October, 2009

A Journal for Linking Poets 



Haiga by Alan Taylor


 Steffen Horstmann
Mihiragula's men in sixth century Kashmir
forced elephants off cliffs in the Pir Panjal Range.


 The Hun savored the cry of falling elephants.
 Did God devise the fate befalling elephants?
 Songs of nomads depict their slaughter.
 Peasants recite legends recalling elephants.
 "Their bones like a structure, majestic in collapse –
As if they perished in sandstorms stalling elephants."
 I recall again their story when I witness
A child, on paper, scrawling elephants.
 Was it Paradise (seen in a blur)
 God revealed to falling elephants?
 Into a mirage they now migrate –
 Winds crossing the distances, calling elephants.
 First published in Oyez Review (2006)

 Steffen Horstmann
 When the Magi's gaze fixed on a rose in Bengal,
Grief was transformed to immense repose, in Bengal.
 He saw a monsoon die in God's palm, its winds
Weighted with clusters of sorrows, in Bengal.
 & knew the promise of harvests fulfilled –
Seeds asleep in their dense furrows, in Bengal.
Immersed in silence, he saw God's face
In the sky's rich indigoes, in Bengal.
& summer's swelter cooled when children
Dreamt of Himalayan snows, in Bengal.
Before him a dervish dissolved in dust,
Its last whisper still echoes in Bengal.
His boat was destined for the shores of Eternity –
where the ferryman rows, in Bengal.
Departing, he deciphered in the grass
Brief notes written by willows, in Bengal.
 First published in Tiferet (2008)
 Steffen Horstmann
I wander streets we would walk at night,
Passing cafes where we'd talk at night.
 We window-shopped – all signs read CLOSED –
 Storefronts on avenues we’d walk at night.
 The park bench where we'd sit until daylight. . .
 Trees listened to the winds talk at night.
 Footsteps beckoned shadows to each streetlight.
 We ran past alleys a ghost would walk at night.
 The songs of swallows began at first light.
 A silence lived in our talk at night.
 The collapse of hours, the morning light.
 The sound of the sea, the boardwalk at night.
 I still see you in a faded light.
 You whisper in my ear, we talk at night.
 First published in Raintown Review (2005)


Ayat Ghanem

Underside and underneath, I shall discern, finally.
On my side, well underneath, I’ll say it all, fatally.

Soon I’ll come back to your ground to sleep once more in your womb,
next to our mountains of snow, my mother’s sand plays just beyond.

I shall see from down below the roots of old, and truly
know that this singing injury has been full filled, disappeared.





C W Hawes

She is only fifteen and already pregnant with her second child. Her mother, who is also unmarried, threw her out of the house this morning. Alone and with no where to go, she and her one-year old child had ended up at the county welfare office seeking assistance. I
look at her application and I look at her. A child having children with little clue as to what the responsibilities of adulthood are. I look at myself (almost four times her age) and wonder if I know what the responsibilities of adulthood are.

bright dandelions
and the lawn going to seed
tying the hammock


C W Hawes

A quiet afternoon at work. Merging procedures manuals. A mug of chunmee tea is on the cup warmer and “Five Variations on Dives and Lazarus”by Vaughan Williams on my iPod.  I pause for a moment to savor the tea and music. The thought occurs to me will anyone care about this new Info Management System in five years when I retire? 
The project manager is young enough to be my daughter. Full of enthusiasm, she was nonplussed recently when a retiring supervisor gave her a twenty-two year old memo outlining the “new”Info Management System.  It must be disheartening to realize the path you thought you were blazing is a well-worn rut.

shooing flies
away from the pie
hole in the screen


C W Hawes

Mist hovers over the field. I dive in, wading across. My feet are wet from the grass, laden with dew. My jeans and shirt, damp from the mist itself. The sun is not even a half-hour old. The air is cool upon my skin. In the air sounds of robin and mourning dove, a crow, my feet swishing the grass, the distant traffic. There are no human voices.
Rumi advised us to stop talking. He scolded us for not being familiar with inner silence.  His recommendation? Polish our hearts for a day or two and make our mirrors our book of contemplation.

no thoughts on my mind
scent of crab apple blossoms
the taste of oatmeal


VIOLA TRICOLOR                       
translated from the German by Celia Brown
Ruth Franke

At the garden center I am spoilt for choice. For Father’s grave I need pansies but it still takes ages to make up my mind. Such a variety of colours! Each of them has a different
expressive quality, some rather melancholy. Is that why Jacques Prévert described them as “the most sad and gloomy of all flowers”? Perhaps he knew that they are a symbol of Christ’s Passion?

