lifts and falls
in the breeze
perhaps I too
was never meant to soar

still not sure
what choices to make
I attend a workshop
on how to pick
the winning rose

wondering if there will be
a change in my fortunes –across the street
workmen raise a sign:
Lucky Star

even as
the train slips into
the next station
my destination
still unknown



Giselle Maya

dew on the window
panes of sunlight
on narcissus paper
shadow strokes with
a new bamboo brush

winter mind
remembering now
a dream of words
amber beads unstrung
in a lacquered box

seeing feelings
arise in winter solitude
a shaft of light
pierces slate-gray clouds
across the snow mountain

hand moves brush
ochre and blue pigment
on sheet of cotton paper
a snail traversing slowly
a long-veined leaf

tea twigs
composted with earth
on a hill of violets
a painting is born
from empty space

of color and paper
these petal mandala
artifice of meadows
and garden soil




In their webs
spiders racing to spin
on meatless prey

Too big for its web
between two roses
a yellow spider

on the spider's web
a white flower

A tiny spider
on the marigold sucking
its golden hue

Narrowly escape
the midair web of spider
perched on hibiscus



Greeting the first rains
after months of soaring heat
the lone rose flutters
little petals to the ground
echoing our first embrace

Shining on rose-leaves
silken layer of dew drops:
gloss of her mauve smile
she blushes when I tell her
beauty of the blooming rose

The fragrance of rose
seeps through the windows
coupled with full moon
adds to my delight though I'm
alone in my bed tonight

Roses await
sun and wind to clear
the baleful fog:
I fear she'll say no
to my love again


Barbara A Taylor

snow melts
                      emerald spikes

springtime blossoms
energy sexual
      and hayfever

mating season's on
koalas roar and grunt
eucalyptus sways

        hot sun slips west
snakes digest
summer's almost here

mystical stillness
smoky sunset haze
slips gently into night

summer sizzles
                    lavas of tars, a mirage
smoggy city

overheated earth erupts

waves surge
prompting global warmings

our world wobbled
great waves swamped
swallowed shores in paradise


Aya Yuhki

just before sleep
a scene of brown sand
endlessly streaming
appeared through
my closed eyes

trying to get
a sound sleep
for tomorrow
my lips are dry
with the essence of yellow sand

the tips of my toes
touch the sand
at the bottom of the water
I awakened from my dream

I was relieved
with the feeling of
the lowest depth
under pressure
of blue black water

pulled by the force
of gravity of far away stars
I walk
in darkness
as warm as body heat

formed by the wayward wind
over the sand
like the female body






Morning mist covers the hills and haze hangs in the sky.
Looking soft, like the moon, is gauze-wrapped Sol stripped of ardor,
But with you standing beside me, I have little need of the sun.

C W Hawes

The dew lies heavy on the grass this early autumn morning.
It bejewels the bright green blades, giving them a noble air,
And silver soon will crown their heads as now it does my own.

CW Hawes

The person in the painting drinks his glass of wine alone;
Absent, I notice, the expected loaf of bread and piece of cheese.
Like the still life, I sit and listen to ice cubes clink.

CW Hawes

To the mountain I have come and once again this shack is home.
Every few years I make the trip, to listen to the silence.
High above I see the contrail, then hear the jet's dull roar.

CW Hawes


We slide downhill to the river
     with paddles, line and bailer.
A sad canoe lies on the shore
     abandoned to rocks, mud and weeds.
She doesn't leak! She skims the waves!
     We guide her home to save her.

Kirsty Karkow

Arise! Arise! And we shall see
where we are and what to do.
A look-out shouts that land is near
it will protect us from these gales.
Those of you who are not dead,
take heart, the awful sea is crossed.

Kirsty Karkow





  a craggy mountain
  looms out of perspective
  in the mist
  my problem grows
  as night wears on

                   Dawn Bruce

  a stray cat
  mewls and curls
  its thin body
  sadness creeps around me
  in the mist of twilight

                  Dawn Bruce

  a ginger cat
  crouches in tall yellow grass
  green eyes unblinking
  long drought-filled summer
  brings a close to my marriage

                 Dawn Bruce

  a sparrow
  in a dried up paddock
  in old age
  I am diminished

              Dawn Bruce

  I open the window
  a crow seems to cry
  up at last

                Dawn Bruce

Crazy moth barrels
round the paper shade, drops out
like a flake of soot -
I open the blinds and smile
thinking of you dressed in white

             James Roderick Burns

The end of the world -
on top of smouldering shame
a damp warehouse wall,
deus ex machina crows
croaking somewhere out of sight

           James Roderick Burns


shortest night
I can't sleep at all
turning from side to side
when you're not here
the moon is so bright

                    Gene Doty

early fall--
after a rainstorm
the air cools
your kisses remind me
of sunlight in leaves

                        Gene Doty

in my dream
Chinese stonework
defines wet mountains
our house becomes
a waterfall of light

                 Gene Doty

naked yogini
holding a pose
& my breath
her pulse dancing
in my eye -

                Gene Doty


[From a New Year's card for the year of the dog]

my kid's ancient dog
lying in the warmth of the stove
with soft eyes that stare
such compassion I see in dogs
in their glances and devotion

                Sanford Goldstein



from the dream
he awakes with a start
heart pounding
in the distance the song
of the siren again

            C W Hawes

the union
tells us no raise again
this year
I pick up a rock
and then let it drop

              C W Hawes

I see the clothes
notice his face and hands
listen to words
if he were an apple halved
I wonder what I'd see

                   CW Hawes

fog on the hills
while frost whitens leaves and grass
parting in autumn
leaves the deepest sadness
and I cannot fly south

                   C W Hawes

all is emptiness
in this world full of pain
a small comfort
when I read your poems
I know someone loves me

                           C W Hawes

there's a comfort
sitting here all wrapped up
in this blanket
hopefully someday
a butterfly will emerge

                   C W Hawes

whatever the end
parting in separate ways
is very sad
the way I would want for us
is only togetherness

               C W Hawes


their whiteness
on a low, wooden table
tea cups and a bowl
and a bud of warmth
from April sun

              June Moreau

the table adorned
with forsythia
sunbeams fall
where they will
the taste of tea

           June Moreau


with fingers nimble
as the spring wind
in willow branches
the year’s first basket
is finely woven

           June Moreau

ah, peach blossoms
candy for your eyes
and to think
the spring wind
will take them

           June Moreau


At twelve, I wore
            a green uniform
  and specks of chalkboard dust
        I'd run at every recess
     hoping to erase the lesson

                                  Cindy Tebo

  a woman sitting
  by a window
  one arm holds her chin
  like a lamppost
  holds the light

                Cindy Tebo

                to a crow's dispute
                the caws become
           all I have to say
  about winter

                    Cindy Tebo


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Deadline for next issue is 
May 1, 2006.

  Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2006.
Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2006.

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Check out the previous issues of:

LYNX XX:3 October, 2005
XX:2 June, 2005

XX:1, February, 2005

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