February, 2011

A Journal for Linking Poets  



David Bingham
Chloe Bingham

Glastonbury –
hoping her daughter won’t make
the same mistake                                       

in a field
mournful cows                                             

his diary tells
a different story from the one
they knew                                                

tasting pistachio
for the first time
by moonlight
the fledgling barn owl
tests its wings                                              

swirls of wood-smoke
drift through the hedge                                 


on a bench
with the Racing Post
he lights another fag                                      

collars up, arm in arm, they take
a short cut through the park                            

the dog pulls
on its lead as they pause
by the kissing gate                                         


nothing to declare
he waits expectantly at arrivals                       

in a suburban garden
cherry blossom swirls
around the ‘For Sale’ sign                               

unforeseen rain
floods the boule court                                      

Started: 18.8.10   Finished: 8.11.10



Jean Brasseur
stacey dye

crumbles underfoot
crushed leaves
scatter in the wind

Canada geese
turn south
brisk autumn wind
never changes course
feather grabs my sweater

grandma's quilt
ripples on the line
gunmetal sky
threatens rain
I take cover

tumbleweeds zigzag
across the badlands
wind driven
hawk circles overhead
playing solitaire

missing gate
eroding mortar
the old stone fence
a border
between ages

woven among cornstalks
catch my eye
gilt trim
on burlap sacks

faded barn
white trim peeling
under the gray roof
an owl roosts
patiently waiting

full moon blossoms
through a hazy veil
night birds murmur
their world always
shades of autumn gray



Owen Bullock
André Surridge

this is the day
our lives begin
born again
and again and again
just like the sun

in the perfect city
of my imagination
I open my eyes . . .
everything is
as it should be

raindrops in puddles . . .
the Johnny Cash impersonator
walks a dog . . .
his mother calls out
as we pass her door

cold snap on the way . . .
I head
into town to buy
a thicker duvet

light pierces
curtains and glass
day appears
and spreads in circles
like a guardian's influence

stirring tea
something magical
about this
first cup of the day
every day

a distressing call
precipitates a walk -
nothing out there
is agonising, or trying
to defend itself

my footsteps
join the song of the street
riff & rhythm
of an ancient mantra
"this too will pass"

garlic on my fingers
wine on my lips
evaporate with the
juice for the casserole

the body hungers
for so many things . . .
most are never
out of season

Saturday market
a leek and some mandarins
catch my eye -
I won't even mention
all the women

on a mobility scooter -
I ask about regrets
her blue-grey eyes squint
"could have taken more risks"

small scars
from the bike crash
when I was thirteen . . .
I remember the rush of air
with such fondness

time seemed
deliciously long back then
& the future
an open highway
lost in the distance

the self
engrossed in work
can finally
have a break
from its incessant selfness

labour of love
in return I receive
but the satisfaction
of a job well done

the only time
he came to watch me play
he said
"you had the best boot
on that field"

mum said
dad had no heart . . .
I told
school friends he came
from another planet

on the bank
and earts *
in the hedgerows
picked for mother, and pies

gran was the one
who taught us about birds
trees and flowers . . .
she kept a finger
on nature's pulse

I helped the nurse
with granfer's injections -
much later I was given
his unused ledgers for notebooks

the future
unfolds what is hidden
from us . . .
so many stars
waiting for their light

with dusk,
thunder and rain -
loved ones
who are about to leave
still under one roof

she sings
we are not long here . . .
voice and strings
tremble with the echo
of vulnerability

'Tunnel of Love'
yes, it's dark & deep
through caves,
the heart of the mountain
& the jaundiced city

it's hard
to remember
how we got here
as if someone were
stealing our yesterdays

branches are bare
seed heads still falling
the frost
wakes old feelings
cracked ice, shining faces

I hang
my coat of cares
on the hook
of a winter moon . . .
ah, this magic potion, sleep

we go to the circus
we couldn't afford
when you were little
and we meet a future wife

so many
of the best things in life
are still free -
this view out over the lake
to a purple mountain

I can see
a bush-clad hill
from my bed
Spring is coming
though a long way off

further still
one cloud framed in blue . . .
a westerly
is bustling the rain -
there will be a frost tonight

camellias in bloom
and scenting the air
pink, purple
all these skies
taking off

of a jet going
who knows where . . .
I used to dream of flying
oh that joy of weightlessness

I turn
a blank page
and write
in the middle of it
the word 'potential'

a flock of blackbirds
on a field of snow . . .
up they go and when
they return the word is there

* earts - Cornish wild fruit related to blueberries





Haiga by Yu Chang and John Stevenson





Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime

the gale has stopped
we talk about the flight
to Norfolk Island
her first overseas trip
each day she counts the sleeps

