October, 2010

A Journal for Linking Poets  




Johnny Baranski
described as half bleached white and charcoal black she's called "Atomic Bombed Maria." her remains were found amid the ruins of Urakami Catholic Cathedral in Nagasaki, Japan after the city was flattened by the nuclear weapon dubbed "fat man" on August 9th, 1945; that is, only the statue's head, it being all that was still intact. weep not for her, however, for her hollow wooden visage is no specter of death. instead its muted voice joins those around the world calling for disarmament. believers say whatever is asked for through her shall be granted.

                                                disfigured by the BOMB
                                                the Virgin's likeness too
                                                a Hibakusha*

* The surviving victims of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki are called hibakusha -a Japanese word that literally translates to "explosion-affected people.”



Shirl Cahayom  

                      the years had flown away, faster than my  heartbeats that wanted to get out of my chest every time i saw you  passing by. gone were the years that we spent together. we were  young. we were happy. we were full of life.
                     where are you now kuya romy? i would like to  think that whatever you wished for had turned into beautiful  realities.i would like to think that you found the real happiness in  life. i would like to still think of you as the man  i first fell in  love with. my first love. my lost love.

what is the loneliness
that cripples my whole being
compared to the beauty of the dawn
that still rises
each coming morning ?

Shirl Cahayom
                           when we parted, i thought i would die. i couldn’t sleep. i couldn’t eat. loneliness was written at the depth of  my big black eyes. the love songs that we used to sing together were   nothing but sad melodies that haunt me in the night. you were my
 reason for living. but i could not chain myself to a lifetime of  sorrow. from the ashes, i picked up the shattered pieces of my life  and built it anew. God in his goodness and in his mercy carried me like a child and showed me the rebirth of a glorious day.

deep in slumber
the homeless woman
with summer flower on her hair


Haibun 24
Shirl Cahayom
                               for four long years, i was a desert dweller.i spent four years of my young life in riyadh,saudi  arabia. the desert, my friend. the desert. long stretch of yellow 
sand...baren and without was four years of dusk, i usually go to the garden to watch the is a big ball of orange fire hanging in the sky but there is always a big  black streak in the midle of the dying sun.

the depth of your gaze
hides pain and loneliness
do you know
that the sorrow in my heart
is deeper than your gaze ?



Gerard J. Conforti

            It’s going to be a long day. the heat in my is already unbearable. There isn’t a cool breeze in this summer morning. I can smell the honeysuckle vines clinging to the building in the humidity.
            About an hour ago the rain poured down and wet the dripping tree leaves. For a while there was a cool breeze coming in my windows but now the air is hanging heavy again.
            I rise from my bed soaking wet from the previous night. I’ve been having panic attacks almost every night for a long time now, and still feel anxious about going outdoors. I decide to take a shower to cool down, but I know that I will sweat in the heat again.
            There is no air-conditioner in the window and the curtains are drawn open and there is an odor in the room from the wet sheets on the bed.

shadows of tree leaves morning sun on the curtains

            I go into the bathroom again to take my morning meds from the cabinet. I swallow them down with water and go back into my bedroom. I don’t feel like eating anything. I’m disgusted with the summer day and hot it’s going to be later in the evening when the sunlight sets beyond the sea.

waking up  the silence in my ears

            As the day progresses, I go downstairs and sit on the steps of the building. From there I can view Snug Harbor. Only a woman’s hand in mine. This I wish for the most. My palms are sweaty and wet from the languid air.
            I go upstairs again and unlock the door and then lock it behind me. The only sound is the click from the lock. I cannot hear my footsteps on the thick carpet of the room. Even the walls are silent in the apartment. The flowery pictures on the walls are even depressive. They are the cheap stuff someone got to dress up the walls and are not attractive.
            I turn the radio on to break the silence surrounding me. It is going to be a long night.

autumn winds   tree leaves swirl on the street




Haiga by Werner Reichhold



Ruth Holzer

We’re on the road south from Moncton, following the course of the Saint John River.  Flat marsh extends on both sides.  At Hillsborough we stop and spend a few hours exploring the wetlands.  The old dike system still protects low-lying fields from flooding.  Chunks of gypsum shine on the ground like abandoned treasure.  A volunteer at the visitor center tells us where we can find a bald eagle’s nest:  a few miles away, on a large branch to the left near the top of a pine tree in the exact center of Riverview Cemetery.

the cry of eaglets—
one will kill
the other

A little farther along the coast, the river empties into the rough curve of Chignecto Bay.

