XXI:3 October, 2006

A Journal for Linking Poets 




by CW Hawes


GIFT by CW Hawes

LAST NIGHT by Michael Helsem

PASSING by Dustin Neal

GHAZAL FOR A DULL DAY by Laurence W. Thomas




ORIGAMI by Elizabeth Howard

SCHOOL'S OUT by Roger Jones

TRAVEL HAIBUN by Larry Kimmel

Sheila E. Murphy


DOVE LIGHT by Sheila E. Murphy

Zane Parks

I SWEAR by Zane Parks



FOR REV. BEN BORTEN by Gerard John Conforti

A WHITE HORSEMAN by John Daleiden

SUMI-E by Margarita Engle


CW Hawes

WHAT CAN BE   TAUGHT by Michael Helsem


IN ASSISTED LIVING by Elizabeth Howard


AMONG TAPERS by karina klesko

THE TENDER SPOTS by Richard Magahiz

YARD SALE – by Francis Masat

WILDLIFE CENTER – by Francis Masat


THE WIND by June Moreau

A THIN WASH by Jane Reichhold

LARVAL IN WAITING by Werner Reichhold

SILENCE by R.K.Singh

SUN by R.K.Singh

AMONG FLOWERS by Sue Stanford

SPRING 2006 by Ella Wagemakers


Gerd Boerner

Karen J. Briggs

Sonia Cristina Coman

Sanford Goldstein

Barry Goodmann

Ruth Holzer

Jeanne Lesinski

Sheila E. Murphy







CW Hawes

The December snow melts fast away while I hold your hand;
I'd rather be on a tropical isle holding your hand.

Here we sit: it is late at night, the movie has ended,
You are drinking a cup of chamomile; I hold your hand.

In the grocery store, studying labels on jars of pickles,
I don't mind being a bit juvenile: I hold your hand.

We go for a walk on the trails through the nature center
Spying birds, bugs; you give me a sweet smile, I hold your hand.

Whispering sweet nothings with a nibble of your ear;
By now you know what I want, you know my style: I hold your hand.

Now old and grey, Akikaze, sits by the warming fire
And fingers her hair, without any guile, and holds her hand.



CW Hawes

We are all returning – from what and to what are the questions.
Perhaps we are geese returning north on an early spring morning.

For seven years I gazed out of my window at the meadow before the wood
and saw there the turning and the returning of the seasons.

Everyday the rotten apples and spent tea leaves are tossed upon the
compost pile and in the blackness I see their returning.

Thousands of babies coming into this world each day and each day,
in every death, I see them all returning.

With my brother at Great Sand Dunes National Park climbing sand
mountains; because of our parents' fear, we are forced into returning.

A winner and a loser and the end of the chess game;
in a minute, the pieces are returning to the beginning.

This man of the study, this seeker of knowledge,
is returning to the woods of his youth to gather wisdom.


CW Hawes

This morning I feel the warm breeze, a gift upon my face;
as the sun lifts itself in the east, I know a gift in its brightness.

My child bursting with joy ecstatic on Christmas morning;
I see disappointment on her face after the last gift is opened.

Sorting through the odds and ends in the drawer accumulated over years;
I find her gift to me, a ring, and wonder where she is today.

Is there a pain equal to the pain of the precious one's goodbye?
The two seashells, her gift, still remain on a corner of my desk.

Barn swallows swooping through the air eating bugs by the ton;
A gift from the Unseen Hand which directs the spheres.

Walking down the street after the thunderstorm has passed;
Peony petals scattered on the ground – is there a gift in the falling?

The seeker sits on the park bench and watches the children play;
Hearing the laughter, he hears the past's gift to the future.



Last night I wandered the place, dousing the bulbs
imbued with space-filling fire that promised but weak insurance.

When I stopped at the single remaining, what it made of the
rough-plastered wall behind, for the first time fused

feeling and context, where I'd been and all the specters
I ever desired or fled as possible futures.