I can't get it off my mind
I'm still thinking about
the South Island -
the terrible beauty of mountains,
bizarre shapes of rocks and swollen rivers

imagine the quake
two thousand chooks
going berserk
all those smashed eggs
& a yard full of feathers

reconstruction -
music rings around
Cathedral Square
where a crowd gathers in the rain
for the gift of a free concert

another birthday-
he describes the card
he has created
on his computer
to lighten the mood

beyond the window
a final flourish
of storm clouds
above the new spring growth
of oak trees



Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair

'Wanderlust' -
after the cloudburst
the backpackers'
clotheslines empty
except for coloured clothes pegs

at the rest home she wakes
reaches out to touch my hair-
on the way home
we watch little diving ducks
ruffle the river

from the bushes
the chatter of boys' voices
as they collect branches
to make catapults
for their war games

the stone seat
is cold through thin cotton
children dig out mortar
and slash at shrubs
with long sticks

gliding beneath
the new metal footbridge
a fallen log -
over the Kamai ranges
weighted clouds

a sudden squall
we stop at the video shop
select four
& a western
'especially for him'



Sharron Reid Crowson   
Dawn Reid Ward    

sprinkler chittering
arc of rainbow water
heaven for tiny frogs
each sparkling drop a crown
no need for a princess here

dragonfly duo
silhouetted in flight
by summer's sterile sky
everything in pairs today
my shadow walks alone

white cloud pile-up
so much drama
little chance of rain
all the times I've held my tongue
no need for seeding arid ground

cafeteria doors
cold air smacks into the heat
instant fog
without glasses still foggy
blind either way

summer bay
glimpsed between oaks
sunlit scales
hiss of cool relief
deceit shared by tepid shade

bicycles wait
some lean, some stand, some fallen
the sun wheels overhead
glaring down    daring us
to take to the road

hummingbirds clash
around the red feeder
jeweled warriors
protecting the empty bottle
as fiercely as the full

cobwebbed corners
sticky threads embrace the broom
hunger left behind
tomorrow another web
soon another broom . . .



Claudia Brefeld (CB)
Heike Gewi (HG)
Walter Mathois (WM)


  1. Luft/Air                 Zerteilter Wind – Cleaved wind
  2. Erde/Earth             Tiefe Risse – Deep cracks
  3. Feuer/Fire             Aus der Glut – Out of the embers
  4. Wasser /Water     Zur Quelle – To the spring



Zerteilter Wind


Alpenglühen ...
ein Steinadler zerteilt
den Wind

Pfeifen -
ihr Unterrock flattert

am Fliederbusch
tief einatmen

Wolken ziehen auf
Salzküsse an der Reling

Kopfschmerzen ...
das Donnerglas

Der Laubfrosch erklimmt
den höchsten Zweig - Schweißperlen

Cleaved wind


Alpenglow ...
an eagle cleaves
the wind

Whistling -
her petticoat flutters

Traffic jam
at the lilac bush
breathing deeply

Gathering clouds
Salt kisses by the ship’s rail

Headache ...
Staring at
the barometer

The tree frog climbs
up the highest twig - sweat beads


CB: 1, 4 / WM: 2, 5 / HG: 3, 6



Tiefe Risse


Ach, dieser lange
Kieselweg - nach Rotwein
schmeckt er

Ausgestreckt auf dem Felsen

Modriger Duft -
der Scheibe entwächst
eine Vase

In meinem Schatten
tiefe Risse - Flussbett

ich lausche dem Wandern
der Dünen

Hüttenfeier - Wechselschritt
zwischen dampfenden Fladen

Deep cracks


Oh, this long
pebble path - it's got a taste
of red wine

Sprawled over the rock
warmth of summer

Musty smell -
growing out of the throw
a vase

In my shadow
deep cracks - river bed

Desert night
I listen to the shifting
of the dunes

Cabin party - crossover steps
between steaming cow pats


HG: 1, 4 / CB: 2, 5 / WM: 3, 6



Aus der Glut


Gelöscht -
der Feuerschlucker nippt
am Rum

Sie kocht auf kleiner Flamme

bis zum Horizont
Die Augen tränen

Weihrauchstäbchen -
durch den Nebel schwebt ihr Nabel

Er zieht
Eisen aus der Glut -
ängstliches Wiehern

Eine Tür fällt ins Schloss
schwelender Docht ...