Cape Enrage –
up at the lighthouse
too windy to fight




Gary LeBel

            This road has many names. Each small town between Augusta and Athens takes it as their namesake, but to me it’s still one road, the heart and soul of a state. In mile after mile of meadowlands, glade, and forest, in breezes oozing with honeysuckle, its shoulders brim with wildflowers, clover and thistle: they rush the edge of the tar as if to spread some rumor mourning doves had whispered. Soon after climbing the off-ramp from the interstate, the road begins:


along with grasses
chestnut manes

‘Henry’s gone, left this mornin’. Gone to fight them Yanks in Virginny. I wish’d I could go with ‘im! Papaw  says I’s too young. Jes’ give me a rifle an’ you’ll see what I’ll do—I’ll win that damn war my own self…’ 

            An eighth of a mile east of town, mossy stones lean here and there under the bluish shade of a century oak; grass grows high between them. As morning breezes brush the limbs, its shadows deepen the letters of a family’s many names.


‘Fields was so hot t’day, Mama, Papa done fell down. I coon’t do nothin’ wid ol’ Grainger standin’ dere.  I ain’t never seen him  fall right down in a heap like dat,  Mama.  Grainger tole Enoch and Obidiah to hep  him up  and git workin’ or else. Papa say not to tell ya. What we gonna do fer ‘im t’morra, Mama, what we gonna do?

through streaming tears
a fiddler’s reel
from the big house

            Across the road lie the remains of the old plantation’s fields, wild and deserted, swallowed by the slow, verdant creep of disappearance. A small red shack lays a stone’s throw from the big house: it’s freshly painted, and lavishly restored as if it were to be sealed under a bell jar, a curio for the bland indifferent eyes of the future to rest a moment before passing on to the next artifact of human cruelty.


‘That was nice, Darlin’, music from Heaven. Was it Chopin or Mozart? I heard it from the garden, sweet as robins in April it was.  I do declare, Dorothy, what luck that Sheridan had in finding the likes of you.’
‘It was Ravel, Father, and John Henry Sheridan didn’t find me, you introduced us, remember? But I’m telling you plain as day that I won’t have anything to do with him, not now, not ever. He’s ‘bout as lively as a scarecrow. A union between us is not now and never will be possible.’

over the evening fields
a shout             a door slamming shut
a coo



            The road turns to the left abruptly; tall, flat-roofed storefronts rise up crowding the narrow main street of a small town. All the padlocked shops are a deluge of rubble: tin logos, broken chairs and sagging shelves lie dead-still behind their dusty picture windows. Small brick bungalows, with curtains drawn, lay suckling at the quiet on the teats of noon; not a person stirs. Front yards explode with azaleas shrouding porches and parlor windows in occasional breeze-turned kaleidoscopes of white and scarlet and magenta…

‘You’ve got to see it through, the whole argument. The world isn’t as you see it or want it to be, Mama.  You can’t let your religion and what you believe be the standard for the rest of us  because everyone carries their own in here, inside them,  and one’s just as good as another:  I am what I am, mother, what I have always been;  I’m sorry I’m not what you wanted, but I’m still your daughter. You have a choice to make: either you accept Lily as you would a husband or I’ll never come back here again—I’ll be at the station if you change your mind. It leaves at 4:15.’

where do they lead
            and where have they led…
            and back again
these rusty tracks?



‘I cain’t go with you, Charlie. I jus ’cain’t.’
‘Honey, you got to; the whole town’ll be there.’
‘Our boy…’
‘They said…he was very brave, a hero. Two of his buddies will go home to their families ‘cause of Jess.’
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I just don’t want to remember him that way. I want to see him coming up from the pond with his fishing pole and a string a bluegills dangling from his belt, a big devil-may-care grin on his face, not what the army’s bringing us.’
‘Honey, he had to go; it was his duty.’
‘I’m sorry to say this, Charlie, but I think some hawks enjoy killing whether they are hungry or not.’
What do you mean by that, Maggie?