I thought: now I'm really here. (Whatever that implies.)
And this morning tying tie, I felt the peculiar

snag of serrated dead fingertip-skin against silk.
And I knew then mine was a madness that would be cured.

Michael Helsem




Dustin Neal

Hidden below two heavy feet in the midst of summer,
Spring thoughts crushed along with the cankerworm.

The breeze shaking the pine trees in the front yard
Right above the bird nest— mother calling out softly.

Dinner later than usual— the same meal again,
Tasting the bitterness passed with the sudden glances.

Sneaking into the window at midnight without a mask,
The thief notices the old woman's portrait in candlelight.

At dawn the ambulance spins its tires in red mud,
Dew slowly fading with each breath taken in.

The mailman delivers the note to the wrong address,
Father and mother turn the news off to watch dusk.

The gun sets in the cabinet with hints of rust,
The cocoon still closed off to the world.

Her dress colorful with each twist and turn,
Confetti drifts into the ditch unnoticed, forgotten.



Laurence W. Thomas

I fill my coffee cup, butter a muffin, turn on the news
and watch as the sun readies my garden for another day.

After morning news and commercials seen ad nauseam,
television wafts me off to places I’d rather not go.

Wandering through pages of the nearest book,
I find escape to anonymity from the world I know.

The hush of pages veils the noises from outdoors,
a distant plane, the thrum of traffic miles away.

I check the Internet to see what messages have been sent.
My friends, at occupations elsewhere, have better things to do.

My indefatigable cat nuzzles my hand, his hours as long as mine:
a tummy rub to vary the regimen of his day, at odds with ennui.

Scanning the channels for something to while away the time,
all I find are judges, preachers, Martha Stewart, Oprah.

I wait, but the telephone remains as mute to my need
as any walk around the block on a rainy day.

My neighbors are walking their dogs or off at work.
Even the crows have removed themselves to the tallest tree.

After lunch, a sandwich and a bowl of chicken noodle soup,
A time to catch up on reading and a short siesta.

As usual, the mail is late and when it finally arrives,
it’s demands for what I owe, what I should buy.

Supper quickly fixed, leftovers, some second-hand dessert
accompanied by the same old evening news events on TV.

I scroll through reruns and repeats of ads till time to go
to bed, anticipating the excitement of tomorrow.





Gillena Cox

Ascension Sunday; I’m wearing white, down to my undies. Walking home from church, there is a man a few paces in from of me looking up skywards.

a jetplane
now hidden in a mass
of white cumulus



CW Hawes

The instilling and distilling of the mind; the past thirteen years, an inward journey in which the flower returns to the seed and only then is once more a bud.

high school
graduation ceremony
rose blossom opens

All along the horizon the hills are calling out to the fledgling spirits. Green hills promising a place on which to stand and touch the clouds.

one foot placed
on this road which leads
far from home
dandelion seeds
once more the look back

"All roads lead to Rome", but some are more scenic than others. Each of us the sum total of all those who traveled before us and the path-makers for those who will follow. On the mountains, it is said, dwell the gods.

The sound
of summer's wind:
Nature's Adhan calling
us all to the celebration
of life.




Elizabeth Howard

He dreams of being an artist, tours arts and crafts shows, admires the skill of others. When he is 70, origami figures catch his eye. He buys a stack of books and paper of every color, practices hours on end, crumpled butterflies, and crippled cranes wadded in the trash. At last, a redbird with a warped wing flies from the chandelier.

evening sun
flocks of white doves
stream across the sky




Roger Jones

Fifth grade, class just dismissed. On the asphalt edge of the school ground, I am looking beyond the baseball fields, past the fence, the busy street – three months of freedom.

flick flick flick
the sprinkler jet arcs



Larry Kimmel

7:00 am. i see kate off and go back to bed. a short doze later the phone rings. it's kate calling from pittsburg, 500 miles away. she's calling to say she left her car in a tow-away zone at the airport. had to, to catch her plane. it's going to get towed by the time i can drive the 80 miles to bradley anyway, so i don't hurry. work the stiffness out of my back. do chores. answer e-mail.

