February, 2010

A Journal for Linking Poets  




Billie Dee

The saber-tooth cat purls to her cubs from the other side of the mirror.
Tar pits roil beneath calm waters – another side of the mirror.

Thistles and briars prick bare flesh, too many wounds to count.
The masochist’s grin is upside down – squint-eyed before the mirror.

It's simple, the system for escape: knot the bedding, vault chain link.
Night guards are busy chopping their coke – white bride of the mirror.

Elephant ear, banana flower, the undergrowth crawls and shudders.
Mandibles, legs, compound eyes – fire ants fried with a mirror.

One minute the heat is Fahrenheit, the next it's Centigrade.
Our faces grow weary by degrees – we can’t abide the mirror.

Dracula glides across the floor, into the dying night.
We glare at the moon with blood-flecked eyes – petrified of mirrors.

Liposuction, augmentation, tattoos removed by laser. Wigs look good
while the cancer grows – Billie, don’t hide from the mirror.


Billie Dee

The Aegean Sea dazzled – a shimmer in the eye,
But didn’t compare with the deep azure of her eyes.

That summer I wore just a bathing suit and flip-flops.
The water seemed tame at first, assuring to the eyes.

A fleet of small fishing boats crisscrossed the afternoon.
God, there she is again – reflecting sky, her pure eyes.

Tried to hide my goofy smile – she seemed not to notice.
I watched from a corner of the tavern (unsure eyes).

I hardly recall that hot summer in the islands, but…
What? are these tears? or just a blurring of the eyes?


Steffen Horstmann

Words are exiled from a country of paper,
Are burned in books, in the debris of paper.
A piano's sounds blossom in the ear...
Notes of music floating free from paper.
Men left behind mountains full of stumps.
Forests fell for a bounty of paper.
Dark waters form a pool of ink –
The harbor for a city of paper.
Sparks from the fire like uttered syllable –
In them one hears the plea of paper.
Saws are buzzing like steel insects,
Turning – in seconds – a tree to paper.
Stars glitter, the night's broken jewelry.
The moon's light turns briefly to paper.
This poem was crumpled & discarded, taken
By the wind to swirl in a sea of paper.
 First published in The Meridian Anthology (2005)


Steffen Horstmann

A starlit bay where ghost ships sink in water.
Tonight the moon pours silver ink on water.
The gulf breezes caressed our sails,
Coursing where sunsets are pink on water.
An indigo sky above arid lands...
Whose denizens are burdened to think of water.
A dead river is scorched in sand,
Where vanished tribes knelt to drink its water.
The sea is reflected in Helen's eyes —
Blazing ships whose fires shrink in water.
Rainbows painted onto the sky's canvas...
Brushes drain colors into a sink of water.
The night listens to a cadence of seas.
Shooting stars cast white ink on water.
 First published in Candelabrum (2005)


Steffen Horstmann

Do not look for the dead, you will find them.
You are part of all that once confined them.
Do not make them recall their former world,
How their lives fell away behind them.
Why trouble the dead with your queries?
It's of their folly you will remind them.
They live in the silence, a music without notes.
You will not conceive how darkness has refined them.
You can make of them an audience, if you must.
Speak softly, the tremor of your voice will find them.
Is there in their eyes a garden of stars?
In what manner has their world designed them?
What is it you wish to obtain from their stillness?
Some aspect of the task now assigned them?
Please understand – you bring with you your world –
& the thought of how it once maligned them.
 You are part of all that once confined them –
 Do not look for the dead, you will find them.
 First published in Pegasus (2007)


Haiga by Jerry Dressen


Symbiotic Poetry – Haibun And Friends


Marjorie Buettner
There is a peace which emanates from the trees today down by the lake, giving off a palpable sense of serenity just as we, while breathing, give off to plants that carbon dioxide which saves. We breathe in this peace, this serenity; it is a gift given at the end of the day when the work is done and the birds are still and the lake – a placid presence – shudders off and on with the bubbles of fish breaking the surface. It is here when the when of now becomes an open field full of sunflowers facing the summer sun. And it is here where the open wound heals, the breaking heart closes and the distance which separates unites . . .

