XXI:2 June, 2006

A Journal for Linking Poets 




by Gene Doty

by Gene Doty

by Melanie Faith

by C W Hawes

by Royce Icon

by Werner Reichhold


by Elizabeth Howard

by Royce Icon

by Zane Parks


by Robin M Buehler

by Rod Burns

by Gerard J. Conforti

by John Daleiden

YOGA 101 by Janet Lynn Davis

by Melissa Dixon

by Gene Doty

 by tombo (Lorraine Ellis Harr)

ACROSS AZURE SEAS by Elizabeth Howard

by Mrinalini Gadkari

HOW STONE IS MADE by Denis M. Garrison

by Ruth Holzer

by H. Gene Murtha

by Ashley Rodman

by Anna Rugis

by John W. Sexton


Christopher Barnes
Gerd Börner with 
Kilmeny Niland trans. Melanie Faith
William Hart
CW Hawes
Kristy Karkow
June Moreau
Francine Porad
 R.K. Singh



Dream Ghazal #4
Gene Doty

I run to the high school bare naked, cheered and jeered.
I hide in a closet stuffed full of coats and scarves.

There's a flier about a cockfight in the classroom.
A student is excited: the buy-in is only five dollars.

An art student has drawn my portrait, over and over:
I always have three eyes and wavy hair.

Mud. Ledges of Rock. Small green plants. People Milling about. Feeling
discomfort and unease for no reason.

Momma! Momma! Please bring me clothes, please talk to me.
The house is a pattern of sticks and twine like a new garden.


Dream Ghazal #7
Gene Doty

I've checked out a leather coat from the library And lent it to a
friend— it's overdue and she's lost it.

Watching a videotape in a large, cluttered building, We sit close on a
baroque couch, becoming excited.

A large truck, built like a horse trailer, holds only a cow.
I can see her eyes through the slats: she is weeping.

In the tiny pantry, she flips her skirt up, pulls her panties down,
And bends over. I am ready, but someone knocks on the door.

Wade the river, Gino, to the performers' bunkhouse.
You can watch her swim and dive there, and count the tips.


for my parents
Melanie Faith

When in 1968, Mom gave Dad the note,
a simple birthday sentiment she wrote.

Met him at his locker, smiling oh so subtly,
affection alight so easily from this note.

Eighteen, innocent age of just-met adulthood
from wary hope to India ink bespoke this note.

First kiss to first night, the altar so swiftly led
charm upon charm, inherent this knowing, take note.

Thirty-eight years later, two daughters grown and gone
yet these two still as one from this mystery note.

Was it naïveté, this connection secure,
passion unencumbered from the first to last note?

Solitary Faith, perhaps this beyond your ken,
better to love younger, else the song all self-notes.


C W Hawes

In the middle of the night I heard soft footfalls coming; In
midnight's sweet longing, the whisper of someone coming.

With the flight of the indigo sky at the cock's crowing, there is only
the empty warmth of ecstasy's coming.

Leaving behind the affairs of men and seeking solace in a wilderness
hut: the wisdom of silence coming.

Perfumed prayers, rising a fragrant incense, blot out the stars; on
the icy mountain wind, the Voice of God is coming.

In great cities and in humble hamlets, I searched for her; and
despaired through the long years of the precious one's coming.

Oh, Akikaze! Bow yourself and give thanks for His gift:
on the dhow docking at the quay, your princess is coming!



Royce Icon

My thoughts change rapidly as I run down the sidewalk 
The flowers are blooming through cracks on the sidewalk

I find it beautiful and ironic this time of year 
That there is so much trash strewn around the sidewalk

I must be agile and quick so I don't trip on a beer can 
As I run down this broken true companion that is the sidewalk

Ever since I was young I have been walking these same roads 
I walked here as a child years ago on this very same sidewalk

I think of how odd time is, how much people change 
While I run down this old battered inner city sidewalk



Werner Reichhold

Scene 3 (of 7 scenes):

On stage, the voices of two actors represent persons who, through a newly legalized medication, learned to keep in check the destructions specific terror-TV-shows are made for.

In a distance of 25 feet from one another, the female voice starts out reciting the first 2 lines, followed by a male voice repeating them. Each word seemingly spoken with some delay, comparable to the feeling when a passenger flight number and destination at an airport's screen flares up surprisingly late. Since the arrival at the target location is still not typed in, an unsecured situation is still mentally upheld throughout the multi-definable text

The lighting changes on a scale of blue to white during the recitation of the first 2 lines, then in a mix of violet and gray slowly remodels itself from a yellow shine to clear green at the very end.