By a mailbox painted with stars and stripes, a tumbledown swing-set beyond the driveway, the wounded hulk of a giant oak leans out over the road, split down the middle by lightning, charred and bereft of leaves except for a sprig or two on the highest limbs…

between thunderclaps
sparrow singing
on a wire



            In soft zigzagging waves, the high grass flows like breakers. Between a farmhouse and the forest’s unbroken line, a dog is standing. From time to time it lifts its nose up into the wind as if to smell what the clouds are bringing…

 ‘That’s a nice story, Kate. I can see you’ve worked hard on it. It has a nice twist at the end, and plenty to chew on later. Have you ever thought about  sending it in somewhere, you know, to a magazine or other,  that specializes in stories, and might just put it into print, with your name on it?’
‘Nah, who’d want to read it anyway, let alone buy it?’
‘Only ‘bout half the world, Sugar, the half that reads, that is. Here, speaking of twists, have some of this face-twistin’ lemonade, darlin’, then we’ll look on the net and see if we can’t find  a good home for this first little pup in yo’ litter.’

She drums for those
who will not dance



‘Who’d Frank leave his place to, Charlene?’
‘Nobody knows. His will hasn’t been read. Lawyer Thoms is waiting for his brother Samuel to get in from Cairo, or Rome or Paris or wherever it is he lives.’
‘Lord, he must have money.’
‘Oodles of it.’
‘Where’d he make it?’
‘They always had it, I guess.’
‘They left Frank out of the picture, didn’t they?
‘He didn’t want in.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Why it’s common knowledge, dear.’
‘Not to me. I never liked him much, I’ll say that.’
‘You didn’t know him, that’s all.’
‘And you did?’
Oh, yes.
You, Charlene? You?’
‘Hazel, dear, if we’re all done with our jibber-jabbering, I’ve got errands to run.’

            Tulip poplars shade the dirt driveway. A tall thin sapling grows up out of a hole in the sagging roof. A flood of vine pours out over the eaves in an avalanche of kudzu. The chimney, built simply out of stream stones, stands straight and plumb, but leaning away from it, the house has other plans for a long, slow, helpless surrender to the wild blackberry patch beside it.


an open I
each one



            and then
 the college town
with all its brickwork,
oaks & stone, its plaques
            & statues,
flawless green.

Down its sleepy lanes
            magnolia breezes
blow ringlets scarlet,  black
            or brown

down shoulders no less  fine and round
            than Ilion’s foreign queen:

O weft of beauty, weave us
            on thy privileged loom

for a half mile out of town
            the head-hung, stumbling skip
of poverty’s

            sure to resume.’

‘Is that how you see our town, Mr. Rollins?’
‘It’s just an observation, Professor, while I was driving to class one day last week.’
‘Your assignment was to write an ode to Athens, our namesake city, in Sapphics, if you can handle it.’
‘There were too many syllables, sir, for my taste. I didn’t want to be verbose…or needlessly mellifluous.’
‘Verbose? Mellifluous? I should fail you, you know, and I would if I knew your father wouldn’t try to have my tenure revoked.’
‘He won’t care, believe me; he hates poetry. If it doesn’t enhance his portfolio, or he needs it to sweet-talk some coed into bed, it doesn’t exist for him.’
‘Is this what you want to write about then, to slight the very place that nurtures you, and makes your life as easy as a Bourbon prince?’
…εγω δε κην οτ—τω τις εραται.”
 ‘Playing games now, Mr. Rollins?’
 ‘You mentioned Sappho, Sir, so there she is. Do you know it?’

‘Of course I know it: “…I say it is what one loves.” Don’t take me for a plumber. Do the assignment over as outlined, in Sapphics as I requested. Ten points off for being late, and take this monstrosity with you.’
“…και ταν επ’ οςςοις’ ομπεταςον…”
 ‘My eyes are fully opened, Mr. Rollins, but are yours? Incidentally you forgot the ‘χαριν’, grace, intentionally I suppose.’
‘If the sandal fits.’
‘What’s that, Mr. Rollins?’

satin sheets
another stab
at meaning



            Now the fields go streaming by, small towns and huddled houses, and haunts the crow knows all too well, where nobody cooks or laughs, or lopes ‘with Cupid dancing’,
where cracked and swollen clapboards keep their permanent night a secret,

past country stores, the tombs of wasps,
the mirrors’ mausoleum—
beyond Iris’ gift of creek and lake


the voices fade,  the tires sing—

            almost home to familiar skies

my fiction recoiling

                        retracts its lies.

This road has many names.