as if I could
touch you once again . . .
last day of summer


Marjorie Buettner

I see it rolling on the floor in a spot of sunlight. It stretches and luxuriates, slowly closing its eyes. Sometimes when I reach for it, it curls underneath my fingers and arches its back, sparks flying into the air – those times it is all mine. Other times it ignores me totally, pisses on my clothes and tries to escape into the wild. I remember, then, that this animal is by nature wild and untamable and I am hostage to its needs.

shortest day . . .
a zigzag of tracks
in the snow


Marjorie Buettner

The baby we could have had lies in the folds of the earth and breathes a new air. It has a body that glides through the water like a whale at sea, singing to us in our sleep. It flies through the air like an eagle soaring on circles of wind, calling out to us nightly. The baby we could have had belongs to no one and is lost to the ancestors who reclaim the fire that burns during the coldest night of December then dissipates in woodsmoke rising to stars.

a young fox
pouncing for his catch
winter solstice


Terry O’ Connor

I got an email from a friend with some photos. To look at the photos I had to give my name and email " This is a bit strange" says I, but low and behold when I gave my name and email it says "Congratulations on your new facebook acc", I'm all, WTF ?
Then it starts finding people from my email address book, I'm like WTF x 2 ?

But then I start to see all these people who I have not seen in ages and I'm like, ok, maybe???

A few months go by, me and my ex break up, I change my status to single and facebook only goes and sends out a status update to the whole world "Terry O’ Connor is now single" I'm like WTF x 3 ?

Anyway, it's not so bad now. Me and facebook have been married for nearly a year now we have a family, a nice little place. It's ok.

Terry O’ Connor
is eating a cheese sandwich
might go for a pint :)




Gerard J. Conforti

When the sunlight lights the sky, the birds sing with joy. When the sunlight breaks open the skies, the bare trees in winter reach for the warm. When the sunlight streams through the tree boughs, the flowers come out of the buds. When the sunlight is covered by a cloud, the rays of the sunlight spread out. When the sunlight brings the flowers to life the raindrops rest in their buds.

The rain ripples a pool of water in the sun



James Fowler

A gust of wind charges through the yard. The chimes shudder their response. In dream's dark kingdom, the tolling grows into a siren's scream: incoming, incoming, incoming. I stand beside the bed before I know I am awake. Outside the kitchen window, a moon-glazed cloud scoots past the naked oak. A trucker's beams adorn a distant ridge. Then they're gone. The moon pokes over the roof above me and sparks the snowy lawn. I feel like a dog offered a bone and give in to my body's shuddered response.

cold pillow
my wife rolls over
pats my shoulder



James Fowler

A pickup shrouds the drizzle's song. I shiver as it passes. The truck's wind riffs the feathers of a dead crow's left wing, splayed toward town. The gust lifts and whips a plastic bag around a sumac stalk, up and over, up and over, until it sheaths the stem. Beyond, shriveled leaves rush back into the trees. A squall whisks rain down my neck as I bend and unwind the bag. I slide the body into it with my shoe and step into the woods. In town, I slip the empty bag into the trash can outside the inn.

bare oak
a blue jay mimics
a crow


Ruth Holzer

When I was ten, we rented the first floor of a two-family house on a quiet, leafy street. We stayed there for years, enjoying the space after our cramped apartment. The landlady gave me part of the yard for a garden where I planted cucumbers and carrots next to her beets and potatoes. The dining room had a stained glass window that caught the evening sun and splashed the wooden floors red and gold. When the owners sold the house, we had to leave. I was already on my own, somewhere else. I came in one door and went out another.

young willow—
growing up


Ruth Holzer

I had planned to stay in this cottage for a while, in the picturesque village on the River Deben. But the place was all topsy-turvy:  the windows were set at crazy angles and had to be hammered open and shut. Wall-to-wall shag carpeting displayed a whorled design of purple cabbages. Each small chartreuse room was slightly tilted. The radiators clanged and remained cold, the chimney was cracked and useless. The water ran rusty. Night and day a peculiar smell permeated the air. When I looked over the fence, a fleshy sow stood up on the other side and stared right back.