Viola tricolor
a puff of wind
from northwest

While making my selection, I wonder how the flowers got their various names. Why are they called “Stiefmütterchen” in German? The ‘bad’stepmother? Hardly! According to a quaint folk tradition, the lowest, largest petal represents the stepmother, the intermediate petals of similar colour are her daughters. The uppermost petals – often of a different colour – are the stepdaughters.

A light shower at the hillside cemetery. With a small trowel I dig some holes for the plants and put them into the moist earth. The pansies gaze at me pensively. Perhaps they have their own thoughts about the new site: after all, they are also known as “Pensées.”

How appropriate for the grave of my father, who had pondered as much on Heaven and Earth as – centuries earlier – Blaise Pascal whose work he held in great esteem.

r a i n d r o p s
from clouds into blue sky
first swallows


translated from the German by Celia Brown
Ruth Franke

Never would I have suspected to find him here, the bronze lion. He gazes northwards from the Blankenburg Palace, the summer residence of the Welf dynasty, towards his counterpart, the original in Brunswick. For many decades the pair was divided by the Iron Curtain.
Grandmother often talked about Blankenburg, the setting of her youth, of her first love. Summer festivals, balls in the Palace gardens, the young Princess Friederike at the center of attention. They must have been about the same age.
I sit down on a bench in the deserted pleasure garden. Geometrically arranged flowerbeds, a fountain, just a few sculptures. There are no more pyramids of myrtle: the grottos, greenhouses, terraced gardens have all gone.

under the Linden tree
a young couple

What was life like for a young girl at the turn of the nineteenth century? A yellowing
photograph: a long, dark flouncing dress, the face under the veiled hat sincere and well-proportioned. No hint of the joie de vivre for which I loved her. How did she get to know Grandfather?
The path leads up the slope through the Palace gardens, now thoroughly overgrown, dominated by the gloomy Old Castle above. Dusk falls. A bench looking out over a small pond under mature trees. Long grass, rhododendron bushes already in bud. Was this where they met, my grandparents? It is very peaceful here.
In the darkness I follow the narrow footpath high up above the town to my hilltop hotel in the middle of the Upper Harz, a mountain region which I want to explore the following day.
a pale moon
glides through dark clouds
Walpurgis night



 Ruth  Holzer

You can drive all day and not see another person. Cold fog drifts in from Bras d'Or Lake, obscuring the path. A flash of black and white:  the three-toed woodpecker that lives only here, well hidden in these high forests.

on the road
an escaped


Ruth  Holzer

...from the cool morning through the sage-heavy afternoon and into violet twilight, when the lost palace rises to its full height.  Blue and red frescoes reappear on chipped gypsum walls.  The large earthenware jars fill with grain, oil and wine.  Minoan nobles are leaving their lustral chambers to gather in the central courtyard for the bull-jumping.

let me ascend
again the grand stairway—
remaining days


Larry Kimmel

Aged ninety, he said to Milly, his daughter, “Something goes out of life when a man can't plan his work at night and see it through the following day.”

     a childhood hero
     still strops his straight edge
     on a belt hooked to the wall
     still ties Christmas ribbons
     to Rusty's tail

And later that year, after the untimely passing of a son-in-law, he said, “Milly, now there'll be someone over there to meet me.”  And that night, the last of the strokes took him, taking a week to do so.

     a young man's hero
     still the sought after genius
     of Glenn Hollow
     still tells his tales
     shaded by wisteria

Believing life to be a continuum and having experience of others who have gone before me, why not him? Sometimes I think a stern grandfather (still the very image of a stoic) frowns down on once honed tools now left to rust.

     gone these twenty years,
     gone and yet . . .
               "old man, I tell you—
                 you still walk the woods
                 wise as an Indian"

Larry Kimmel

A kitchen fragrance brings back the log-house on the hillside; morning crows from hill to wooded hill; the weathered barn; Betsy the cow; black raspberries in the upper pasture; chicken pens by the creek, chickens that cackled and some that cooed like reeds; and Rookie, the khaki-colored dog; and dirt roads that passed through pastures of Queen Anne's lace and goldenrod;  Whip-poor-will Falls; the cider press, shadowed by a fiery oak; apple tree branches, pewter in winter, pink in spring; the party-line of twenty-five rings; the wood furnace of my first-grade classroom;  daffodil Easters; the returning crops; and Granma, who endured the seasons to the number of ninety-times-four.

    baking utensils
    the way she left them —
        and if I could see her again
        I’d not be impatient
        . . . if I could see her

