LYNX XVIII:1 SOLO

The sun refused to shine its rays inside
Where blackened angels bowed and prayed inside.

Deep in the cannoned halls the ancients laughed
At meager prophets fighting their way inside.

Their Christmas photo flashed white teeth and lied
Saying that life was all okay inside.

She charged the Andalusian spike through skin
Herding the poison to buck and spray inside.

Sick by the stench, the firemen searched their trash
Finding flies on the baby thrown away inside.

Made-up and bored, she sauntered and spread her legs
For any and all who wanted to play inside.

Wrinkled with smoke and booze, Josh seems dead,
But hides the rhythms and songs of the Fey inside.

Reverse the fingers by toes smile silk
2-year-old world peace to sock frogging beat

Babies are faceless to walls melted orange
And bald personified cave glowing beat

The leaves danced daily and survived in vain,
Trying to last Autumn alive in vain.

The ambulance engine smoked and flamed.
The medic cursed, trying to drive in vain.

She gave up her legs for a white horse prick,
But it carried the virus that thrived in veins.

The bees work their wings to a life stealing blur,
Pushing the flames from the hive in vain.

Feral with words, the Prophet ravishes the page
Refusing to believe that he strives in vain.

Who is it that sails proud as a Flying Dutchman
and comes to suspended grief, but the Flying Dutchman

From the port of Amsterdam another mariner
ships out, the lean and bearded Flying Dutchman.

Cursed as the rest of us to wander, yet for my sake,
he paused to sigh in Venice, the Flying Dutchman.

What remained after the rounded the Cape:
only the weird red glow of the Flying Dutchman.

That was the name, Ruth, you gave him when the mainmast fell
and his face dissolved in waves, your own Flying Dutchman.

Treasures from scuttled ships tumble ashore.
What is wealth for, in the long waters?

Boundaries are crumbling, the sands wash away,
adding their weight to the long waters.

Andrew's tongue misses the salt of the land,
tasting the blandness of long waters.

Nobody knows where these long waters end.
Horizons contend with the long waters.

Look at the tapestry's masterly spread!
weaving each thread into strong rhythms.

Is kneading your rosary better or worse
than feeding your verses on strong rhythms?

The strong rhythms: capturing, shattering me.
Enchanting to be in your strong rhythms.

Falsehood and truth blend in my song:
frightened men long for the wrong answers.

Merchants are counting their gold with a laugh,
folding the profits in wrong answers.

Prophets have stumbled away from the light,
trading the right for the wrong answers.

Andrew keeps wisdom so well out of reach,
defeating his teachers with wrong answers.

in Djokoumatombi, between the carcasses of warthog and buck, exposed to the dust and the onerous flies, are the perfectly flayed hams and thighs, livers and kidneys of humans, and haggling is expected

            tropical heat—
            the long skirts
            of the venders

traveling by myself i cross the watershed, and everything that once ran one way now runs in another, down and down

Looking out my porthole on a ship in international waters the announcement being made but I can’t hear the words, only identify the language by the inflection and lilt: English first, with a segmented strength; now French, glissading; Italian, rising to double-stopped peaks, then swooping off; the white noise of German; finally Greek, with phrases moving liquid dropped from a thin point of attachment and ending bulbous; and I have no idea what they mean . . .

SLATE
Sheila Murphy

I will brink her. I will sacrifice. I will loathe offenders when she finds them. I will alter speech and charity. I will offend my reach. I will occult my way into the dimly after-bother gap in stultifaction. No young portico cements the specked diamond fossil as I do. And no opinion pings the way my sullen goatee rues the broadside norms. No minions will have gathered falter fuel the way I mince my chaste event one seedling at a time. The only purified retainer of an avenue is how you work your way out of the slender highway. Nautical and brief and simmering the way we ought to do. A pint is good as grog when you are mutually reminded of a spark of tree. To wit, it works as reverence begins to blush to do.

