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TABLE OF
CONTENTS
29:1 Febuary,
2014
LYNX
A Journal for Linking Poets
with Symbiotic Poetry
SOLO POETRY
GHAZALS
IN YOUR COUNTRY Steffen Horstmann
Whirlwinds teem amid monoliths built
Over centuries by slaves in your country.
On coastal plains the sky is a sea surging
With clouds shaped like waves in your country.
The iridescent plumage of nocturnal birds gleams
When an oceanic wind raves in your country.
Kings are entombed in icy chambers sealed
In a labyrinth of caves in your country.
Seething funnel clouds surge through wastes Occupied by warring enclaves in your country.
The sun throbbing like a heart evaporates Blue mists flowing from caves in your country.
Sages summon rain with the percussion Of timbrels & claves in your country.
Voices of massacred nomads stir in the dust Of their hurried graves in your country.
Groves of Empress trees burn as a phoenix Propelled by thermals raves in your country.
The radiating light of the firmament
Bursts into indigo waves in your country.
THE MANIKARNIKA GHAT Steffen Horstmann
Mynah birds burst from a cloud of ash that billows From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat.
Jasmine incense swirls in a fuming gust that blows From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat.
Moths with flaming wings whirled in smoke that rose From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat.
The apparitions of gazelles cast leaping shadows From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Sparks pulsate in latticed smoke that flows
SOLO POETRY
IN YOUR
COUNTRY Steffen Horstman
THE MANIKARNIKA
GHAT Stephen Horstman
Maire-Morrissey Cummins
HAIBUN
LOCKED OUT Gerard J.
Conforti
FINE ROOTS
Janet Lynn Davis
SUNRISE AT
THE BEACH Elizabeth Howard
Maire-Morrissey Cummins
WATER STREET
Ruth Holzer
TUXEDO
PARKWAY Ruth Holzer
SOME NOTES ON PARADISE Bob Lucky
WHAT’S NEW? Adelaide B. Shaw
A MOMENT BLURRED
Alexander Jankiewicz
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Maire-Morrissey Cummins
NOT TOO OLD FOR THE COLDJeanne Jorgensen
SOLITUDE Adelaide B. Shaw
Maire-Morrissey Cummins
DEEP RIVER Jenny Ward
Angyal
STOWAWAY
BEACH Ed Baranosky
PRIMAL PERSUASION Neelam Dadhwal
Tatjana Debeljacki
&Gordan Cosic
WINTER
INNUENDO Neelam Dadhwal
RODS & CONES john martone
LIFE WITH LARRY Jeanne Lupton
Sergio Ortiga
NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION:
YOU MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING, SO REALITY
CANNOT DESTROY YOU Chen-ou Liu
WHITE SKY Sabine
Sommerkamp
SPIRITUAL
FLICKERS Ram Krishna Singh
I AM Debbie Strange
BLACK Alexander
Jankiewicz
Wolfgang Beutke
SEQUENCES
From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Rings of embers convulsed as phoenixes rose
From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Chanted sutras are heard in crackling echoes
From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Through curtains of cobalt flames Shiva rose From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat.
Maire-Morrissey Cummins
HAIBUN
LOCKED OUT Gerard J. Conforti
I am lead out of the steel doors of the psych ward. For a moment the spring breeze is in my hair. No where else to go, I head back to my room in a rooming house. After arriving there, I put all my belongings away and then fall into a deep sleep on my bed. I awake in the pitch-black room and turn on the lamplight. I am still not feeling well, but I don’t care about going
back to the hospital, where I wasn’t treated well and suffered great emotional rejection and pain.
spring night the sound of stirring trees outside
I already know I won’t be staying very long in my room. I gaze at the capsules of pills. I’m still very depressed and psychotic. They let me go too soon. In an armchair I think for hours about life. I take a handful of pills with a glass of water.