Larry Kimmel

Because it was filled to the brim, the goldfish leapt the aquarium. "But Mommy, why did Sam kill himself?"  A short time later: "Yeah, an-an-and we can dig him up whenever we want to see him."

    in a cool air
    amid leaflets
    and the gurgle of freshets
    the upright stone
    and a kind of grave excitement


Patricia Prime

an old skeleton
in the gorge museum
of Cheddar Man
small hands map its history,
our mouths falter over words

I was eleven when the fated trip took place. My brother had climbed to the top of the bluff and was throwing stones. I can still see the rock hurtling towards me. It hit me on the corner of my eye, knocking me out. I must have fallen on to the rocks below and when I came round people were yelling. I felt the blood streaming down my face and realized I couldn’t see. It was a long drive to the doctor who cleaned and stitched my wound, administered a tetanus shot and gave me painkillers. A week later I had an interview for entrance to grammar school. I sat in a hall full of mothers and daughters, wearing two black eyes, a bandage round my head and cuts and bruises on arms and legs.


Patricia Prime

It looked like an English setting – rolling fields to the distant hills, a few trees in the foreground, a sheepdog lying in a patch of sunshine. The woods to the right.  I gazed into this for hours wondering where it was, dreaming I was there as my grandmother spread butter thinly on slices of bread with a scrape of jam on top. I could smell the hay, feel the breeze on my face, and walk through the grass towards the hidden sea. It must have been England, a frozen piece of the country where I was born, from which I feel severed. Certainly the one to show me cannot.

if there were someone
that could piece together
my broken fragments
imagine – I would be
a different person



shirley cahayom

when i was a child, there was a valentine card with a black painted heart on top of our coffee table. inside were the words of an old song entitled “No One Will Ever Know.”

                                                                  "no one will ever know
                                                                   my heart is breaking
                                                                   a million teardrops
                                                                   start to fall "

my mother said that the card was given to her brother by an ex- girlfriend before my uncle got married. i don't know where that valentine card is now, but the image of the black -painted heart and the pity and compassion i had for uncle's ex girlfriend was deeply etched on my mind:
                                                                      valentine boxes
                                                                      empty of its heart candies
                                                                      still red all these years
                                                                      they remind me of the love
                                                                      that was virginal and pure    

my cousin emma and i used to sit in our garden especially during moonlit nights.we whiled away the hours strumming the guitar and singing old love songs.we talked about everything and nothing. sometimes we cried our hearts out over some unrequited love but most of the time we just stayed there amidst my mother's orchids in full bloom while the scent of jasmine permeated in the midnight air. a lot of times we stayed
on till the wee hours of the morning waiting for the flowers to bloom.

                                                                        how can you totally
                                                                        bury the past in oblivion
                                                                        when there are memories
                                                                        that haunt you
                                                                        day and night ?

this summer, history repeated itself. my son and his friend spent some summer nights in the backyard enjoying their barbecue under the moon. just the two of them...talking probably about their girlfriends and the life as seen thru the eyes of 16 year old boys. it was almost 1:30 in the morning. i was so tempted to call them in. but in the end, i let them enjoy the warm summer evenings under the full moon. maybe someday they too would remember these happy moments in their lives.

                                                                      childhood happiness
                                                                      may last but for a moment
                                                                      but memories can preserve
                                                                      these moments
                                                                      for all eternity



Haiga by Ramona Linke




Don Ammons

bare hedge     the neighbor's
back yard     collapsed garden parasol
on a bare terrace
a discarded toy     cold wind
moving slightly a child's swing

on the autumn path
black rot leaves stick to my boots
no pause     moving
toward home and the brushing away
of autumn decay

early morning frost
hard underfoot     at the end
of the lane the morning
sun spreads orange     two pecking
birds follow its warm advance

water thin yellow light
my wife standing
beside a flower bed
shears in hand planning mayhem

last hot day
of the year     a young woman
lies nude on a blanket
on a dead leaf covered lawn
pretends summer – sudden sneeze

dark bedroom     the sound
of radiators protesting
hot steam     their sleep
disturbed     early autumn
many stuffy nights ahead



Michelle V. Alkerton

lingering in the light cast off wet stones

form the texture of clay sculpture

her ballet slipper arched upright in the corner

three trunked birch tree without leaves

bare bulb shadows sway across discarded treasures

facing the wind with closed eyes



Michelle V. Alkerton

coatless fireman raising the flag up the pole

squirrel tail twists around maple trunk

old woman braiding leather strips through her hair

walking stick bent at the hip

squatting to smell the flower slow to rise

sunless sky ten shades of gray



Michelle V. Alkerton

uneven puddles
on the pole's shadow

             the light flickers
             a brief staccato

                         tapping off ashes
                         wind through the open window
                         directs my smoke