Out of the embers


Extinguished -
The fire-eater sips
at rum

She's on the simmer
A dream has burst

up to the horizon
Watering eyes

Frankincense sticks -
her navel floats through mist

He pulls
iron out of the embers -
fearful neighing

A door snaps shut
smouldering wick ...


WM: 1, 4 / HG: 2, 5 / CB: 3, 6



Zur Quelle


mein Lachen reißt sich
von mir los

Zur Quelle, zum Enzian

So dürr das Riedgras
Die Kälte des Sees
erreicht mich leicht

Zwischen Schneeflocken
tanzt dein Atem

Rasensprenger -
Pauline schnappt nach dem

Ein Tautropfen fällt
in die Stille - Morgentee

To the spring


my laughter breaks away
from me

To the spring, to gentian
bowed low

Sedge so dry
The lake’s coldness reaches me

Between snowflakes
your dancing breath

Lawn sprinkler -
Pauline snaps at
the rainbow

A dew drop falls
into the silence - morning tea

CB: 1, 4 / WM: 2, 5 / HG: 3, 6



June Moreau
Giselle Maya

 for my shelter            
 made with branches
 of sweet birch and pine
 I fashion a door
 and a window for the moon
 dark crown                
 of winter mountain
 whose hands made
 this wooden door
 shielding me from frost
 my tent flap open
 so the mountain
 may not keep to itself
 its many secrets
 come for seed
 I open the door
 to see Rabbit pounding rice
 in the winter moon
 doors, doors
 what would life be
 without doors ­
 a butterfly opening
 and closing its wings
 doors separate us
 saying goodbye
 to you
 I wonder when
 we will meet again

  I come to the door
 of my old cabin
 in the forest
 and I hear
 music within
 the dark wood
 of the door shines,
 rubbed and polished
 with a brass knob -
 it makes me feel at home
 the huge barn door
 of winter
 is closed behind us now
 and the bright door
 of spring opens
 old door
 collaged four season panels
 no handle
 a little bell on a red ribbon
 jingles when it¹s pushed open
 the moon
 just an old knob
 on a door
 to a room
 beyond the stars
 there be a door
 to one’s heart
 if so, who in the world
 could open it
 I opened
 the door this morning
 the whole sky
came in and fields
of white clover
 doors of illusion
 I dream that he would come
 on a trip with me
 a sailing ship criss-crosses
 the Mediterranean
 he opens the door
 and hears
 the secret sounds
 he left
 footsteps ago
 the door
 to the guest room
 glass paneled
 with a cicada linen curtain ­
 for guests to dream and rest
 on my doorstep
 this morning
 the tiny paw prints
 of a chipmunk
 in the snow
 chapel door
 massive oak wood
 hard to open
 inside a magical space
 for music, paintings and poetry
 the name
 I was trying to remember
 came to me
 just as I put my hand
 on the doorknob
 door to the cellar
 painted in apricot
 an earth floor with fire wood,
 boxes where stray cats shelter


 Alex Pieroni
 Jane Reichhold

 I made miso soup
 for the empress of haiku.
 will she ask for more?
 how to publish
 less of more
 along the road
 the thistle blooms
 every year
 smooth on my tongue
 the first of this harvest
 only the best tea
 is drunk
 from an empty bowl
 the moon tonight
 a flat curved crescent
 soldier on
 and sing to the death,
 brave October cricket
 getting dressed in a fog
 to go to another funeral

 along this muddy path
 one plant remains evergreen
 sprigs of wild thyme
 shiny white smiles at the reunion
 we were that class of 1955
 the best ones
 are picked in the fall
 "the most important sex organ is the brain"
 today's email from an old lover
at 3 am
 the sun shone
 from a cold white box
 his face aglow with desire
 in the light of the fridge
I dreamt of dry toast
 and awoke to crumbs in bed
 sleepwalking snacking
 confused by the time change
 habits are now ha-bitch-ual
without thinking
 I pluck a cherry blossom
 and think of the moon
 may all good things
 come to the open heart