fleabitten grey flecked with mud no comb has tried his mane or tail
yet four neat hooves beat the ground with a clear and rhythmic drumming
the gait and arch of neck belie—this pride of Araby

men at the gate leap to get the number slapped on the bay hip
plunging beneath auction lights he drags his handler through the sand
a cowboy steps up and sees a masterpiece beneath the dirt

the horse stands square, head held high short breaths cloud the chilly air
bathed in the sweat of his own fear this young stallion frightens all
save one —the man who meets the wild-eyed gaze and dares to bid

years as weapons
time has completed
a lethal assault
on the disused
chemical factory

a crust forms
on waves
the tide brings up
to the railway siding
and leaves gleaming

trackside
sulphur heaps
leached into the inlet
the harbour
and the planet's pores

balanced on
the belly dancer's head
a tray with
four lighted candles and
the box of matches

on the way home,
a simple man says:
marriage is security
it means if you split up
no-one gets more than the other

hoping the couple
will ask me
to take their photo -
on my own
in a favourite harbour

in strong sunlight
the shadow of heat rising
from the top of my head.
negative thoughts
drift away

last time
a drink with father
at the local
now my oldest brother
takes his place

Before I was born
no troubles
yet here and there
these beauties
of being here now

in the attic
to set a mouse trap
I find a letter of long ago;
it was a fiction of a new love
that did not last

the blue sky breeze
like water falling
through the trees-
far from news and causes
this one hour carefree

even that adolescent fantasy
so hard to die,
this shaken sense out here
of a woman in need
finding me...

all these spring greens
and my one little heart
dog tired trying to keep up
this life on the backside
of a heart long fifty

blind duty it may be
to write of love
and longing
but in these time worn years
it got lost along the way

due to a premonition of death
he got married
just before going to Viet Nam
back alive he's now divorced
and driving for UPS

the event of nothingness
too sublime
to be considered a worthy event
yet there it is
with open arms and peace

settled into the drive
I peek back
at my children
each at their window
so thoughtfully looking out

Breath in the spring winds
into your warm heart
and hear the sparrows
singing in the tree boughs
and walk a path of flowers

There are times
when the sun shines brighter
upon the lakes and rivers
flowing toward your heart
where the stars shine gleefully

I hear the spring winds
singing with the sparrows
and feel in my heart
the winds of blue sky
and warm blazing sunlight

Across many mountains
and flowery meadows
I hear your voice in the winds
blowing on this spring day
where my heart is warm with love

I draw you to my heart
like the moonlight
flows into your eyes
from a drifting cloud
bringing forward your love

I hear the tree leaves
blowing in the woods
where the silently falling snow
covers the dry leaves of autumn
where violets bloom in the spring

GERMANY
transfixed in horror
by a case of cannibalism in which
an apparently respectable software specialist
mutilated and ate
a microchip
engineer

February 1999
Venezuelan confesses to eating ten men and says
"I never eat women because they have not done anything wrong"

March 1999
three Finnish men and a woman eat fellow member of Satanist cult

October 2001
two Kazakhstanis sentenced to death
for killing seven prostitutes
and making kebabs out of them
the meat was shared with
neighbours

October 2001
Six Belarusians arrested for eating a man's raw liver

--------------

a night of piercing cold
in bed a family keep warm
playing games with the baby
round and round the garden like a teddy bear
this little piggy went to market

i love him so much i could eat him up

december winds
the feel of our baby's toe
in my mouth

ULSTERVILLE NIGHTS
brendan duffin

all
these visions
floor
covered in
sick

alone
in the lamplight of the
bedroom
my plump pink
nipple

behind the
blond haired walker
black haired walker
brown haired walker
green tree

in the small room
turning and turning
endless arms
stretching and stretching
endless fingers

from the tip of
my forehead to the tip of my toes
hanging
slab of blackness
deep stars

JANE'S GENJI
Sanford Goldstein

is it Genji's?

HIROSHIMA AND NAGASAKI

Annie Gustin

shadows stuck in stone--

the people were vaporized.

silhouettes of souls

leaning, pointing, pedaling...

laughter melted into walls.

hot baked potatoes

we dug up right from the earth,

piping in our palms--

sweet robust pumpkins roasted

still clinging fast to the vine.

all burned and bleeding

face melted like candlewax

she sat on the curb.

as i passed, my sister's voice

parted her lips with my name.

we were so worried--

would green ever grow again?

but new life sprouted.

grass blades, velvet moss, lush leaves...

bittersweet spring of lives shorn.