                                     bent street sign
                                     a pedestrian walks on

                                                 holding his breath
                                                 red faced child
                                                 somersaults on the grass


                                                             the yellow pollen
                                                             stains of a dandelion

                                                 a crystal vase
                                                 full of browning flowers
                                                 left from Easter

                                     white haired women
                                     roam the seniors' complex

                         a solitary walk
                         through the forest
                         spotting a chipmunk

              scraping the mud
             from my brown shoes

on tip toes
small child barely reaches
the cookie jar

             dusted with flour
             the rolling pin

                         his gentle hands
                         slow pressure applied
                         to my lower back

                                     closing my eyes
                                     to the full moon

                                                 the howl of a dog
                                                 empties the night
                                                 of silence

                                                            relieving myself
                                                             by the glow of the night-light

                                                 splash of cool water
                                                 on white porcelain
                                                 my face in the mirror

                                     hiding dark circles
                                     with pale eye-shadow

                         nearing middle age
                         the Avon lady
                         keeps ringing the doorbell

             missing the wind chimes
             of my departed friend

the daffodils
she planted last year
vivid reminders

             traces of paint
             under my fingernails

                         glazed pottery
                         fired in the kiln
                         no chance for changes now

                                     I sit mesmerized
                                     by the bon-fire

                                                 burnt marshmallows
                                                 smoke remains in my clothing
                                                 until wash day

                                                             the  alarm clock buzz
                                                             shaving off a dream

                                                 his legs twitch
                                              to my side of the bed
                                                 running from sleep

                                     a stranded motorist
                                     squatting near the ditch

                         the baby bird
                         struggling in the water

             the small boy cries
             searching for his dog

a dozen white butterflies
float off with the wind
that grazes my cheek

             the electric fence
             shocking the dairy cows

                         in the mental ward
                         anguished scream
                         fills the corridor

                                     apples and cinnamon
                                     simmering on the stove

                                                 the bath water
                                                 cool by the time
                                                 I've finished my soaking

                                                             head swung back
                                                             I drink in raindrops



Nadia Ghanem

For want of an equilibrium
in search of vain sanity
I attempt to unbind trinity
and reach in body self and soul
a haven temporary.

My caprices opaque
burden my spirit blighted.
On marble my brow on edge,
my body curled prostrated
before the source of all constancy.



Ruth Holzer

cab ride –
familiar scenes
becoming foreign

the lucky stranger and me
an empty seat

skimming the bay –
will we  won't we
make the runway

evening fog
spills over the hills –
a glimpse of bridges

the white skyline
seems to float –
touching down

a big strong arm
grabs my suitcase –
little sister

Civic Center –
grass-filled fountains hold no trace
of our wedding                               



Ed Baranosky

Fingers pry May cells,
A thin crowbar leveraged
In the brood chambers;
Sweeping aside the young drones,
He turns toward his daughter.
Sheltering nearby,
A pink bassinet veils
An alien flower.
Scouting bees hover, laden
With curiosity.
Among the queen’s guard,
The beekeeper’s steady hand,
Endlessly patient.
He hums dated lullabies
To his slumbering child.
She stands at his side,
Offering him hive tools
In gloveless hands;
And through the beekeeper’s veil
Apprehends his warm glance.
A lone butterfly
Wanders over the busy hives;
Summer morning haze –
Honey extractors running
Night and day with liquid gold.
Dancing with discovery,
Neighborhood boys swarm around
Her sweet smile;
She ignores their fumbling ways,
Baffled by the attention.
Sheer white veils billow
As she greets the colonies –
Gathering nectar,
Sun-dancing to the queen –
and shares her bride’s bouquet.
The hives stand silent,
Waiting for a sign to begin
A late season swarm.
Already they understand
Their bee keeper has died.
Maples turn russet;
Overhead chevrons, wild geese
Flee before the snow.
She tends the bees alone now,
Humming her father’s old songs.