blizzard warning
and a two hour drive
ahead of me -
old age
uncertain as a winter road

by early evening i get there. ask around. look around. and find it parked in a tow-away zone, all by its lonely and unmolested! get in. drive it off. park it in a lot against kate's return. go back to my own car and set off for home, here in colrain.

the promised snowstorm
80 miles of stardrive
at my windshield

think of it! this morning, i'd moved from bed to bathroom to bed, a round trip of, say, 15 feet, while kate, in that same time, traveled 500 miles from home.

just me and a fly
at black windows
the tick of snow



Sheila E. Murphy

Nomadic pesticides equate to boundaries unless a fickle avenue tenses half to blue. The several overt migration theories tend to wax. Why am I telling you? Eternity costs the same as fiberglass if you purchase sweeping canopies. Cacophony de-veins the silk rubbed to osmosis. I half conceive dormant vicissitudes. Are you among my briars thatched? I guess it is worm worn to be holding tanks. Eventually stars will splinter into crispy light. At which point homogeneous throwbacks may take flight.

Coffers filled, exhilarating premises, once your home


Sheila E. Murphy

When able wheels are not (mis)placed beneath me I distinguish surface from the resonance of stones. No room for pebbles on the page. I think to you, with certainty of prayer. Pressed duck, rucksack, beyond-the-limit-searing scratch. The lack of flurry draws forth synonyms or homophones or objects that occur on either side of equal sign. This painting will amount to broth unless you frame it. And walls that once seemed gray recall that time occurs at once. 

Shoulder to should, anachronism if mismatch there be


Sheila E. Murphy

You have not been my child until this day when recitation channels sense of slight. My skin has not been thick enough to bear you. In an instant everything I learn is true to taste still holding you alive.

A wilderness remains left center of shared pulse. This momentary lapse into fulfillment tenses blossoms that appear relaxed. Listen for tone preferred but learned. The glyph absorbing speech removes doubt shaped to glean capacity.

Granularity a form of clear good feeling, daylight confused with sliver of a moon



Zane Parks

Friday night. My wife and I are having drinks. We talk about our younger days. Before we knew each other. She takes me back . . .

Detroit. Mid-sixties. LaSalle and Lafayette, two fine-looking young men. Twins. Black Panthers. A young woman. Radical, white. They share a pitcher of beer.

"Come the revolution, we have to kill you."

Nods all around.

glass crunches
under rioters' feet . . .
motown smokin'




Zane Parks

I'm in the 3rd grade, Jimmy's in the 4th. We fight coming home from school. I swear. I just start cussing and say things I don't mean. Why did I call his mother a bitch? I like her. Jeez, she's one of the sweetest moms on the block. I tell my own mom, "The fight wasn't about anything. It was just a fight." I hope Jimmy keeps his mouth shut. Maybe he doesn't even look like he was in a fight.

the new clock's charm
fades around midnight –





Ed Baker








Gerard John Conforti

Life is long each passing day
we live it to the end
in the setting of the sun
when autumn leaves fall
upon the river of life

I have lived my life
with joy and pain
which is part of life
and we must go forward
down the roads toward the stars

I wish I could make things better
for all of us
who dwell somewhere in rooms
and find confining walls
and complete silence




John Daleiden

Will it end, this summer heat,
oppressive siege like your absence?
No letter from you today—
nor did it rain—unbearable.
Earth and I thirst for your presence,
fill my garden with new blooms.

Twenty-three days with no word;
the earth cracks, the grass turns brown.
Last night thunder in the skies
returned with clouds, but no rain.
In my dreams you ride a white horse;
you wear black and do not speak.

Autumn winds relieve the draught;
a letter commends your acts.
Your bravery saved many lives;
your funeral complete with taps.
Quiet tears fill each of my nights
grieving victims of all wars.