roar of Phantoms—
Suffolk piggeries
safe from the Russians



Roger Jones

Load up the stereo, footlocker, duffel bag of shoes, pasteboard boxes full of odds and ends. Worry about summer work when you get home.  Right now, sort out all the semester textbooks. A couple of keepers, but sell the rest back. You can probably get forty or fifty bucks for them – enough for gas and a couple of decent meals on the way home. Finish sweeping the floor. Pause a moment to nod to any lingering ghosts. On the way out, don't forget to lock the door.

burn of chlorine
in my nose
first dive



Shirley A. Serviss
My husband and I saw each other mostly at meetings or news conferences. Worked for competing media. Didn’t share our sources. Rarely shared dinner. If I wanted to see him, I turned on the TV news. Instead of love letters, I found notes that read: Gone to train wreck. Don’t know when I’ll be home.

We spent holidays hiking: he far ahead on the trail; me limping behind on blistered feet, terrified of bears. At night, we played war games—moved armies and battleships around the board re-enacting famous fights.

No surprise our marriage didn’t last. We were never on the same team.



Shirley A. Serviss

We played Monopoly that summer—coffined in the close heat of my cousin’s bedroom—rolling the dice, buying up real estate. She was on a losing streak in more ways than we knew, handing over pastel play money at the dictates of Community Chest, oblivious to the cancer limiting her mother’s chances.

I was still older than she was that summer, tried to hide my budding breasts when we bathed together in the tub, couldn’t hide my growing disinterest in Barbies. When I saw her dry-eyed in a navy suit at her mother’s funeral the following year, I realized she had passed me, landed on a spot beyond my reach.

pushed from nest    finding wings


Shirley A. Serviss

The problem with turning 50 is the numeral itself, not the baggy knees, wrinkled neck, the extra rolls around my waist.

I knew 50 better back in elementary arithmetic when I told myself the stories to make simple calculations more interesting. All I remember now is that it wasn’t one of my favourites, not one I lingered over. It’s a number I don’t quite trust, like some member of the community I once knew something bad about.

Perhaps it robbed a bank. Fifty would be capable of such a crime, balaclava over the zero, the five holding a gun. Fifty-one could easily have driven the getaway car. Fifty-two is guilty of something too, although nothing quite so heinous. Perhaps it only harvested on Sundays, nothing that made the weekly paper.

It was a long time ago and I no longer recall. I only know there’s nothing good about breaking into the fifties.

middle age
skin no longer



Richard Straw

My wife's dented white Dodge Caravan with retreads, its back seats removed, has its rear-end filled with things my sister and her husband salvaged for me before our parents' estate sale:

– two desks for my kids (my small glass-topped bedroom desk and my sister's matching desk);

– two carefully done paint-by-number paintings my mom or I did of a cowboy crossing a canyon stream and another of a different cowboy (or the same?) serenading his sweetheart with a guitar by a Conestoga wagon in the moonlight;

– mom's hand-stitched 1949 "Home Sweet Home" sampler that had hung in the dining room near the swinging kitchen door;
– two green plastic Adirondack chairs into which dad had carved his and mom's names and phone numbers on the arms;

–  another large green plastic front porch chair on which he'd carved "For Big Heads Only" after his cancer was diagnosed the previous fall; 

– an empty greenish-blue craft-tackle box with mom's name on the front in black stick-on Italic letters;

– dad’s weld-spattered lunch box and thermos with the faded company decals;

–  our tackle box partially filled with soft lead weights, red-and-white plastic ball bobbers and pencil bobbers, hooks and lures of all sorts, a red hook extractor, small pliers, a wooden-handled kitchen knife, and a whetstone with a chewing tobacco advertisement on its front;

– our cork-and-metal bait box and rusted minnow bucket; and

– three Zebco rods and reels with hooks and leaders rigged and ready for the water.