  1. …εγω δε κην οτ—τω τις εραταi” and “…και ταν επ’ οςςοις’ ομπεταςον χαρινare from Sappho as translated by Anne Carson from her book IF NOT, WINTER. Vintage Books, NY. 2002
  2. ‘with Cupid dancing’ is from Catullus as translated by Humphrey Clucas in the book Catullus:A Poet in the Rome of Julius Caesar by Aubrey Burl. Carroll & Graf, NY. 2004




Haiga by Werner Reichhold



Werner Reichhold

About the razorblade
hair-fine scraped departure
then the shirt rinsed white
dried in the garden

on a rough line
in shadowy black
the cry of starlings’
finery gossip and brrrr
the flock buzzes to the worms

in the grass of four
and twenty hours
inattentive themselves
to be dew-wetted – no she doesn’t
want similar to other girls

squinting into videos
where the guy before a mirror
smoothly shaved
blows his curls as an offer
to the co-worker on the screen


car-rental, 8 am online: no, she says, 24 yrs old, tattooed under powdered cheeks, I will not again become an enthusiast at a click.
Won’t pawn either frills nor cry
nor gossip. Offer no lascivious squirming for five lines at a virtual meeting – without

scent on grass    the leash bitten through    pointer points


Von der Rasierklinge
haarfein geschabte Abschiede
das Hemd glaubhaft weißgespült

auf rauher Leine
in schattenhaftem Schwarz
Aufschrei der Stare
Flügelputz Klatsch und brrrrrr
der Schwarm schwirrt zu Würmern

im Gras der vier
und zwanzig Stunden
unaufmerksam sich windenden
Taufeuchten – nein sie will nicht
ähnlich anderer Mädchen

in Videos schielen
wo der Kerl vorm Spiegel
Locken föhnt zum Angebot
für die Mitarbeiterin am Schirm

Auto-Verleih, 8 Uhr früh online: nein, sagt sie, 24, tätowiert unter gepuderter Wange, werde nicht wieder Schwärmerin auf click.
Verpfände weder Putz noch Schrei noch Klatsch. Biete keine lüstern gewundenen fünf Zeilen zu virtuellem Treff - ohne

Witterung am Gras    die Leine durchgebissen     Pointer steht





Ayaz Daryl Nielsen

old conifer
split by lightning
two crows bicker

hot breeze
through the skylite..
    raucous crows

in the oak above
this flat tire
    crow being crow

oh snitty crows,
    was my brief presence
       really so troublesome?

tell me where you live,
    old crow, so I can poop
       on your front porch

crows above
    the new Zen garden
       drop their blessings

new home
same old
crow sounds

old crow and I
    cawing, laughing as we
       meet once again


     - with a nod to Ruth Yarrow -
Johnny Baranski

hard times
for a homeless man to live in
no new boxes

in summer moonlight
more street hookers than tricks
hard times

hard times
beggar at the freeway on-ramp
rain or shine

dumpster diver
in a three piece suit
hard times

hard times
going-out-of-business sale
few shoppers

army recruiters fill
another empty storefront
hard times

hard times
even the scarecrow
picked clean

only nuke missiles
siloed in the wheat field
hard times

hard times, easy times
my poems are very

for food
i will write you a haiku
hard times



ayaz daryl nielsen

familiar weapon
another khaki sunrise –
    familiar weapon

young conscript
trading his weapon for
    a one-way ticket

corn popping
    haggard veteran

snowstorm -
    homeless veterans gather
       around a bottle

among the homeless –
    so many
    service medals



Donna Everhart

the shift of sunshine
from shoulder to shoulder

wind through
the wildflowers-
I’m just passing through too

late night storm
the sea of my soul tosses
back and forth

sorrow of night
nothing to hold onto
the vine trembles

winter’s hush
birds on the rooftop
of a forgotten church

rear-view this road goes on without me


Ramona Linke

dewy morning … barefoot by the riverside

tiger lilies -
she looks at the pale stripe
on her wedding finger


Morgentau … barfuß am Fluss entlang

Tigerlilien - -
sie betrachtet den hellen Streifen
an ihrem Ringfinger




hot summer night; childhood dreams fizzle out in the sky

brief crossing ...
on the other side
a rainbow


heiße Sommernacht; Kinderträume versanden am Firmament

Kurze Überfahrt …
auf der anderen Seite
ein Regenbogen



Chen-ou Liu

Eric has become
the main character
while Chen-ou
has a supporting one:
life in the promised land

in my mind
there is a room
where Chen-ou
lashes out with the f-word
while Eric argues politely

inside my heart
there are no empty chambers
for Chen-ou
has piled his memories
despite Eric’s protests

in my soul
(I suppose there is one)
Chen-ou wages
a tug-of-war with Eric
for being himself

under the white gaze
and Eric look like twins
same color, different dialects



for Martin Heidegger
 Chen-ou Liu
 I wish
 I were you
 forever frozen
 in glory
 a smiling graduation photo
 in the mirror
 a few lines on my forehead
 are there any wrinkles
 on my soul?
 I’ve turned gray
 like Van Winkle
rnot under
 a shady tree
 but inside
 is any day
 of being
 above the ground and vertical
 a good one?
 sleeps evade me
 we all
 go six feet under
 why struggle?
 short day
 into dark night