Margarita Engle

of the artist
perched in air
the upright brush
a heron's beak

wide brush
for sea and sky
a fine point
of horsehair
becomes feathers

drawn upward
from roots
the earth
a single stroke

brushed from the top
of a cliff
following rocks

of lamp-soot
warm black
ink of pine-soot
cool blue

slanted brush
to create mountains
or upright
for the man
on a bridge, alone...

old tree
the nearly dry brush
then a few swift
motions of the hand –
fresh blossoms



Laryalee Fraser

mercury rising...
an emu swallows
the carrot whole

the gate
slightly tilted –
a sheep ruminates

corn maze
the children brush aside
grandma's fears

the blue
of her wide eyes –
strutting peacock

tourist's camera
a donkey ambles
toward the barn


CW Hawes

sinuous she
slithered into my life
and wound herself
about me a fleshly coat
squeezing ever so tightly

this hand
that is so accustomed
to killing
gently strokes her hair
and tenderly caresses

in a dream
the dark shape takes away
my soul
when I wake and see you
why do I shiver

in the middle
of the falling rain
a slow burn
these pines turn yellow
my skin melts away

from the dream
I awake with a start
heart pounding
in the distance the sound
of the siren again



Michael Helsem

a glacier passes
someone else collects pebbles

i wear my solitude
like a crown of aphids

the ambition
to have rotting teeth


Michael Helsem

Winter rose, of the two alike keys
i always choose the wrong one first

pain of waiting, rose
i walked past without a glance

i belong in this winter


Elizabeth Howard

it scuttles in the dark barn
follows her to the house
scrabbles through the door
gallops up the stairs
hot breath on her neck

in assisted living
she frets bitterly
churched at 16
yet it's the fatherless child
who cares for her now

through lace curtains
and wind-blown birches
a kaleidoscope of light
the old man's glasses
whirling smoke and fire

she can't find her face
in the mirror
her food on the plate
she cries out at midnight
what time is it

lady in a baby bonnet
and ruby rouge
humps over the CD
singing the old hymn
a glow on her face

she takes the dreaded road
hours in a cloud tunnel
just ahead in the evening
a golden corona
and bells pealing



M. Kei

at the water's edge
trees rustle in a cool breeze
not yet felt in town
sloops at anchor turns their heads
to face the gathering storm

needles of rain
stitch across the bay
overtake us
hem us in
and knot the wind

three hours on deck
face scoured
by the north wind
will be worse

the wind stalks
in agitated endless sighs
of rage
blow, winds, blow,
blow the world's color away

finally sighting
Concord Point Lighthouse
on a moonless night;
the sailboat slips at last
into her home harbor.

*skipjack: traditional wooden sailboat used to fish for oysters on the Chesapeake Bay. M. Kei is a crewman aboard the skipjack Martha Lewis,one of the last skipjacks still dredging.



karina klesko

winds rush past us –
a golding oak leaf clings
to my old sweater as we kiss

razed fields
bloom with fireweed,
pods let go of seedlings –
the first day of school, kids line up
in rows

dragons aglow
in neon finger paint;
winged flames flutter into the sky –

fireflies –
among tapers
of swamp weeds and algae;
the college on the hill, a light
here, there

my knowledge too, grounded,
absorbed from sullied surroundings,

barbed wire
church revival;
skimming through the scriptures,
a beginning, a middle &
an end

divisions of soul mates
Sixty-Six books for the Judges
to bind


Richard Magahiz

Moon in eclipse     Thule station swims

the rock face takes breath    an acid stain

choked in paper    no scissors to slice

storms confer    judging the tender spots

wireframe geoid    a purple bloom's spread

undersea the ink rises    clots mass

a Sun unrecognized    face so dull


(Hint: These next two poems use the title as the first line of a three-line haiku)

Francis Masat

placing things in front
of those I'd rather keep

just two feet high
she wants the basketball

haggling on the price
we settle on a dime

all the Barbies gone
except for Ken

dragonflies swirl in
mating overhead



Francis Masat

a broken wing
in a tray

flapping in circles
a one-winged bird

an injured pelican
lays her egg

my reflexives too slow
for a scorpion

I share my chair
with an iguana



In memoriam May her soul rest in peace!