On an earlier weekend trip to Ohio to help clean out the house, my sister set aside a vanload of boxes and picture frames containing our parents' old cameras, movie projectors, black-and-white photos, color photos, spliced reels of 8-mm and Super 8 film, and framed family photos, many of unknown relatives. That cache came from behind a living room couch, under beds, and from upstairs closets and dressers. Before this last trip, I spent warm evenings alone in my North Carolina dining room, sorting through plastic grocery sacks of film packets and negatives from the 1950s to the 1990s.

his grin
as he holds up the prize
a tiny catfish



Haiga by Warren Gossett





Don Ammons

no snow
mild grey day
furrowed fields
muddy black
long rain puddles

the fjord frozen
covered with powered snow
men with wide shovels
clear a rink for skaters
in the blue sky white gulls circle

scattered across
a blackboard sky
stars and stars and stars
the north one centered
the big dipper tilted

split log lengths
stacked neat against barn walls
evening silence
yellow light in rural windows
blue smoke rises from chimneys

cold room
iced window panes
on a writer's desk
closed covered computer
coffee dregs frozen in a cup

sluggish surf iced
beach and dunes frost
the sand hollow
where summer lovers laughed
layered with snow and silence



Francis Attard

White Christmas
blanched almonds
vegan's pie

scarecrow in tatters
hat worn askew

Alpine heights
Icarus butterfly
at 10, 000 feet

on stilts about town
distributes pamphlets

bony fingers agile
ties reef knots
under the moon

“My Fair Lady”
restored digitally

on its first leg
leopard snake on doorstep
not turned away

glitters after rainfall
swamps a spider web


lies to sweep
under the carpet
along with the dust

memory recalls memory
in the analyst's couch

cuckoo flowers
sacred to the fairies
not to bring indoors

TV baseball



Ed Baranosky

Lunar shadows,
At the still chained wheel,
The mooring snaps…
An off-shore breeze carries the scent
Of pine and tar and spindrift.

A curious deck cat
Haunts scurrying rats
Both evading the dog
Barking at sleepless gulls
Settling in the rigging.

A solo dory
From ship to anchored ship,
With muffled oars
Semaphores it’s wares
Making silent rounds.

Between outcast,
Sea-hobo, and stowaway
There is but a thin line,
Within the world of corroded
Amulets and contraband

Harbor sounds drift
In with the slow rising tide
Easing into dreams,
The Southern Cross
Above swaying masts.



Carl Brennan

Rush-hour headlights
taillights skidding on black ice...
bright ornaments once
in a boy's dream of heaven
where Christmas trees never died

My final winter –
wondering how my stillborn
verses will greet me,
hoping their tiny souls
have acquired forgiveness

I see a frozen
wasteland where tears stop flowing.
Curious, hungry
creatures there can claim me...
I've wounded Love many times

With an oak bokken
I battle a sword-wielding
vampire at night
Sunrise will deliver me
hypothermia's mercy



Garry Eaton

along this street
only one porch lit
            evening snow

            snowy evening
the paperboy's tracks

an old man
shovels the sidewalk
            falling snow

             hidden beds
the sheets on clotheslines sag
moist with snow

snowflakes glow
in passing headlights
            exhaust pipe swirl

            faint flurries
melt water flashes
in dark gutters

a streetcar pauses
for a lame dog to cross
             snow snowing



Chen-ou Liu

rippled clouds
blanketing Taipei below
winged migration

rainbow arch
hanging over the CN Tower
my mouth on hers

taking S from the chest
replacing another s
poet-husband doing chores

diving into my mind
carving out a full moon
as sunlight warms Taipei



Victor P. Gendrano

She shot his head while he's sleeping
as she can't bear to share him.

With crumbling hopes of love and life
she gunned him again and again.

Then by his side, she killed herself,
murder suicide, it's reported.

His mysterious disappearance
in the wilderness is over.

He finally admitted
to his loving wife and children,

he was with his other love
his soul mate in Argentina

Their vow of love had remained
unbroken 'til the very end.

With a hint of Romeo
and loved Juliet's tragic play,

they committed double suicide -
euthanasia, medical term.



Penny Harter

a cold front storms
into my dream tonight
and yellow leaves rain down
so far away the echo
of your voice

remembering your touch
I close my eyes
and let rain bless my face
how long until you take
my hand again

this autumn evening
passing cars splash by
on rain-dark roads
out my bedroom window
our translucent reflections

the full moon casts a
bronze halo on moving clouds
when I was a child I knew
the secret names
of everything

Elizabeth Howard

no road signs
hills, hollers, ess curves
third time past the church
like my life with you
winding roads going nowhere

kindergarten science
to feed baby birds
the towhead says
you have to chew worms
and spit them in the open mouths

flight late, luggage lost
we collapse
on a damp hotel bed
outside, a beach party
samba and bossa nova