Ruth Holzer

I’m not
keeping anything
from you—
I know what happens
to old men

where in the world
is he if he’s no longer
in the night kitchen
with leftover lentil soup
waiting up for his daughters

when I recover
will I be able
to tell him
the remedy worked—
I will not

father gone
mother in a different world
you too
every day
demanding satisfaction

all the things
that have happened in the world
since he left it—
his life made more precious
by a crown of unknowing

moonless night—
I cross the wide highway
Dad’s green plastic flashlight
the feeble beam enough




Laurence Stacey

pear trees
at the campus gate
blooming again
this love for all women
in sundresses

up all night
friends and I trade tanka
from a distance...
same old bullfrogs
in the creek bed

summer hailstorm –
just when I've learned
to move on
your electric green socks
in the bottom drawer

southern dusk
by ripple...
skipping stones race
into darkness

the summer garden
into softness
the frown
on grandma's face




Haiga by Emily Romano


Sukrita Paul Kumer

Words fall
from her mouth
as rain

on deserts.


storms and cyclones


in the heart


Words dropping
as stones.

Words as frozen ice
stuck in the

of lovers.


Melting in thought
Floating in the mind

Collecting in
unuttered sentences.


Sukrita Paul Kumar

Twenty years ago
in the operation theatre
of the hospital

Anesthesia awakened me
to you;

All at once, you emerged
from the pits of my being;

Like lightning rose
the voice of God

Blinding the face of darkness;
Green masks and cat eyes
Flashing their dangerous competence
Ready to terminate life
At its root,

I ran for your life
Salvaged you from
the murderous tools
of the doctor, that pursued me
And entered my dreams forever

I built a cocoon around you
Protecting you from evil spirits;

From the fetal state
to your adult being
Rearing you with
The pain of repentance;

The devil and God have
battled in me

We both burn
in the passion of your revenge
and remain suspended
Between life and death

As if on the operation table
Both of us
The centre of the universe
With green masks and cat eyes
All around us.



Jane Reichhold
























*Richard Kostelanetz devised this method of scrambling the way one reads. He requests poems written with his dictionary of Bleds /Scram.







upon the fence posts -
    work boots, hip waders and
       one woman's slipper
 Ayas daryl nielsen:



 Dusan Colovic:

The end of the holiday
The last silhouettes landscape
In the house lullabies
Under a soft pillow of
A dream sketched.


for such a tiny spider what a web of big dreams
 donna everhart blue jay

donna everhart


Decomposing in
the PC's memory
a frozen image
they try to trace logging in
the lady of charity



With henna hue
the ascetic's matted hair
and net of words
fish innocent women
at the holy Ganges


   the vine
withering a way
without notice
            radhey shiam





MARY MIRACULOUS by Johnny Baranski

HAIBUN 22 by
Shirl Cahayom  

HAIBUN 23 by
Shirl Cahayom  

HAIBUN 24 by
Shirl Cahayom  

by Gerard J. Conforti

Haiga by Werner Reichhold

Ruth Holzer

Gary LeBel

Haiga by Werner Reichhold

RAZORBLADE by Werner Reichhold



OLD CROW AND I by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen

by Johnny Baranski

WARKU by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen

THE JOURNEY by Donna Everhart

Ramona Linke

Chen-ou Liu

 Chen-ou Liu


by aurence Stacey

Haiga by Emily Romano

Sukrita Paul Kumer

TRIAL BY LIFE by Sukrita Paul Kumar

Jane Reichhold


 Ayas daryl nielsen, A DREAM SKETCHED by
 Dusan Colovic, donna everhart
 R.K.Singh, FISHING by
, radhey shiam


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:1February, 2008
XXIII:2 June, 2008

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

XXIV:2, June, 2009
XXIV:3, October, 2009
XXV:1 January, 2010
XXV:2 June, 2010


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Next Lynx is scheduled for February, 2011.

Deadline for submission of work is
January 1, 2011.