On a ship's bow a nymph alone against the spray that matters
some sound sent as we obey not to speak arriving as migrating tongues

within a breeders' radiation the pregnant woman changes homes
fishes born without fins by the shark's pier wrecked submarines

above an Indian's tent a waiver of three times welling smoke
transmutable whispers insurgents separating glimmer from ashes

hands of a clock moving along the hostages' hood sign language
games given games taken cells inhabited to grow only inmates away.




Elizabeth Howard

We sit in the oncologist's office, waiting. We smile tentatively, look away.
We are together, but each on a lonely journey.

crowded elevator
stuck between floors
breathless passengers


Royce Icon

It's St. Patrick's Day. Is this a Holiday? I wake up and go to work like any other day. I pick up a gift for my wife while coming back home. Just incase it really is a holiday.

New guilt
An old best friend
Constant cold




Zane Parks

My wife's best friend is having trouble with her marriage. She's coming to stay with us a bit. Our student apartment has a single bed in the living room. That serves as a couch. She can sleep there.

Her nickname is "Pugi," pronounced "Puggy." She's not at all what that suggests. Petit, pretty, engaging. My wife goes to bed early. Pugi and I stay up talking, drinking beer.

undone buttons
(from Modern Haiku)

We play a board game. Sitting on the floor. Seeing a hint of her breasts I am drawn closer. We kiss.

scrabble tiles
sticking to her
bare skin
(from Cicada)




Robin M Buehler

metronome keeps time
each pass slower
than the first

haunting refrains rise
from ebony hands plucking
away sun-kissed cords

faceless divas caw
like vultures, they circle,
waiting, perched

limbs bow
gently swaying
in the wind

features hid
behind ivory
feathered boas

like cheerleaders
before the big game:
"Hum Pooh Bah!"
'til one last breath is drawn. . .


Rod Burns

Mood, fluctuations.
Sometimes the stack of mailbags
by the post room door
seems like boiled sweets - other times
dogs in a Chinese market.

On a scratched zinc shelf
in the theater toilets
a red-eyed waiter
contemplates lines, finally
get the manequé off his back.

By the yellowed park
an idling dairy truck
defies convention -
proud line of creamery lorries
pouring across the road bridge.

Mild December wind
through an ornamental fence
stirs up sediment,
settles a scrap of paper -
etching of a beaver's dam



Gerard J. Conforti

Today, the sunlight is cold
blowing through the rays of sunlight
this winter day
How you suffer nothing
many people don’t understand

This dream tonight
has a full moon
and glittering stars
show you the way
through the winter sky

The tree boughs
are beginning to sprout red buds
for the coming spring
and warm summer days
before the autumn puts us to rest

I wish
I could hold you in my arms
heart to heart
in the warmth of love
This winter night

If I could
show you the path
you will stroll
with peace among us
this coming spring


John Daleiden

January wind –
roses, iris, and carnations
at the florist

holiday garden
dried stalks of red sedum

eating alone –
seed catalogues
show new varieties

lily of the valley
scents the air –
memories of spring

melting snow
a few green shoots

winter bouquet
in a crystal vase –
the brisk wind howls



YOGA 101
Janet Lynn Davis

traffic thick
two minutes late to class
the yogis
in their cross-legged worlds
my own breaths rapid

our teacher
asks if we enjoy
the sun salute. . .
rebellious today
in my mind, I say "no"

wishful yearning
to be a graceful tree. . .
we are told
all trees shake and sway
(some are even uprooted?)

fallen leaf
resting on the ground
~ breathe in, breathe out ~
for thirty seconds
I am a child again

I own no pets
yet a whole menagerie
here today:
happy bear, sailing swan
and briefly, a butterfly

ah, arching cat
and stretching its hind legs
the downward dog
my muscles challenged
as my identity wanes

peace found within
at the mountain lookout. . .
steady arms
outstretched against the wind,
I am a proud warrior

and now a corpse
with visions of light, until
the bell's cold peal –
signaling end of class
shocking me back to life!

Author’s Note: Words in italic indicate specific yoga poses. Fallen Leaf is another name for the child pose.