Vasile Moldovan

"A Flight of Herons":
she and her twin soul,
the haiku poem

"Snowflakes in the wind"-
an old woman still hesitates
between earth and heaven

"Pathways of the Dragonfly":
here, there and everywhere
the autumn dust

On the writing table
some white sheets of paper...
"Walls of Silence"

The last "dragonfly"
passing away to depart too...
such is life



June Moreau

keeping the tent flap
open wide to the wind
the mountain may not
keep to itself
all its dreams

come and see
where the wind sleeps
its house
is made of sheer glass
the glass is made of air

one can't help
but feel it
the way the wind
moves the branches of pine –
so seductively

I breathe in
and I breathe out
in doing so
I have harnessed the wind
in a certain way

the wind is singing
it is singing
in the fir trees
the azure words
from a lullaby

without having read
a single word
the wind has turned
every page
in the book of time

by the strong winds
the moon strolls
along its path
in the sky

I want to
take it with me
everywhere I go
but who has arms enough
to hold the wind!



Jane Reichhold

black ink

surrounds the white

flowing from the wet point

held up by thick jointed fingers

the brush

moving in a march of heartbeats

skitters and skips into

a rock solid



wind blows

a line of sheets

across the living room

attempts and failures together


idea against reality’s mask

curtains to hide behind

pictures to draw




visitors or

friends stopping by for tea

the kettle brings the water for

a brush

to touch the solitude of soot

ground against a dark stone

day upon day




Werner Reichhold
Larval in waiting

arcs of palms donate
imperceptible asseverations
                      desert nightfall
                     are we destined
                                  to resort
with the habitual cool down of a snake's tongue 
that brings to attendance an enigmatic path 
like nakedness caught by the call of insects

silently turning       on a door's eye     opposite walls
in absence of a friend's brown skin      lighting a candle
printing on sand     she walks the way     sandpipers curve the beach
clam colony      the silence of prisoners      at low tide
owl-eyed oak      in a mouth-round hole      the moon
barefoot      sleeping under a tree      bare roots

the size of this morning      the warmth of this hair
noon      circling on the face of its dreamer
two wishes      not yet permanently       meeting

luck of a flatter-kick     the breath bereft of its length
released from talking     a liquid consonant     adjustable
weeping      marble-framed assemblages      barely lit
charmers      with no attitude      coming alongside
the youngest pair of scissors      her quibbler      lost
a neck-exposing talisman makes the street shadow ring
stone and ointment      the call at the present

spare bedroom guest      the one jogging      depending on headphones


beside his letter
an astrological chart
she meets herself
carrying adamantine bits
          inside a dark voice
reading in reverse
up the spine my mother's
frail connections
white appears

some sound sent
         as we speak
does not arrive
over a migrating whisper
scrupulous      inflamed
              at which speed
 she circumnavigates it
              not unwillingly
a black cat's tail
the air around attentive
forward              backward
                                   a flag


response on curtains when they open
one side to the dark   their woven ears

tight touch along a collapsed bath rope
the weaver left     her accusations

elastic beyond sleep      a swan of this
wind's white tracks changes

the creek      as we go by so tender
trout-lovers      aware of joining

spangled spawn     light embodies
suspended bubbles on side-streams

children squeeze the juice of black berries
sudden entry      sliding finger tips

checking     into a slow motion's affection
when the gate leans undecided on its bell




the inexpressible
her lines and curves:
she acts in plots of pain
the dumb sense of silence

Brooding condemning
things not done and unable
to undo she prays
ceaselessly fails to stop
now compelled to make a choice

the soul's pursuit hidden
by its own works:
the spirit's thirst, the strife
the restless silence, too much

A moment of love
and long silence for years:
from dream to nightmare
again fear grips my soul
I sense her presence around

Twisting tassels
round her finger fears coming
of night in bed
octopus grips the body
and buckles into silence