Haiga by Romona Linke


Ramona Linke

Tag des Mauerfalls – Mutter spricht stundenlang kein Wort

zum Festhalten, ab sofort
die Freiheit

und fragende Blicke
über den Küchentisch

… ein leises Lied am Bett
unseres kleinen Sohnes,

sein Lächeln wischt
meine Tränen                 fort

zwei Wochen später: ich sehe meinen Vater, zum allerersten Mal


 Ramona Linke

the Fall of the Berlin Wall – for hours mother speaks no word

to holding on, from now
the freedom

and quizzical looks
across the kitchen table

… a quiet song at the bedside
of our little son,

his smile wipes
my tears            away

two weeks later: I see my father for the very first time



Chen-ou Liu

one by one
drops from this middle-aged face
soak the page
I have nothing to offer
but sweat, tears, toil, and blood

I feel something
inside me fraying
something I've draped
my dreams in –
the chill of autumn dusk

as night deepens
dark secrets emerge
and gnaw at my heart
I cut it open
with the scalpel of words

in the inner chambers
of my heart
except scattered memories
and Lego blocks of words

gazing up
at the full moon
I offer a full cup
to entice her  –
this autumn has come to me alone


Francis Masat

a peeling Christmas ad
reveals a beach scene

two pirates duel
with rolled-up magazines

a girl stops traffic
for a motorized wheelchair

during a red light
the click of laptop

a woman twists and untwists
the same curl

an acolyte reaches out
to catch his cell-phone

a passing runner connects
a row of puddles



Catherine Mair

a joker always
Selwyn takes the pronged fork
& chases the little boy
down the garden path.
'He doesn't want us,' the boy says

they married on the 31st
now she rings and says,
'It's not trick or treat,
my family's hair
is alive with nits.'

once we threw
pumpkin seeds
on a compost heap
the pumpkins were bountiful
& haven't been surpassed yet



Patricia Prime

after a week of storms
the last day of October
children walk the neighbourhood
with their baskets and bags

they clunk clunk
down the garden path
churn up the grass
their sing-song voices
calling out 'Happy Halloween'

covered with face paint
they poke out their tongues
and make faces
forgetting that grandmas
used to do the same thing

a group of children
with scary masks
and garish costumes
present me with their bags
to fill with lollies and gifts

they don't seem impatient,
so I say, "Nice costumes,"
to which they reply,
"We got them from the Warehouse
and our fairy wands and masks."

in another house
a pumpkin's carved grin
beckons them  –
I've spent too long on the doorstep
listening to their prattle



Werner Reichhold

resting wind
in the oval of an egg               already wings

sleeping under a tree                    bare roots

eyelids sink
an earth shadow passing           moon clouds

                 June waving on the farmer's head
                                              a raked breeze


she calls           leaves have started to change
so little

in absence        of a friend's wax-brown eyes
lighting a candle

flying further            a pheasant's feather left
the color of its voice

lady pale     on your ears     a keyhole limpet


the dark
one word unspoken                in a sea of lips

                                             coming closer
with the night train of my dream     a whistle

still on a journey
my name is Stradivari                     tree-born

slightest touch   shaking all over      the gong



Richard Stevenson

Action Dachshund’s down.
Blood tests reveal nothing more
than his baleful eyes.

Pills don’t work:
he yaks himself inside out
but won’t pass a stool.

He can’t keep even
a teaspoon of water down,
eats only with his eyes.

Yet he’s presented
beaded jewel work before,
passed socks, underwear.
This time a shoelace,
bits of plastic and towel block
militant bowels.

Horrendous vet bills
or a dollar fifty bullet?
a friend avers.

A week later
the dog’s sporting his new
Buddha belly grin.

He’s in stitches,
our wallets have been
Not quite the progress
of a king through the guts
of a beggar, but ...

He’s still only half
way down the dark chute himself;
we’re down a few bones.

Three hundred a year –
That’s one way to look at his
shaved belly smile.
The canine’s supine,
catches a few rays between
itches and stitches.

Conehead Madonna:
he looks so angelic in
his post-op bonnet.

One week and he’s back
barking at the mail man,
humping our male cats.

Trans-species perv –
but what’s a dachshund to do
without a footstool?