I can hear traffic going by; drivers honking their horns. I jump at every kind of noise. I take the pills and fall once again into a color of dark sleep. I jump up sweating and my sheets are wet through. The morning arrives. I sit up and gaze at the blue painted wall. I know I must get help. When I tell my landlady what has
been happening, she phones for an ambulance. When I’m back in the ER the doctors and nurses began to detoxify me.
For six months I am back in the psyche ward taking a lot of emotional punishment. They are out to change my life all the way back to childhood —back to the present adulthood. My emotions tear at the rejection and pain. They want me to cease writing and find a part-time job. After leaving the hospital I am still angry about what the staff has done to me. I find part-
time work and continue to write despite the heavy odds against me.
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ON THE GREEN Scott Mason
MENAGERIE ON THE
HUDSON Scott Mason
RAUSCHENDES LICHT Helga Stania
FLICKERING LIGHT
Helga Stania
SHIFTING
CLOUDS Rachel Sutcliffe
SMALL BIRD Dick Pettit
SIJO
LINKED SIJO
Tamara K. Walker
ARCO Tamara K. Walker
OURS, UNSPOKEN
Tamara K. Walker
PUSH, PULL Tamara K. Walker
Maire-Morrissey Cummins
SINGLE POEMS by
Joanna M.
Weston,
Ruth Holzer,
Anne Carly Abad,
Edward Cody Huddleston,
Chen-ou Liu
Nu Quang
Janet Lynn Davis
Bob Lucky
Debbie Strange
Jim Babwe
years pass into the glory of God helping me
FINE ROOTS "No more hurting people Peace" * Janet Lynn Davis
with pebbles
I prop them back up— my lavender
barely past seedling stage
uprooted by wind
April 15, 2013, mid-afternoon. Staring out the window, I notice that some are bowing heavily, a few others passed out. Just a couple of days ago, I had planted them carefully in a neat row down the center of the bed. Now, I must painstakingly tuck
them back in.
After I return inside, I learn that a horrific attack has occurred at the Boston Marathon. Much more news would follow: so
many serious injuries, a child among the dead. What do parents say to their children, even those not immediately affected?
* Words on a sign made by Martin Richard, eight years old, one of the three people killed. first published at Haiku News, August 2013.
SUNRISE AT THE BEACH Elizabeth Howard
Excited to be waking near the Gulf, we step out to enjoy sunrise on the beach. The cherry-red sun is already hot as a breakfast tart, far too hot for bare feet. At the waterline, fish skeletons frizzle, breakfast for vagabond flies. Gulls circle and squawk; voracious terns chase the wavy waterline, the surf washing their starry feet. In the distance, fishing boats idle,
belly-deep, lights blinking like sleepy eyes. A jogger chugs through the deep sand, his teeth clenched with pain.
hip-deep in the shallows
a man casts for mullet a rhythmic dance a ballet of light and shadow
sun dancing on water
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Maire-Morrissey Cummins
WATER STREET
Ruth Holzer
Uphill and down, you never reach the end of it, even though you do your best to keep going. Bars, scaffolding, crumbling
walls, bars, vacant lots, construction sites, rubble, squats. Down in the harbor, a pilot boat is already leading your ship out.
a locked gate—
this isn’t the way to the Tower
TUXEDO PARKWAY Ruth Holzer
The first and only house they owned, finally buying when his employment seemed secure: a two-story brick duplex with a
rental unit. They stayed in it for over 40 years, and although later she got mugged a few times on the way back from the corner grocery store and his car was stolen from the driveway and the last set of tenants trashed their apartment before absconding. There they would have remained to the end of their days, clinging to life, as he said. But then he had a fall.