R K Singh

A sweating sun
after the midnight chill—
changing hues of spring

The sun conceals
aeons of darkness planets
mirror in the sky

The sun not yet set
but the full moon rises
as if in a hurry

Two dreamy eyes
await the rising sun
through the fogged window

With sunrise
gone to sleep
the morning moon

Setting sun
leaves behind sparkles
on the waves

A dot
on the sun’s head:

The sun rolls
on the waving Ganges
whitens love-hope

Awaits the sunrise
in the chilly Ganges
a nude worshipper

Closing its eyes
in the setting sun—
the Ganges in autumn

Safe from sun
under nascent leaf
a small fish

In the changing hues
of rainbow in the east:
sun and lightning

Puppies groping
for the tits of our doggy
relaxing in sun

Basking in the sun
files nails in garden chair
my wife’s friend



Sue Stanford

asleep among flowers
without a morbid thought

no past tense
every word's a promise
the old dog

her lead
we ride to the vet's

with small teeth
balls of mince
from my fingers

flies come
the smell of blood

Easter Sunday
my dog's dead eye
stays open

I stand up
from kneeling position

good dog
her corpse will
burst with life

the small spot
she had on her nose

the way bones
hang around



Ella Wagemakers

as the tulips arrive
the homeland further away
than it ever was

as usual
after seventeen springs
of my new life
no letters from the land
that was my mother

rice and fish ...
and beneath my feet
rough stones
leading to the beach
of my memories

but the sounds
of a tongue
as painfully familiar
as it is unspoken

thunder from
a distant monsoon ...
I am deaf
to the dying sounds
of an old lost dream

my hair grows
gray as the waning moon. . .
who knows I am here?




on an open field
a cement bag in the rain
turned to stone

Gerd Boerner

the old clock tower
with the first sound
the second one wrings

Gerd Boerner

slowly I release
out of her hair
the burdock

Gerd Boerner


in the tuning fork
hums a bumblebee

Gerd Boerner

after that look
a half tone deeper
her blush

Gerd Boerner


a faint voice echoes
a distant star beckoning
love's sweet cadence tuned
to the beat of my broken heart
rain fall outside my window

Karen J. Briggs


summer heat raging
we dance in wildflower fields
passion gone crazy
love's reckless sweet illusions
drift away on autumn leaves

Karen J. Briggs

no breeze and yet
the sound of leaves
falling to the ground –
my silence fills
the space amid trees

Sonia Cristina Coman


same snow-drifts
same pungent smoke
same fir trees...
seeing you again
after ten years

Sonia Cristina Coman

Between two
endless fields
what do I head for?
The wind lingers
amid birch trees

Sonia Cristina Coman




when life narrows
to a bird's wing,
I think of Buddha
sitting on a dune

Sanford Goldstein


I hobble
behind –
at corridor's end
my intensive care sedated brother

Sanford Goldstein


she was and frail
and gone now,
he repeats the story
three times at Joe's diner

Sanford Goldstein


two guardians
again help me sleep
help me escape
I swallow hope
I sandpaper ruts

Sanford Goldstein



in the morning
I swam in your ocean
at noon I climbed your tree
where will I be
when your moon shines?

Barry Goodmann

like a snowman
in the making
a fat moon
on the horizon
sits on a cloud

Barry Goodmann


blitz –
rising from the underground
at dawn
they'd put the kettle on
for a nice cuppa tea

Ruth Holzer


while I was busy
correcting year-end reports
full of errors
the divers pulled their brother
from the Hackensack River

Ruth Holzer


Craigflower Bridge –
summer moon shimmering
over the Gorge
where a gang of girls
drowned the outsider

Ruth Holzer


From the lookout platform, I spy the eagle's white head, broad span.
Three-hundred boardwalk steps below, molting teal await fresh wings.
Today I dabble among the hens – someday to soar aloft.

Jeanne Lesinski


forty-five o'clock
still nada in the out box
what time's the late bus

Sheila E. Murphy


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  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:2, June, 2006
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