(Nathan’s Famous, 2001)
James Roderick Burns

The scene … could well have occurred 50 or even 80 years ago, at the hot dog stand Nathan Handwerker set up at the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues in Coney Island. The idea was to sell food made of quality ingredients – Handwerker insisted on all-beef franks – at aggressive prices to the hungry masses swarming out of the subway to
bathe at this proletarian Riviera
Long Island Business News, ‘Best of the Wurst’

Call me Tsunami –
on the list of contestants
Takeru Kobayashi

appears, icecap cold
in this creaking world of girth,
but I flow warm as saki.
In the game of flesh
I slip past all contenders –
bratwurst, dumplings, roast pork buns

each extruded thing –
to burst through the open lips
of your warm and bready smile.

Tsunami, I will!
 From the warm-folded centre
of my self I sing your name,

rejoice in plenty
for I have tasted only
crumbs on the earth’s bony road.


All comers – I stand
a five foot eight inch challenge
to your American might.

Hidden Pearl Harbor,
I liberate no payload
but still lay waste to your arms.


I have followed you
from Nagano sushi bars
to the wastes of Long Island,

opened doors for you,
baked my limbs in your deep fires
yet you shine at such distance.


Tsunami, I yearn
for the unrolling liquid
splendor of your muscled tongue –

my dry core, yeasty
with desire, cries out to be
slathered in love’s sweet mustard.


Quiet follower!
The platform rises, dough-bright
and laden; giants gather

as the dogs lie down
for slaughter, and your silent
presence moves me to my task.


Tower of hunger,
brick up my heart as the grit
settles into the oyster

and I will engulf
your most insatiable throat
in a balm of devotion.


Now all concentrates
to this thirty foot table –
hot dogs and buns and arc lights

sharp as pins, the crowd’s
bastard hypothalamus
tweaking its belt for the off.


Twelve minutes of hell –
ringed by a fierce horseshoe crowd
I start at the gate’s clang, fall

to a foul nosebag
of squirting processed offal
and thunder through my first ten.


Snap, suck but don’t chew –
Solomon could not have split
his babies any faster

or paralleled them
down his gullet – dip the bun
and wincing, wiggle round it.


I write sedoka
as these American oafs
chase down your slender whirlwind –

ten and you falter,
thirteen and the Uncle Sams
crush you to tanka, haiku.


Ah, butter stinkers!
Monsters and vile ruminants!
I see your whale-jaws chomping

through oceans of fat –
great lakes of drink – in the wide
one way tunnel of excess.


Is this why I came?
Look – a chastened scarlet sun
disappears from whence it rose.

No, slim hurricane –
I am your sun, your bright moon
and all the circling stars.


For me you must chew
the globe – this festering ball
of limitless indulgence

as though it was quite
the most exquisite repast,
and worlds hung on each mouthful.


From the blinding light
a small Kasumi voice – eat!
Hoofs fall from my ears. I eat.

At fifteen, a gasp –
bears and elephants stumble
clutching their aching stomachs.


For one clean second
this vision – bellies bursting,
towels tossed into the ring

then ah! – tottering
the guts regroup and paddle
for the neon finish line.


Like some Chevrolet
rubbed clean by the spandex breasts
of a suburban car wash,

the opulent square
of a sprinkled desert lawn
I sail serene to the zone.


With terrible speed
the hand draws all to the mouth –
split frankfurter, dripping bun,

an assembly line
of hunger. Like a deft fox
I skirt the leavings of bears.


Twenty, twenty five.
Records drip on the concrete
with the stink of hot vinyl;

in the gallery
mouths drop as the tally man
runs out of pre-printed cards.


I break thirty, more –
forty and soon forty five.
Women swoon, men start to duel.

In some distended
universe the gods slacken
their belts, belch admiration.


Fifty – the crowd shrieks,
sighs; American triumph
withers in the long shadows.

For you have swallowed
their pride, my love. Come with me –
sing in this empty palace.



Ayat Ghanem

11 years gliding, precipitations hail
opal drops, cascade of bursting gems
in this perpetually wintry amble
I stroll. London inspirational city
home to my hopes, you fulfilled all
and more. Imaginings born
in the midst of your cobblestones
nurtured in cloud bursting tulle skirts
soaring in blustery deluges.

One year sultry rushes
scarlet pepper soil
golden-haired streams
rosy sandstorms
no torrents here, bathing in ardent rays
a breeze cooling my veil.
Bountiful Syria, jewel of my exile
extension of my voyages
rounded exclamations, bowing tongues.

One year bustle hustle
flamboyant luxuriance
vibrant feathery city, Cairo
angels crown your horizon
sitting atop triangular ancestral abodes.
In the cobalt hues of shadowy dusk
Um Kulthum’s soft caresses undulates
from feluccas, glinting vessels
merging sweet whispers
between well practiced cotton sheets like leafs
and enamored firmaments.