seepage the dark at the bottom of the stairs
SOME NOTES ON PARADISE
Bob Lucky
every blossom
a moving target the patience
of a hovering sunbird
in search of nectar
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the shadow of a cedar sapling dapples the grass
in a coiled garden hose I imagine the serpent
This time of year the wind never dies, whistles the tune that keeps the world spinning. The ferns and banana plants, the roses and impatiens, the pomegranate trees and jacarandas dance all afternoon with butterflies and bees. From the verandah I watch like a boy without a date, pet the dog that comes to console me, and think of making a pot of tea before I close my
eyes and let the wind shape my dreams.
in the garden
my wife and I take inventory so many things
yet to be named
WHAT’S NEW? Adelaide B. Shaw
They come nearly every day for coffee, six, seven, eight young men. Sometimes the group includes two or three women. They call on their cell phones, text messages, talk, laugh, sip their coffee drinks, go outside for a smoke, two or three at a time or all of them, come back in and resume their talk, laughter and texting.
family dinner the same old chit-chat
as last week
A MOMENT BLURRED Alexander Jankiewicz
We're standing in front of my mother's childhood home. I've waited a long time for my daughter to be old enough to understand. This is the place that my mother spoke so much of when I was younger, before I lost her to dementia. I
flashback and think of earlier times when my mother was so happy recollecting her youth. It can be strange wondering what your mother was like as a child. Sometimes a moment comes through when you see her in a seemingly helpless situation and can see in her eyes that she's too proud... or too afraid... to ask for help: a brief moment when you can see your child in your
parent.
standing
in my mother's footsteps my daughter asks
if grandmother stood there too
when she was a girl
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Maire-Morrissey Cummins
NOT TOO OLD FOR THE COLD Jeanne Jorgensen
Winter in Edmonton seldom arrives all at once or with a Bang. I have lived in Alberta for 70 years, but I am always surprised by the first killing frost. I no longer get upset but am saddened when all of our annuals in pots and barrels turn black almost overnight.
All is not doom and gloom though, for I now can ramble around our front and back yard and be grateful for all of the trees and perennials that will greet us again next spring. And, joy of joys, the mosquitoes are gone. All kinds of birds are migrating south and the leaves have turned to shades of gold, crimson and rust. Oh, and the air seems fresher as well.
thin ice on the backyard birdbath
puzzled robin
My husband fills all of the bird feeders now for the birds that remain in our neighbourhood. Fairly regularly, a
Jackrabbit arrives to clean up the grain that falls onto the ground. And then comes our first snow and the wonder it brings. Snowflakes large or small fall thickly onto eyelashes, age lines, and hair, then weighs down spruce boughs and tree branches. It also forms
mounds upon everything it seems.
yesterday's visit
with our granddaughter . . . snow angels
Although we are both elderly, my husband and I try and remain active even when the weather gets cold. With old age comes wisdom (thankfully) so we dress warmly as we go out and about. Dick helps our daughter-in-law build a backyard skating rink as well as shoveling/snow blowing not just her sidewalks and
driveways, but ours and our neighbours as well. I continue attending yoga and stretch classes. Neither of us ski but Dick still skates and I enjoy walking anyplace that I know is free of ice underfoot. No broken bones for this lady if she can help it! By mid-December our coloured outdoor lights are turned on to brighten up the night as well as celebrate the coming winter Solstice. My personal joy is writing our yearly newsletter and sending it along with photos and cards (often) to stay in
touch with distant friends and relatives as well as expressing our love to those close by. Hot coffee no longer just warms our bellies but hot chocolate and mulled wine our toes and souls as well. Winter in Edmonton, for us, is: a time to slowdown, walk
carefully, attend seasonal concerts of many kinds, snuggle deeply, travel safely and write more poetry and non-fiction stories. Most of all, it
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is a time to be grateful that, in Edmonton, we can enjoy all of the four seasons.
so many beliefs
Quaecumque Vera* still true
* Latin phrase: "What soever things are true"
SOLITUDE Adelaide B. Shaw
An afternoon alone. Children at school, husband at work. The early spring sunshine lights up the woods across from our apartment. From the fourth floor, looking down and across, the trees appear to be dusted with a pale green fuzz. I don boots
and jacket and follow the call to get closer.