Ramona Linke
Helga Stania

Mount Schabell
autumn moon looks
through the Martin's hole

harewood throws its leaves
onto the church stairs

a stranger -
horn blowers are practicing
Le Rendez-vous de chasse

as far as the horizon
forests filled with smoke

a bamboo raft
drifting into the sea

light blue the room
it will be a boy

after many years
remaining silent

at family dinner
serving rumors

dark beer on tap
the evaluation
of the field walking

red poppy interweaves
neighbor's paling fence


escape attempts
in the container
air shortage

to the Klezmer Concert ...
the NAVI: bear sharp left

giving away victory
for a kiss

 honeymoon. Above Tokio
the first sky

pale crescent
wolves roam
through frozen lands

 pictures of the pavement artist
auctioned for needy children

Homeward bound

up to the middle of the pond
brittle ice

from the south
wind carries
the scent of hyacinths

moving on unsteady legs
first Easter lambs


Ramona Linke
Helga Stania

Am Schabell …
Der Herbstmond schaut
durchs Martinsloch

Bergahorn wirft sein Laub
auf die Kirchenstufen

setzt sich eine Fremde –
Bläser üben
Le Rendez-vous de chasse

horizontweite Wälder
erfüllt von Rauch

ein Bambusfloß treibt
aufs Meer

hellblau der Raum
Es wird ein Junge

nach vielen Jahren
das Wiedersehen
gemeinsam schweigen

beim Familienessen
Gerüchte servieren

frisch gezapftes Schwarzbier
die Auswertung
der Feldbegehung

Nachbars Staketenzaun

im Container
fehlt es an Luft

zum Klezmer-Konzert …
das Navi: scharf links halten

für einen Kuss
den Sieg hingeben

Flitterwochen. Über Tokio
der erste Himmel

blass die Sichel
Wölfe streifen durch
froststarres Land

Bilder des Pflastermalers
versteigert für Kinder in Not

Während der Heimfahrt

bis zu des Teiches Mitte
brüchiges Eis

von Süden her
Wind trägt

 unterwegs auf wackeligen Beinchen
erste Osterlämmer

  gedichtet in e-mail-Korrespondenz vom 22.10. 2010 bis 05.12. 2010



Kala Ramesh
Barbara A Taylor

palace gate
two watchmen crisscross
their shadows

puzzled by alien tracks
in sand dunes

a white rabbit
at the flourish of
the magician's hand

cutting the tarot cards
on the kitchen table


Kala Ramesh
Barbara A Taylor

in the folds of
my mothers sari . . .
memories cocooned

flashes from the lighthouse
stream against the flow

his arms circling mine
we talk of the tomorrows
that are yet to come

a b r a c a d a b r a!
cheeks of  full moon at midday



Frank Williams
Doreen King

receding green pond—
a dragonfly hovers
in a shaft of light                                 

when the hot sun sets
mountain ice is candy                         

dotted here and there
on the pavement
a few copper coins                           

playing chess
he only takes my pawn                   


by moonlight
a Knight rides swiftly
towards Camelot                            

greylag geese leave the valley
with unbearable silence                    

the leaf that dropped
into his gloved hand
is presented to her                            

their ticket for two
is stamped by the doorman            

on its earth mound
a Meercat stands guard
as the group forage                           

she goes far in shoes
that took me nowhere                     

after nana’s goodbyes
the whiteness of snow
outside the window                       

in the sky a full moon,
below the shortest day                 

monday morning,
while washing smalls
all the greatest hits                       

from a dear friend
the gift of a rare record                

during a sad day
she saw more clouds
than she should have                   

all through the air show
coloured contrails amaze               


dad’s old roadmap,
our destination covered
with a splodge of jam                    

on the lost kitten’s whisker
a touch of dew                                  

damp blossom
covers the garden gnomes
from head to foot                           

after planting beets
I have to clean my coat                   


A Summer Nijuin Renku Composed via snail-mail
Started: 01 July 2010 Finished: 09 December 2010



Jane Reichhold
Translations by Aya Yuhki

syohgai to wa
kabe de wa nakute
takami ni ayumi
iru tame no doa

not seen as walls
   but doors
to walk through
to a new height

koutai to wa
sukete hatsukiri
miyuru made
te wo yogoshi tsutsu
mono migaku koto

   the setback
something to polish
   ‘til hands blur
  to see more clearly
reflection and transparency


hanten to wa
wasurareshi mono ga
matsute iru
furuki michi yuku
toki atafuru koto

   the reversal
grants time to tread
   the old path
the forgotten thing
  lies in wait for us


shitsubou to wa
yume to gugen no
chikasa shirazu
yuki sugiru koto
deai wo sadamen

 dream and manifestation
not recognizing their kinship
   time to set a new date


kanashimi to wa
tachimachi sugiru
tomo ni aru
jikan no nobasu
ai no tonneru

 the tunnel of love
by our moments together
   swift passing days




Werner Reichhold
Jane Reichhold

Accommodating something astronomically. Partly subject to a season. New Year, the word ablaze celebrated in abundance. No, not asking for rain, but yes, from afar gaining acceptance acoustically. If it’s warm it’s sisterly; if it becomes surveyed affliction grows

Balanced sideways two sunny eyes with raised brows browsing the backroads of the future