Melissa Dixon

can I find it again
that small swamp in the forest
my childhood haven –
is it even wise to search?
old paths are thick with brambles

I step from dark woods
into a clearing, sunlight
in my eyes – there!
bleached-white trees clasped in ivy
still circle the pond

near water's edge
an old log long awaits me
cushions of moss
more lush than ever
lure me to sit in comfort

stones at ageless rest
their brows worn smooth as silver...
slow spring water
rises fresh from the depths...
my hand scoops enough to drink

haunting the treetops
a hermit thrush – his sweet notes
pierce my solitude –
friend, how clearly I recall
hearing your ancestor sing!

phosphorescent bubbles
pop to the pond's surface
a tiny green frog
pulses in my palm – does he
feel my heartbeat too?

late-afternoon sun
dropping gold in algae pools
odors old as earth
merge with gathering dusk
mist creeps toward my feet

thin whine
of a lone mosquito
entering my ear
...a hum of distant traffic
edges into my dream...



Gene Doty

to relinquish what
I never had
yet still cherish
an echo a flicker
a fading shadow

desire contracts –
does not expand –
tightens the heart
with steel screws

no achievement remains
rain & wind grind
the letters out of stone
leaving granite

fire consumes

ashes remain until
the wind gathers
them into itself

until entropy unwinds
the bowels of the last
until the atoms
of ambition have all
run down

tombo (Lorraine Ellis Harr)

mother rabbit had a bad hair day

rain robin calling the clouds   by name

girl with green eyes orders pistachio

triple-dipper goes to the double chin

sparks from the chimney's fireflies

after the cricket's call   pregnant silence

museum piece    key to a chastity belt

hedge hog all prickly    about something

honey bee gathering    the flower's heart

bird twit alerting the pine forest

face of the moon  face up in the pond

deaf mute fingers shouting with love

tearless at a 4 kleenex movie

the mute speechless before the Sphinx

her eardrops jiggling the street lights


This set of haiku was sent in by Martha Haldeman, the daughter-in-law of Lorraine Ellis Harr. The sheet of paper had a note at the top: "May use any - all - or none. . . LEH"



Elizabeth Howard

across azure seas
and snow-covered mountains,
conversing in
sign language and babel,
I come to this strange city

arriving at night I see
pink lights climbing the mountains
like Christmas trees –
yet daylight reveals
squashed stacks of board houses

country tour, city tour –
cowboys rounding up herds,
volcanoes wearing haloes,
homeless children
asleep in flower beds

home across azure seas
smug in our opulence
I see in the lovely park
a haunted violinist
with a dented cup



Mrinalini Gadkari

i looked in her eyes
i saw love, yes it was there
she looked back at me
i know she did, but she said
she looked over my shoulder.

one day, in bed I
opened my heart, I love you,
she just threw a smile.
i looked deeper in her eyes
i saw cruel darkness.

no its not hatred
its not indifference either
it is more hurtful
that look just pierced my heart
no blood, only pain.

we still talk a lot,
words sound like musical notes
in air, no echo,
no composition, no song
only empty words.

my heart strums the strings
even now, hoping, wishing,
that a chord will strike
one day, and reverberate
love in paradise.




Denis M. Garrison

in the city sky
riding the thermals—
vultures rise

a still body
on the shattered highway
shadows of crows

startled doves
filling the air above his grave
21 gun salute

blue spruce forest
the mountain’s still scarred
where wildfire raged—
a man should not
outlive his son

in the emptiness
you faded away, pale moon—
merciless white sky

attending at deathbeds,
watching their dimming,
dying eyes—
you can see it when they leave:
we are light

wind rising—
kite on a string
longs to fly

comforting the kids,
keeping a stiff upper lip
and a gentle eye,
letting those, who want to, weep;
holding my tears for later

above the dam
cracked dry mud for miles—
dust brown willows

old stand
of paper birch
shading the south side
of a paint-peeling barn
fluttering in the wind

brushing snow from her headstone—
a bitter wind rattles
in the trees

knees dusted with snow
the mangroves are still
waiting for you
house in the clearing. . .
the bed we once shared

these long nights—
mute swan in winter

another new year
and I'm still here waiting
aching for your voice
tattered curtains writhe
as the wind claims this ruin

great oaks creak
in the wind
no birdsong

a chill wind passes
through windows, doors and halls
the taint of our pain
echoes of old sorrows
the fireplace moans in the cold

last year’s
new rail fence—
grey in a still dawn

her grave all grassed over—
missing the touch of her hand,
the brush of her lips;
this phantom pain. . .
it is killing me

silent bird
flies south in summer—
shadow of one swan

on my reed-thatched roof,
the weight of noon sunlight
presses out the nightmares—
mouse bones whiten
on the whispering roof

space for a boulder
just filled by this boulder—
trailing orchids


Ruth Holzer

two young plants
you left me last winter
identical –
one bore white flowers
the other withered away

the letter carrier
passes empty-handed
day after day –
you must have been right
you said it meant nothing

now I know
what the bluesman felt
when he sang his song –
woke up this morning
and all I had was gone

twenty times
have I lit
this beeswax candle
to celebrate the arrival
of your vanishing body

signing the wills
we're sealed and delivered
to our span –
the calliope hummingbird
lives three years