I walk along a stream, the ground squishy with decomposed leaves. Wild primroses– yellow, white, pink–small and
delicate, barely noticeable in the leaf debris. Zig-zagging my steps, the squelching mud splashes inside my boots. The stream, clear and cold, ticks along, changing its voice as it meets rocks and fallen branches. No sounds except the stream, the snap of twigs, the cheep, cheep of an unseen bird.
woodland ramble neither meditating nor day dreaming;
just an empty vessel ready to fill
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Maire-Morrissey Cummins
DEEP RIVER Jenny Ward Angyal
I listen for the sound of water in a dry stream bed . . .
the pulse of yes beginning in my veins
a spring rises out of the earth—
I drink
from its oak-dark eye a glimmer of starlight
water like silk against my skin
I swim naked
in a sea of words waiting to be born
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STOWAWAY BEACH Ed Baranosky
Longing we say, because desire is full of endless distances. —Robert Hass
Meditation at Lagonistas
High, a circling osprey
calls the late morning sun. Sandpipers whistle through the azure haze
of the breaking surf.
Pine branches arch
Marble paths to the sea road, marking the tide's swell where the shallow bay conceals
long hidden shoals.
Tacking sails return
scattering reflections out of a dark fog; Shoreward timbers converse
with the spars in the wind.
Windfall apples
roll into the wet sand with ancient quinces; Pilgrims marooned anchors, forsaken stowaways.
PRIMAL PERSUASION Neelam Dadhwal
my dreams as the dust sparkled through sunbeams of a bamboo groove
settling unsettling in the pawn of life
drenched in a raindrop the wrinkled remnants of a sculpture listening to
the silence of sea, curtain falls in the mist
measuring the air currents she lays her hands molded
in the willow sipping from which the *Bihu songs flows smoothly
this last drop of ocean in ceaseless direction
with forces unbinding cast its own spell to shower down
the north wind in its blossom
the life slowly labyrinth of the lotus buds unfolding to the call of jay birds descending
on clear waters of ecstasy
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*Bihu is celebrated as the New Year in Assam in mid April, composing of festive days for cows and buffalos and man. Bihu songs are energetic sung to the beats of drum, pepa, and
gogona.
Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic
WINTER INNUENDO Neelam Dadhwal
winding road… the fog settles my journey
to the nearest herb
winter song…
people walking through the fog as their shadows
migration— nestled new born chicks
under the leftover blanket
between
a long road and home, the fireplace in courtyard of a stranger
winter sunset… in an old boat
I hear the music of oars
nut cracking…
the amber of fireplace in my mouth
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RODS & CONES john martone
late in bed legs warm dreams departing
same sparrow
song
sub zero
one morning this morning nothing hurts
rods & cones pines encircle his shack
grey matter the white matter
mycelium
puffball
under those pines that orphanage
holding his mind
up to his ear
hearing forest & sea
knusperhaus under each pine
the last stick he smells of wood smoke
newfoundland outcroppings
amyloid placques
blanket
what’s left of a dream
winter sky his blanket
LIFE WITH LARRY
Jeanne Lupton
My father told me
I would live through a man
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I finally found him my 84-year-old client
who has dementia
How many shrimp in this shrimp fried rice?
I saw one. It’s probably the same one I saw.
Are my sisters around?
No, they passed away, Larry.
Oh, hell!
I’m sorry to have to tell you.
Are my sisters around? Where am I?
What am I doing here? How did I get here? How long have I been here?
Do I belong here?
I dose him
with anti-anxiety meds so that I
don't run screaming
from the building
Melba you are a good kitty! Isn’t she?
Yes, she’s a good kitty.
Yes, Melba, you’re a good kitty.
cold night
Larry rests on the couch listening to bluegrass
I cook rice and veggies
to feed him is to love him
silhouette
against the autumn sun Larry with dementia
in the pose of The Thinker
his green shirt, his bright heart
"Meow”
Do we have food for Melba?