Auspicious journeys fastened convictions
bird of fire, bearing on its wings my future.



Elizabeth Howard

waiting room
at the breast center
I measure
the weight of concern
in the montage of faces

breast cancer stamp
a marble statue
face of Isis
where the disbelief
anger fear pain?

breast cancer quilt
I pull it
over my head
hide my eyes
from the unsightly gash



Sylvia Plath

After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Echoes travelling
Off from the centre like horses.

The sap
Wells like tears, like the
Water striving
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock

That drops and turns,
A white scull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I
Encounter them on the road –

Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
From the bottom of the pool,
fixed stars Govern a life.

From Ariel, Poems by Sylvia Plath.
Harper & Row, New York, 1961.



Claudia Melchior

for a few days
expelled from
the land of smiling

the language

the senses

closing the world

my tummy
under the surface

way out
where to?

inside your arms
you caress
my smile



john martone 


moving my table
to this window –


have to go outside
to see you


stamens – legs –
or antennae
petal-winged gaura


gaura – a white

gaura pistil
reaches wholly
beyond the flower

to gaura anther
then stigma

gaura – petals above –
stamens below –

thin as
pocket-knife blade
gaura stem

& every life



Lorin Ford

wash hair will shower write sonnet saying same for days

attempt a rave hours days spaces tell them not crow but raven

don’t want you to come in pain read these I’ll go down the street disguised

I’m not anywhere you’ve escaped my imagination nowhere also man

purpose to remain here sleep wake sustain without me will it

bacteria more resilient than thought antibiotics more codeine questions

until and trusting one brown dove in the morning world keep it please

three days the blowfly I can’t see you rise and fright me Emily D.

he proposes a toast a letter postmarked June ’72  postcard soon

hybrid they startle these tall men aquilegia nod ti-tree and freesias

spaces between…soft-shoeing… moodily…the weather unlike haiku

smoke but try to walk on it anything exhumed wormholes star-corridors

June and Angus in the hill above the mill here too and the horses hear them

head-butt and knead frequently my cat applies her wise techniques

return to earth refer to bird as mine and the cherry branch it roosts on

explain red-shift why shifts happen see I predicted watch out for Victor

just an old drunk dances lets down my hair we’re not there and yet

yes garden Ganesha a relic note that monkey backpack what marriage

now we internet together get well and kindly I like your gentle

will pop script in letter box Valium too eat three meals and ring if

O was that love the river breaking bridges watching through windows
First published Blue Dog, Vol 5: No 10, December, 2006



Dick Pettit

         a hurtling swift battles against the wind and disappears

            a squall: leavers scurry back to the church porch

       chrome glitters: an apronned waiter wipes chairs and tables

           stacked up in the entry sprinkled with fallen leaves

          over the wall a moon rides the clouds rushing beneath

                 a fair turn-out for the Autumn Handicap*


        he joins the protest in a Norfolk Tweed suit and a trilby

         Outsource cleaning and catering! – the unions are dished

        an agency nurse clutching her cloak, slips on the icy path

           fog glows in the street lamps encrusting car windows

          an arm round each their walk slows, stopping in a kiss

            her smiling look appraises his lips deny all guile

          it's a cozy flat; the kettle boils in time for TV news


             moonlight in at a window a bike revs on the hill

        a truckload of cows takes the back road in the quiet night

          the pastoralists of Elgon** live life in the Golden Age

    blossom in her hair all the flowers of the valley adorn her bower

          his Persephone is insipid booed in Hamburg and Milan***

       for their honeymoon they walk across the Alps without a map

            Uncle Dick brings back a case of New Zealand wines

       intoxication passed talk is steady and sincere into the dawn

          we'll leave before it's light to beat the holiday jams

        a dusty feel about poppies in dry grass edging the fields

           fatigue in the stopping train after a day in London

         the snow melts sliding down the window in blurry streaks

                so that's a cormorant! pass me the binocs

our children are excited waiting for the sky to clear before the eclipse

        to be peeled, cored, and sliced 10 kilograms of windfalls


          a wriggled hole dry and crumbly black and in it a worm

              the entity's watch-soul talks inside our heads

    his thought beam scans a second of arc a thousand light years off

                once you were so dear now I hardly recall

         she came back a short and awkward trip they both regret

          angry clouds behind them on the puddled moorland path

          in the courtyard of an abandoned farm a tree blossoms

          Ka! shows her Spring collection of confirmation dresses

*Autumn Handicap: a horse race.

**pastoralists of Elgon: The Elgoni live at about 6-8000 ft on Mt Elgon, 14,400 ft, an
isolated ex-volcano on the Kenya-Uganda border.