His cone scrapes the path –
We should put him to work
shoveling snow.

Mongoose at bedside.
Would you take this damn thing off  –
pretty please, he begs.

He looks ruefully
at my aromatic socks,
gives his head a shake.



Barbara A Taylor

in rubbish piles
outside the restaurant
overripe fruit, healthy greens
and poverty
in my face

a flashing santa
splashing gumtrees
ho! ho! ho!
mad electronic tidings
in summer’s midday sun

blue irises bloom
on this, his final day…
all that remains
an iron double bed-head
on smoldering hot ashes



Haiga by Melinda Hipple


Barbara A Taylor

staying alive
the grim reaper speaks
to young deaf ears

his conscience pricked
at the needle exchange

an orphanage for babies
without a home

on every continent
lost count of hearts
in the quilts

cover up
not using a condom

a play with death
immune system’s shattered
his struggle for life



A. Thiagarajan

even the deserted house
fills with shine

sunbath –
lying abandoned
the day's newspapers.

coming in again –
by the window breeze
few strands of her hair

strong winds –
sticking to a trembling leaf
a worm

sudden rain –
few deserted sand castles
lose shape

pushing up the incense smoke
the coffee aroma

open air concert –
mosquitoes hum ceaselessly
in serpentine weaves

vacation over –
the dog on the couch
chased by none


Single Poems

footprints frozen
in the ice a lonely trail
a path of hopes and dreams
the wind blows the shifting snow
pathways covered uncovered
            CW Hawes


new silk sheets
pink and red flowers
I spread
setting the scene
for sleeplessness
Ruth Holzer


not having lived alone
before, I stare into gray sky
and falling leaves—so many
lives I've left behind
this chilly morning
    Penny Harter


why do you preach
speech is silver
silence is gold
when you speak
dawn to dusk
radhey shiam


words speak to the head
and silence speaks to the heart
two kinds of knowing
you take my hand without words
yet questions run through my mind
                CW Hawes


Jacques Derrida, French philosopher, mentioned in his book, The Post Card, that his first phone number in Algeria (ca. 1920) was  7  4+3  7

one foot closer to the sun
amaryllis    sleepless young
pink pictured in his faith book
                Werner Reichhold


swarming in the last
rays of sunlight
Bhalachandra Sahaj


I watch leaping silvers
for a moment I think of
fishermen with
heap of dead fish
I feel so bad
            radhey shiam

uncle's last moments
between a sip of beer
and a piece of pie
ayaz daryl nielsen

Dog is misspelled
the child discovered
the Great.
            P K Padhy

I don’t know
who is stranger
in this world?
I am surprised
to hear such things
          radhey shiam


factory machines:
they stamp and press, mold and cut
identical parts;
weeping willow in the wind
never changes how it sways
CW Hawes


A lonely path
through impossibly bright forests
this dream called Autumn
The sylph struggling playfully
carried in my breast pocket
            Carl Brennan



Haiga by an'ya









Billie Dee

Billie Dee

Steffen Horstmann

Steffen Horstmann

Steffen Horstmann

Haiga by Jerry Dressen

Symbiotic Poetry – Haibun And Friends

Marjorie Buettner

Marjorie Buettner

Marjorie Buettner

Terry O’ Connor


Gerard J. Conforti

James Fowler

James Fowler

Ruth Holzer

Ruth Holzer

Roger Jones

Shirley A. Serviss

Shirley A. Serviss

Shirley A. Serviss

Richard Straw


Haiga by Warren Gossett


Don Ammons

Francis Attard

Ed Baranosky

Carl Brennan

Garry Eaton

Chen-ou Liu

Victor P. Gendrano

Penny Harter

Elizabeth Howard

Haiga by Ramona Linke

Ramona Linke

Chen-ou Liu

Francis Masat

Catherine Mair

Patricia Prime

Werner Reichhold

Richard Stevenson

Barbara A Taylor

Haiga by Melinda Hipple

Barbara A Taylor

A. Thiagarajan


Single Poems

 CW Hawes
Ruth Holzer
Penny Harter
radhey shiam
Werner ReichholdBhalachandra Sahaj ayaz daryl nielsen    
P K Padhy
Carl Brennan

Haiga by an'ya


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


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