I just fed her
“Meow”
Shouldn’t we feed Melba?
he says of me to the head assistant
when she asks that he would prefer someone intelligent
I forget his cane when we go out to eat
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afterwards as we leave the cafe
he takes my hand in his
Sergio Ortiga
NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION: YOU MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING, SO REALITY CANNOT DESTROY YOU Chen-ou Liu
writing haiku... the cock crows
as if possessed
the vacuum humming I revise a spring haiku
color of the sky like a cat dead for weeks my summer haiku
a pause
between haiku half-moon
writing haiku... autumn sunlight breaks through a wall of gray
winter solstice a haiku lost and found
in my dream
the porridge
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on my coffee-stained desk rewriting haiku (for Jack Kerouac)
SPIRITUAL FLICKERS
Ram Krishna Singh
Plodding away at season’s conspiracies life has proved untrue with God an empty word
and prayers helpless cries
I wish I could live nature’s rhythm free from bondage of clock-time rituals of work and sleep
expanding haiku present
on the prayer mat
the hands raised in vajrasan couldn’t contact God—
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the prayer was too long and the winter night still longer
the mind creates withdrawn to its own pleasures a green thought
behind the banyan tree behind the flickering lust
I can’t know her from the body, skin or curve: the perfume cheats
like the sacred hymns chanted in hope, and there’s no answer
unknowable the soul’s pursuit hidden by its own works:
the spirit’s thirst, the strife the restless silence, too much
unable to see beyond the nose he says he meditates
and sees visions of Buddha weeping for us
the mirror swallowed my footprints on the shore I couldn’t blame the waves the geese kept flying over head
the shadows kept moving afar
the lane to temple through foul drain, dust, and mud: black back of Saturn in a locked enclosure
a harassed devotee
not much fun— cold night, asthmatic cough and lonely Christmas: no quiet place within
no fresh start for the New Year
I AM
Debbie Strange
I am
the black and holy roundness
of stone
and water
I am
the loon singing lamentations
to the four winds and seven seas
I am
the bonedust of winter
on the bent jackpine
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I am the broken
guitar strings
a rusted vehicle of song
I am the bruised sky
of January
a poet ghost in an empty chair
BLACK Alexander Jankiewicz
dreaming under the desert sun
burkas flow through the landscape leaving me behind
sitting on a mountain top
sunset beyond the black rises a call for prayer
awake with black flowing
through the cityscape colors hiding from my view
the whisper of a glance from behind
the black eyes try to say hello bidding peace without words
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Wolfgang Beutke Photo: Courtesy of the Estate of Edward Steichen
SEQUENCES
ON THE GREEN Scott Mason
railroad ties climb past the falling leaves
pre-game bonfire
global warming a Winter Carnival sculpture
Dali might admire
rites of fling
Frisbee practice pays off at graduation
MENAGERIE ON THE HUDSON
Scott Mason
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opening bell: blocks away, no ring
for the charging bronze bull
Mott St. storefront the glazed look
of a Peking duck
zazen duo
each with a pigeon topknot: Patience & Fortitude
on Museum Mile a mammoth
mummified snail
uniformed children surrounding the unicorn
in captivation
RAUSCHENDES LICHT Helga Stania
Wind peitscht rauschendes Licht Blaue Männer
laden das Salz der Verlorenheit
als tanze es hebt ein Reptil die Füße vom Sand
unbemerkt singend wandeln sich Formen
grüne Wogen auf dem Grunde des Sees Stille
im Strom geladener Teilchen
auf Caféhaustischen reihen sich Dominosteine schwarzweiß
tönt sich die Kasbah unter dem Mond
für den Flug zum Mars früh einen Platz bestellt online
ein Blind-Date vereinbart mit vielerlei Diensten
freundliche Worte zum Jubelfest am Denkmal
erklopfen wir den hohlen Klang
hinter dem Fenster ein mürrisches Gesicht dahinspazierend
schenk ich mein Lachen den weißen Wolken
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FLICKERING LIGHT
Helga Stania
wind swirls
flickering light Blue Men
loading the salt
of loneliness
like dancing
the reptile lifts its feet from the sand
singing unnoticed
shapes are changing
green waves
on the lake bed silence
in the flow
of charged particles
on the tables of the café
dominoes in line black and white the Kasbah's hue
in the moonlight
early reservation
on a flight to Mars online
arranged a blind-date
with several services
friendly words
and a joyful celebration at the memorial
by knocking we hear
the hollow sound
behind the window
a grumpy face strolling along
I send my laughter to the white clouds
SHIFTING CLOUDS Rachel Sutcliffe
hospital guide... the pathology department
marked in red
filling
the space between us... words left unsaid
results day... waiting the hardest part
clinic running late... we reach for the oldest
magazine
prognosis...