***Hamburg & Milan: opera houses


Dick Pettit

         “Go Away!” a wasp, horse- or snape-fly buzzes in the ear

         berries are early this year we'll soon be out collecting

        a hot morning the post-man on his scooter wears no helmet

             a lady-bird lands on the table showing her wings

          my elegant neighbour walks out to her car in full fig

         I speed up exit procedures as a warden turns the corner


   moon on grass the park has too many entrances to be closed at night

           a crash in the yellowing leafage can only be an owl

   measured words a judge suppresses his views of the justice minister

                 an ASBO* recreant shifts to the next town

   “Not settled. Life was so wonderful when we were in  Wogga-Wogga.”

                vegetation is sparse in the dry gray soil

keeping their distance cameras click and whirr as an elephant trumpets

                     snowy boughs frame a rocky peak

              the honeymoon couple sleep in bundled sweaters


                             a mad fit dies coitus interruptus

             we walk along the blossoming avenue hand in hand

               Easter comes early a gritty wind on the quay


         martins skim building high in gables of the custom house

              the new scaffolding is up but nothing's doing

        a crate of beer empties fast, and shouts become more jolly

           the choir bus returns with a non-standard repertoire

              golden light birdsong from shadows is gorgeous

                 I put my shirt back on as evening cools

  the monthly accountant works under a midnight skylight and a pink  moon

               two kittens frolic among the blown-in leaves

       actors camp roles at first rehearsal for the opening season

                the kiss is sudden but unexpectedly gentle

        just good pals but comfort and protection are creeping in

                “We're out of money. Why do you buy CDs”


           a records clerk is hooked on Palestrina and his ilk

            Rudolf the Red-nosed cheers the supermarket aisles

        a cleared pavement freezes over again in a night of sleet

       firm of tread and intention come to announce the scale-down

    half the tree and half its blossom is burnt by the children's fire

                  still a pint left in my one litre Krug 

*ASBO: Anti-Social Behaviour Order. Trouble-makers can be banned from a certain area.



a MS sequence
David Serjeant

no hint of a smile -
for once my doctor says
"take it easy"

on the scan room ceiling
cherry blossom -
the staff retreat behind glass

not crying yet ...
your chin dimples
as you talk

I salute the magpie

on the news a terror attack ...
my leg
numb again

from a packed lift
a man on crutches
follows me to clinic

new year's eve
the bowl slips from my fingers
... smashes



Ken Wanamaker

egg hunt
toddlers blowing soap bubbles
with Big Bunny

a tri-colored zeppelin
floating above the crowd

ants march
toward a picnic table
quiet siege

troops called home from abroad
with no ammo in their clips

ivory moon
above her breast
her mother’s brooch

setting out the silverware
for Thanksgiving dinner


the family gathers
about a broad fireplace
autumn leaves

gentle kisses exchanged
atop a bearskin rug

two hearts
etched on his upper arm
afternoon stroll

inscription in a locket
seals their undying love

frozen beach
a flurry of flippers
entering the sea

a mug of cocoa
for the weary wanderer

cavorting in the woods
summer moon

naked beneath a tree
he welcomes a cool shower

Somali pirates
floating on the sea

lost my stake in the third race
and landed in a jam

falling on morning runners
Boston Marathon

robins on the Commons
are oblivious to the throng


butterfly on the tea stand
while Basho writes

paint on his picket fence
is beginning to flake

a clown
forms a balloon animal
for the birthday boy

pulling pigtails at recess
gets him three swats on the rear

beneath a branch
only the cold sparrows
twitter and play

a few bread crumbs left
on the fallen leaves

in his gloved hands
her palm

following the life-line
that leads to the heart

as he mounts her carriage

the ugly sisters take turns
dissing her evening gown

veiled face
wandering through the trees
full moon

prayer beads counted one by one
while reciting the sutras


drops of dew frost
welcome the warming rays

tears in the kitchen—
preparing spaghetti sauce

a bottle of Chianti
on the plaid table cloth
childhood memories

a message of joy and hope
washes up on the beach

bearing our gratitude
the great egret enters
the clouds

twined about the grove
Beer Barrel Polka




I am here again
through the magic of a dream –
my grandparents’ woods!
deeply dark and very still
with more peace than I can hold
c w hawes

left her shoes
at the door
finch in her dust bath
Jose del Valle

Vor der Kneipentür –
in meinem Rücken
das Knacken der Finger

behind my back
the snapping of fingers
at the pub door
Gerd Börner

wild roses ­
Joanna M. Weston

Opening the door
a fragment of light remains
my small apartment.
Natasha Khrolenko