H. Gene Murtha

between two top biologists;
shouting: stop!
the farmer pries from hardpan
a pristine archaic spearhead

disappointed that
arrowheads weren't invented
this early –
I pull up my hip boots
and venture into the pond

crouched on
the edge of a vernal pond
I lift my optics;
murmur: an Ivory-billed!
only one person pauses

walking the grade
one biologist asks me:
who are you?
the steady drum
of a woodpecker



Ashley Rodman

red roses
twine a cross of sticks
spring sermon

grape vines
edge the window light
hushed pilgrims

green smoke
the scent of licorice
fresh fennel

yellow caterpillars
dangle among new leaves
willow catkins




Anna Rugis

pine currents
float my linen robe

mahogany flanks
spread the breath
from hair to hair

two hours to the pass
we are prepared
for all questions


John W. Sexton

blood hymnody seven women with pearls sewn into their skin 

reeds whisper ashkelon owls exchange their eyes for stars 

old woman behind the counter darkness for sale in packets of ten 

releasing smoke beings couple fog with a cigar 

a suicide descends layers of blue cloth think of the ocean 

a piece of string joining two hemispheres of ice 

eternal energies behind a bronze door narrow as a pin 

the queen drapes her hair over the city 

silence the dandelion clock strikes a different hour 

jackdaws gather black text in the sky


pope chaos the sixth a wasp’s nest for a hat




Christopher Barnes

I'll act the chatterbasket, improvise
your rapport on foot,
to hitch your 'so long'. . . to my eyes.

Hang upon my lips. . .
the gambit of a fairy story.



on the rock wall
moss and lichen

Gerd Börner
Kilmeny Niland


her eyes
the color of Hokkaido
before daylight

Gerd Börner
Kilmeny Niland


winter morning
her blown kiss freezes
in mid-air

Gerd Börner
Kilmeny Niland


a sudden stop
on the forest path
the rustling of ants

Gerd Börner
Kilmeny Niland


on the long carpet
to the altar
pale cleaning marks

Gerd Börner
Kilmeny Niland



Encapsulate me
in the hairbrush, pen, and page.
Stroke after stroke, watch
wispy strands swirl straight and then
images in ink abound.

Melanie Faith


Dust on the chalkboard
wispy white and rainbow, real.
Watch wet sponge ruin
curlicues of the mind’s smoke,
vanishing as unwritten.

Melanie Faith


Blanket, so warm, soft,
pale pink and knit by Auntie
many moons ago.
When in pajamas, still calms
a tiny cry in the night.

Melanie Faith

on TV
murder and mayhem
I watch
Christmas movies
with a happy ending

Melanie Faith




a snoopy crow
shooed from the window
alights nearby on a wire
confirmed in its suspicion
we're up to something

William Hart



the feint with pawns
a knight's ambush
a rook's quick havoc
move by counter move
the dinner date is set

William Hart



standing there dressed
in varying shades of dark green
I wonder
is the world for her
just shades of dark green

CW Hawes



words! words! words!
they mesmerize my mind
and in their grasp
the kingdom grows quite faint
that little children know

Kirsty Karkow


a strange faltering

...then silence...

your mind went on
leaving words behind

Kirsty Karkow


you spit out f- words...
you would have hated
before dementia

Kirsty Karkow


your last words
ringing in my ears
I was away
when you decided
not to live your life

Kirsty Karkow



I vote for the red apple
with the winter sun
shining on it
for it has the taste
of a spring morning

June Moreau


the autumn wind
conspires to bring
them to me –
The sound of leaves rustling
and the scent of rain

June Moreau


all day no trace
of the mountain lion
but at night
the wind snarls
around my tent

June Moreau


clouds moving
across the sky
as though someone
were singing
them along . . .

June Moreau



just what I want to hear
more and more people
choose cremation
the word should be creation
"Come on baby light my fire."

Francine Porad




Awaiting the wave
that'll wash away empty hours
and endless longing
in this dead silence at sea
I pull down chunks of sky


  Submission Procedures 

Who We Are


Deadline for next issue is 
September 1, 2006.

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

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

Check out the previous issues of:
LYNX XXI:1 February, 2006

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