the future we had planned
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hospital stay... the smell of fresh air fast forgotten
3 months... we extend
our hopes
late autumn...
recovery unlikely
the years we won't share... winter sky
funeral service... outside the church
cherry blossom
Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic
SMALL BIRD Dick Pettit
a small bird skims into the hedge
winter sunshine
a farm cat patrols the side of an empty field
the driver gets down
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to open wire gates for his spattered van
piled sacks make a bed after the farewell party
the moon persists hardly whiter than the sky
between tower blocks
newspapers still in bundles next to the closed café
two violinists from the Conservatoire
play for early commuters
the escalator moves on
but the music stays
'The guy had headphones,
was reading a book, and he says: ”Look where you're going.” '
the producer throws a fit — outsiders on the set
two city suits drop in after dinner
on the folk club
when the flowers were all a-blooming on a morning in May
we walk through the night
and come over the Downs in time for Brighton Races
let's move along the stand two police coming this way
our new squad will tackle hackers, scammers
and high-tech cyber-pinks
my computer's a minimalist and I'm just not good enough
'You're like your father— now in heaven - you have
to be perfect.'
light on a summer's day
lasting well past midnight
St John's Eve
children sleep in the car after the fireworks
Dad's taken off, and Mum's crying in the kitchen
the clear moon turns hazy, and shadows blue
as dew forms
behind the long line of hill a fox's bark
”The beast's a predator
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we just mirror to it its natural habitat.”
leeches and poisonous slime and the mozzy spray don't work
the delver scrapes a bone, and saves it
for carbon dating
the bodies were soaked in petrol but many didn't burn
woods come down to small fields and farmhouses
they'd been here centuries
”There was compensation
but we can't rebuild the herd.”
”We decree a Europe
free of every trace of corruption and disease.”
the retired surgeon still scrubs up before engagements
”There's no-one under fifty in the Choral Society
but it's still expanding.”
a coachload of wrinklies turns into the High Street
A wet winter Tuesday —
and you can't move in York for tourists
moorgrime so low it wets each bump in the road
evening sets in a hitchhiker turns down the hill
to walk to the village
the moon, still bright has dropped to the top of the trees
bales of straw
like giant reels of cable strew the field
two boys out for rabbits one gun between them
”Easy, Sarge! We dropped them all before they saw us.”
demonstrations are forbidden but there's a funeral every day
no spring flowers. in this arid land they take
blossom from the trees
hibiscus in her hair
is this a message?
the bar-girl puts
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an electric hand on his thigh just in passing
choc'lates, canapés, champagne, and premature ejaculation
”Sorry, darling it's just that I prefer
the missionary position.”