with rainwater
red-winged blackbird
Jose del Valle


deep in the woods
wandering with no companion
wind in the treetops
and deep in my heart there forms
a vast pool so very still
c w hawes

slow creek
slips over its pebble bed
Jose del Valle


the poems I wrote
dirty socks
so dirty they are
I throw them away
c w hawes

in the cool of the brook
the horn of the moon
Jose del Valle

the moon and stars
were swallowed up tonight
by a dragon
but no one noticed
the neon signs too bright
c w hawes

your shadow
my shadow
winter moon
Jose del Valle

the drops still plunking
the smell of wet earth rising
and prayer’s soft mutter
grant the joy of being oned
end this long separation
c w hawes

child playing
with cat
Joanna M. Weston


All the chatter noising my mind, steady drumbeats from far away.
This brain’s running hither-thither, yet it’s tethered by the future’s past.
Oh, Mind!  Today, this simple breath has focused you silent.
c w hawes


new mailboxes
same puddles
Joanna M. Weston


Candles flicker in the dark room; from far away, the call to prayer.
A voice without, a voice within; head and heart, a dueling dance:
to know the one unknowable, my heart slays my head.
c w hawes

maple leaves
copper lace
Joanna M. Weston


Through the orchard I have walked, also through the meadow flowers;
over and over I called out, your name echoed through the valley.
In the twilight I returned home and found you in my heart.
c w hawes


The beads of sweat
on her breasts do not touch
her years or face
in candle light her shadow
is more restrained than my thought


Birds are flying home. . .
I too can smell the rain
here by my window
Natasha Khrolenko


the words are finished
the sound of the oboe fades
into nothingness
all things cross the lighted stage
disappear into the wings
c w hawes

gray Christmas
     it snows only
     in a crystal ball
Artur Lewandowski

the city glows
like Betelgeuse
no moon tonight
Jose del Valle

winter wind
   only the scarecrow
   in the empty garden
Artur Lewandowski

a poinsettia blooms
thoughts about my past lovers
lurid red too
Violette Rose-Jones


New Year fireworks
    the sundial shows
   all the times
Artur Lewandowski


by my window
Natasha Khrolenko





     Haiga by Alan Taylor









Haiga by Alan Taylor


 Steffen Horstmann

 Steffen Horstmann

 Steffen Horstmann

Ayat Ghanem



C W Hawes

C W Hawes

C W Hawes

VIOLA TRICOLOR                       
translated from the German by Celia Brown
Ruth Franke

translated from the German by Celia Brown
Ruth Franke

 Ruth  Holzer

Ruth  Holzer

Larry Kimmel

Larry Kimmel

Larry Kimmel

Patricia Prime

Patricia Prime

shirley cahayom

Haiga by Ramona Linke



Don Ammons

Michelle V. Alkerton

Michelle V. Alkerton

Michelle V. Alkerton

Nadia Ghanem

Ruth Holzer

Ed Baranosky

(Nathan’s Famous, 2001)
James Roderick Burns

Ayat Ghanem

Elizabeth Howard

Sylvia Plath

Claudia Melchior

john martone 

Lorin Ford

Dick Pettit

Dick Pettit

a MS sequence
David Serjeant

Ken Wanamaker



c w hawes
Jose del Valle
Gerd Börner
Joanna M. Weston
Natasha Khrolenko
Artur Lewandowski
Violette Rose-Jones

 Haiga by Alan Taylor


Back issues of Lynx:

XV:2 June, 2000
XV:3 October, 2000
XVI:1 Feb. 2001
XVI:2 June, 2001
XVI:3 October, 2001  
XVII:1 February, 2002
XVII:2 June, 2002
XVII:3 October, 2002
XVIII:1 February, 2003
XVIII:2 June, 2003
XVIII:3, October, 2003
XIX:1 February, 2004
XIX:2 June, 2004

XIX:3 October, 2004

XX:1,February, 2005

XX:2 June, 2005
XX:3 October, 2005
XXI:1February, 2006 
XXI:2, June, 2006

XXI:3,October, 2006

XXII:1 January, 2007
XXII:2 June, 2007
XXII:3 October, 2007

XXIII:1 January, 2008
XXIII:2 June, 2008

XXIII:3, October, 2008
XXIV:1 February, 2009

XXIV:3, June, 2009

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Next Lynx is scheduled for February, 2010 .

Deadline for submission of work is
January 1, 2010.