Centralized, almost an oval including a true way out, socializing. Good morning critical mood, on my own shape’s horizon tiny red hairs learn to be aware of what they first may fear but what turns out to be another desired experience

Decentralized, a tiny snail descends the window glass, feelers fully extended into my room where the storm exists only in my frightened insides

Embossed wallpaper shows gray zones of pulverized skin. Was a body tired of wearing skin that refuses to take on new messages? On its journey through the air, light beams picked it up occasionally. Choosing a flight in silence, it places itself in a position where new shapes are passing by

F! Emphatic- the F-word- from the tongue frustrated fowl-mouthed chicken- the fox in the hen house full of sour grapes- fine wine- its label selling it to the fabulous rich- smiles into giggles

as a Group of five gamblers we share tonight’s full moon equally between us being a dancer, a deep-sea diver, a black smith, a beekeeper and his pregnant woman. To become a community of seven both, the dog and the cat release the pale light and themselves on the roof of our Jeep Cherokee

How half hunched over the scared heart pulls a person as a cart is drawn by the sacred horse. Hurt harmed and then horned – now holy

Immigrating willingly into acreage of question marks building a maze. Now in the sound of words breaking territory, a stringed center in mind

The powerful letter to introduce a name. The Jews have chosen for their god. Grandmother borrowed it for my father and he for me. So what joins us?

Knee-length shorts for summer and a kinetic ability of mist getting pierced by a flock of blue jays. There must be a gathering elsewhere – bells joining singers

La — fa-la-la-la the letter linked to larynxes to lungs, lunges lower than the libretto lets a libertine Lolita lick her lips while lisping loud her love

Minimizing meteorologically the influence of April rains, the meandering of her mind materializes spring a time moving minuscule muscles unwillingly - offspring in a pickup?

Nursery rhymes with her story. And we do that. Continue our inner dialogues - our scripts - etching them, emb-e-d-d-i-n-g them in kids. Our attitudes — the highest they reach for –  until

an Oscillation on the ocean takes on the viewer’s eye. With a more earthly approach and calculated obeisance my son opts to become an optometrist

Please thank you for your consideration to please you. My pleasure makes a plea for the p-ease of appeasement

Queen Elisabeth was quite bogged down in a quagmire of tiny details when she, smirking, lifted her right glove up to a diamond earring and the British took it — believe it or not —  for a qualified greeting

the Rolling sound in the back of your throat - the deep thrill of joy  that vibrates on the tongue - the verbal signature of Ireland - 3/4 of a cat’s language - the pitched roof with the curved finial

it’s a Sexploitative to do it sequentially. The session goes about sesame oil and with the serenity of sexagenarians, we unequivocally  insist to discuss homosexuality, the way it is experienced but rarely reflected spiritually

Two twined, briefly our need forces body to body for the exchange, the seconds which banish aloneness- when we’re children again at home in the moments before our own conception

Ultramarine umbrellas in abundance along the sunny path around the Fuji. This family reunion seems utterly beautiful; none wants to appear unfashionable, let alone undependable

V - a V of geese- a wedge of sky migrating in their wings the lonesome cry of every traveler

Wouldn’t hurt more than usually. In the worst case she was unobtainable, tired of my wordiness, simply ready to drink from her own wishing-well

X - the mark we sign our names by buying a new house, the commitment to each other and windows on an altar of rocks.  X  the unknown. Tonight we do not know yet, if

Yachting is the goal, we yearningly give the mast a new finish, invite a skipper from the yippee-generation. Doesn’t matter if it’s a youthful mistake or not, it’s what we’re feeling the winds are blowing us to

Zeros, slender circles, stacking up. The pile of round coins, the price of a place. Will it want us? The shape of our planet encloses us empty or rich




David Bingham
Chloe Bingham

Jean Brasseur
stacey dye

Owen Bullock
André Surridge

Haiga by Yu Chang and John Stevenson

Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime

Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair

Sharron Reid Crowson   
Dawn Reid Ward    

Four-Elements-CycleClaudia Brefeld (CB)
Heike Gewi (HG)
Walter Mathois (WM)

June Moreau
Giselle Maya

 Alex Pieroni
 Jane Reichhold

Ramona Linke
Helga Stania

Ramona Linke
Helga Stania

Kala Ramesh
Barbara A Taylor

Kala Ramesh
Barbara A Taylor

Frank Williams
Doreen King

Jane Reichhold
Translations by Aya Yuhki

Werner Reichhold
Jane Reichhold


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
XXV:3 October, 2010


Submit your works to Lynx

Who We Are




Next Lynx is scheduled for June, 2011.

Deadline for submission of work is
May 1, 2011.