”I like sex: it shows God has a sense of humour.”
a Polish officer with eager eyes, dying
'for administrative reasons'
Bodie went, and after that
I haven't bothered
unmoving radiance
the quiet moon reveals there's no escape
the past gives no direction saying 'yes' to what?
the Company starts up here
”So far out!?” they said. I say:
”Far out from where?”
odd blocks, car parks —
it's looking like London Airport
the girl laughs as I shout ”Someone must do something
about my flight.”
the cock stands on a tea-chest shaking his head at the hens
stinging nettles poke through an old car wheel
without a tyre
under the trees bluebells
stretch away in a mist
this pile of slabs
was a grave mound before the plantation
out of the shade, six steps and we're lokng for the skylark
becoming larger a balloon is about to land on the Building Society
Thunderball comes on in style sending the fans to rapture
bits of metal picked out by moonlight
on the park bandstand
out to create an outrage
he blows himself up
a searing article
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to make them search their souls the cowards
”Doesn't the President know he's skating on a bottomless trampoline.”
a clockwork orange poppin: he'll listen
to your troubles
when she goes on stage the others come to life
FADS' last night even for the prompter
some forget-me-nots
the fields are cut
and poppies throng the banks
thick mist
no callers to disturb my long morning
no parsley sauce on the tuna — the cats won't touch it
a dainty dish to set before the boss —
if she comes in
quiet work in progress as the stick stumps up the stairs
no sander's come
the joiner was sent to Leeds so we've done nothing
a handle for the lid made from paper-clips
she's put all the colours she can find
in his bobble-cap
he turns up his hood as wind and rain come on
the moon speeds from out the ragged edges
of turbulent clouds
dawn chirps briefly
from endless symphonic gloom
Neu-Jahrs Konzert
tickets must be reserved a year before
a good all-round performance it has its points
half the ptice is lost before you've driven home
from the showroom
a tired move at the exit he's pranged the car-park gate
”Five Pounds, sir. Slow across the grass, and by
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the cowshed wall.”
Sunlight and drops of rain -
scurry at the Spring Gala
awnings flap
prices are blown away in the open market
daffodils, cut short in rubber bands in a tray
a single bloom delicately poised
twixt thumb and finger
she dances with clear joy to his stocky touch
a private talk money, transport, supplies
till past betime
they've taken the old pump-house
it's a marvellous position
still magic the moon on wet tarmac
bordering the field
where shadows fall on the road that's where he grabbed her
walks in takes the cash, walks out
and no-one sees him
a quick-change artist
losing track of who he is
parades the street
in a coat of many colours the world at his feet
unimaginable corners of ex-finite space
gold, silver, lead: all are ways to painted death
the book is leather, true, but I'd use a paper label
be careful someone's pressed a freesia
on page 94
put it with Spring flowers
someone may take it out
SIJO
LINKED SIJO Tamara K. Walker
my heron snaps shut its beak to capture an elusive fish the same and
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not the same, mirrored reflections slip away look!— pale palms imaged in the water, somehow softer when painted
tossing a smoothed pebble forcefully into the distance while taking a breath, the ripples eventually reach back to me I shed my attire and wade in as the wind stretches my hair
breathing through a mask of pure oxygen by your bedside last week you convinced me to paint my fingernails chlorophyll-green now they match
the ferns and moss in the fertile landscape of my mind
ARCO Tamara K. Walker
in the distant tunnel flanked by overgrown vines eerie pulsings of longing fill the space, but I am at ease the warm haunting notes of
your viola lost in timeless limbo
your back arched against the shadows on a spring afternoon inside the
tunnel, decaying graffiti breathes whispers of will outside, you greet a florid landscape fertilized by self and fears
OURS, UNSPOKEN Tamara K. Walker
locked into your diner, talking until well past dawn's break fresh, surreal sounds of bright mid-morning leak through the door cracks the world on a fine red thread, wavering as if it would drop
past sidewalks see clouds briefly eclipse the 3:00 sun parochial doodles chalked cheekily where we walked as children your voice raised
in excitement as my soles print skies in the gutter
the program we were watching clicks video off as we sleep a quanta of
silence in between the subdued phases quieted souls rest as static turbulence swirls off the screen
PUSH, PULL
Tamara K. Walker
sprinting away from expired chemicals' combustion I come to sit on the
narrow lap of an aging see-saw underneath it groans with the weight of belated apologies
on the old playground dusk falls as we set out our blanket a child swings, soaring higher and higher with each well-timed shove like the sound waves in your vowels resonate as you speak to me
along the creek children play under their guardians' eyes surprisedly freeing fluff from picked cattails—soft, brown, and plain I
appreciate a seed pod—beautiful, spiny, and toxic
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Maire-Morrissey Cummins
SINGLE POEMS
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Sergio Ortega
the last flare
of sunset — jazz trumpet
Joanna M. Weston
I miss those glamorous companions of yesteryear:
the ablative absolute the dative of disadvantage Ruth Holzer
day's end here’s my chance to hold
the sun Anne Carly Abad
drinking it all in
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champagne sky Edward Cody Huddleston,
sunset light
through the cracked window of the shed
I lay his tools
away for the season Ruth Holzer
hopscotch traces
on the driveway ...
foreclosed house Chen-ou Liu
a blue jay
perches on a half-barren branch as if thinking whether to fly south or stay
I have seeds for you Nu Quang
Love Soup: the recipe book
I give her,
a former stranger who warmed my path
Janet Lynn Davis
faraway thunder— beating canned goods on rock faces
Anne Carly Abad
Year of the Horse— my lucky chance
to pluck a red and gold envelope
from the money tree
Ruth Holzer
lotus bud droplets break on leaves…
chanting Anne Carly Abad
wilted flower
have to think of something to give Anne Carly Abad
the deer's essence entering
my fingers changing to antlers
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Ruth Holzer
every day I sponge her bulging tumor, her soiled
cinnamon feathers still lacking the heart to put her to sleep
Ruth Holzer
with a passport I become a tourist
in my motherland treated like a foreigner who looks for old landmarks
Nu Quang
family reunion even the mosquitoes
gets slapped on the back Edward Cody Huddleston
summer breeze
my dog never tires of sleeping Bob Lucky
record heat we rearrange the furniture
in our basement
listening to water music I imagine cruising to Alaska Nu Quang
white-streaked clouds — mother's hair
Joanna M. Weston
we disagree —
the lake ruffled by ducks
Joanna M. Weston
I scour rust from the kettle— everything
in my mother's kitchen suddenly too old Janet Lynn Davis
her short life packed in an urn smell of winter
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Chen-ou Liu
rainy season gloom the cries of a broom vendor
sweep away my nap Bob Lucky
nearly winter,
too dry and gusty for burning— we look for a place
to lay these old limbs Janet Lynn Davis
ends of lines,
ends of poems ... why must
I wait so long to say
what's most important? Janet Lynn Davis
the bakeshop café
a cappella harmonies waft from the kitchen on cinnamon-scented air —
a teardrop steeps in my tea Debbie Strange
that biting winter
my sister carried me over hungry snowbanks
that swallowed our footsteps
before the bus opened its mouth Debbie Strange
she proofreads
with an arsenal of colored pencils ... I stare into the white glow
of my laptop screen Chen-ou Liu
I wear
the wind’s black breath my raven disguise
wheeling over darkling mountains
haunted by moonbathing ghosts Debbie Strange
first sunrise
the silver strand in my hair Chen-ou Liu
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BACK TO
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
XXVI:1 February, 2011 XXVI:2, June, 2011 XXVI:3 October, 20111 XXVII:1 February, 2012 XXVII:2 June, 20 2XXVII:3 October, 2012
XXVIII:1 February, 2013
XXVIII:2 June, 2013
XXVIII:3 October, 2013
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Next Lynx is scheduled for Jume 1, 2014.
Deadline for submission of work is May 1, 2014.
Send your submissions to: [email protected]
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