*****

i am a poet

impregnated by the bomb.

that summer morning

blindfolded me in a flash

--garments torn by a typhoon.

thrown, ravished by fumes

hot fires, sperm, blood and black rain

--they found me barely

breathing amidst the fallout,

pen fused like a sixth finger.

i'm still a poet.

sentences scarring paper...

see my verse turn green

in the dark. my two-headed

offspring, my mutated words.

in circles I rake
smooth sand around the pond
the way you taught me
I wait on the footbridge
where are you tonight?

he shows me
the medieval village
where he was wounded
secret sharer
the enemy soldier

a braided candle
divides light from darkness
sacred from mundane
I shake the silver spice box
flame gleaming on my nails

             A spider sits on a doily
               in the cafe window--
               little grandmother
               spinning poetry
               white-lace haiku

             hie to the pond
               to see the blue heron--
               morning by morning
               the dinosaur bird
               flapping away

               sketching the precise arches
               of a historic bridge;
               the pen, distracted
               by a frenzy of swallows,
               draws childish squiggles

               signboard in the weeds
               Sampson's Mineral Wells--
               where grandmother bought
               jugs of sulfur water
               a well full at home

               country church
               a belated funeral
               for a Korean War soldier
               only a photograph
               to mourn

              grandmother's dinner bell
               how we argued
               over the ringing--
                   now no one to claim a turn
               but me

               a plaster bust
               of a Victorian girl
               on the library shelves
               among so many books
               her book unchanging

               as night falls
               thin clouds envelop
               the harvest moon--
               antique lace enfolding
               grandmother's opal

BIRCH TANKA
Kirsty Karkow

a whirlwind
strips bark from the birch
pale skin exposed
I hear my mother's voice
accusing me of lies

awake all night
I sit in the moonless dark
hoping against hope
for direction
that still small voice

but for the fridge
the night
would be totally silent
if only dawn
would never arrive

this long winter night
cold mountain beckons
still and all
a cigarette wouldn't be
too bad

the low score
on her geriatric tests
at summer’s end
how swiftly the river runs
to where I cannot follow

crickets chirp
beneath my bedroom window
all night long
as if they sense how badly
I need a little song

a ritual
that began with her Alzheimer’s
she waves goodbye
from the balcony the tightness
in my chest as I wave back

seagulls and swallows
fly helter-skelter
under leaden skies
it’s time to make it legal
her reasoning is gone

how quickly
the tea cools in my cup
I cannot keep
her mind from falling further
by wishing it so

first snowflakes
as leaves continue to plummet
from the sky
how powerless I feel
in light of these changes

if only I knew
how it felt
to be a butterfly
I could paint my heartbeats
on the wind!

Sometimes, I wonder
if you lie comfortably
beneath your grave's grass.
Does the ground's embrace warm you?
At night, I lie cold sometimes.

CLASS
Sheila Murphy

I was learning to be tracing pink, and then this washed away. A hand in front of me through fog enough. And diming, darling, meant the caveats were usually burgeoning with still shots left to percolate in iso(metric)-lation. Our economy is yours. Uncanny how the wives tales brim with lasting eminence through science and tenacious auditory flames. Come on and taint me in my lucid tracks. The sensatorio is brave enough to wash. Is ivy and is sandwiched between obvious young ducks. If I were mercied all the way to studios I would befriend a frame against good looks. Is thus precisely where you fit in, folded in vines of origami lounging among sparks.


TABLE OF CONTENTS XVIII:1 February, 2003		LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets



	SOLO WORKS GHAZALS: GHAZAL by Joshua Gage, PATRON SAINT GHAZAL by Joshua Gage, GHAZAL by Joshua Gage, THE FLYING DUTCHMAN by Ruth Holzer, LONG WATERS by Andrew MacArthur, STRONG RHYTHMS by Andrew MacArthur, WRONG ANSWERS by Andrew MacArthur HAIBUN: IN THE MARKET by jim kacian, THE SECOND WEEK by jim kacian, WAVES by jim kacian, SLATE by Sheila Murphy HAIKU SEQUENCE Excerpts from THE TRIP TO AMERICA by Ion Codrescu, WINTER by Tomislav Z. Vujcic SIJO: THREE SOLO SIJO by Susan Butler, A SIJO SEQUENCE by Kirsty Karkow, ROMANTIC ESCAPADE by Victor P. Gendrano INJURED DANCER by Victor P. Gendrano TANKA: THE CHEMICAL FACTORY by Tony Beyer, IN A FAVOURITE HARBOUR by Owen Bullock, FAR FROM NEWS AND CAUSES by Tom Clausen, TANKA FOR J.R. by Gerard J. Conforti, HOT OFF THE PRESS by paul conneally, ULSTERVILLE NIGHTS by brendan duffin, JANE'S GENJI by Sanford Goldstein, HIROSHIMA AND MAGASAKI by Annie Gustin, Momi Kam Holifield, Ruth Holzer, ANTIQUE LACE by Elizabeth Howard, BIRCH TANKA by Kirsty Karkow, COLD MOUNTAIN BECKONS by Larry Kimmel, WHERE I CANNOT FOLLOW by Thelma Mariano, June Moreau, K. Ramesh, TANKA by R K Singh, Bill West WITHOUT GENRES: CLASS by Sheila Murphy, SHAPE by John M. Bennett, IG NORE by John M. Bennett, R ANT by John M. Bennett, YANK by John M. Bennett, LUSTER by John M. Bennett, RUBE by John M. Bennett, OR by John M. Bennett, PACK by John M. Bennett	GHAZALS GHAZAL Joshua Gage The sun refused to shine its rays inside Where blackened angels bowed and prayed inside. Deep in the cannoned halls the ancients laughed At meager prophets fighting their way inside. Their Christmas photo flashed white teeth and lied Saying that life was all okay inside. She charged the Andalusian spike through skin Herding the poison to buck and spray inside. Sick by the stench, the firemen searched their trash Finding flies on the baby thrown away inside. Made-up and bored, she sauntered and spread her legs For any and all who wanted to play inside. Wrinkled with smoke and booze, Josh seems dead, But hides the rhythms and songs of the Fey inside. PATRON SAINT GHAZAL Joshua Gage Candle flame halo altering beat Mummified box from hand snap bring beat 6 ft. smooth Sunday elephant straight Echo hand silence warm blessing beat Filthy not young bearded and grease Lotus and whiskey phallusing beat Reverse the fingers by toes smile silk 2-year-old world peace to sock frogging beat Virgin jock mescaline guided to keys Nightmare abortion clean cutting beat Futuring almond pastel sink beneath Horseman by dance tongue damning beat Empty plus roads in south growing blue 6 breaks to 30+ vinyl sing beat Blonde plaid velvet hobbit hole song Bansidhe holiness echoing beat Babies are faceless to walls melted orange And bald personified cave glowing beat JDs or saints hang holy glass Noosed by tomorrow up sweating beat GHAZAL Joshua Gage The leaves danced daily and survived in vain, Trying to last Autumn alive in vain. The ambulance engine smoked and flamed. The medic cursed, trying to drive in vain. She gave up her legs for a white horse prick, But it carried the virus that thrived in veins. The bees work their wings to a life stealing blur, Pushing the flames from the hive in vain. Feral with words, the Prophet ravishes the page Refusing to believe that he strives in vain. THE FLYING DUTCHMAN Ruth Holzer Who is it that sails proud as a Flying Dutchman and comes to suspended grief, but the Flying Dutchman From the port of Amsterdam another mariner ships out, the lean and bearded Flying Dutchman. Cursed as the rest of us to wander, yet for my sake, he paused to sigh in Venice, the Flying Dutchman. What remained after the rounded the Cape: only the weird red glow of the Flying Dutchman. That was the name, Ruth, you gave him when the mainmast fell and his face dissolved in waves, your own Flying Dutchman. LONG WATERS Andrew MacArthur These are the verses the drowning may say meeting the Savior on long waters: Treasures from scuttled ships tumble ashore. What is wealth for, in the long waters? Boundaries are crumbling, the sands wash away, adding their weight to the long waters. Andrew's tongue misses the salt of the land, tasting the blandness of long waters. Nobody knows where these long waters end. Horizons contend with the long waters. STRONG RHYTHMS Andrew MacArthur Look at the tapestry's masterly spread! weaving each thread into strong rhythms. Lovers are worshipping, mimicing God: blending their bodies in strong rhythms. Is kneading your rosary better or worse than feeding your verses on strong rhythms? Andrew's new recipe quickens the flow - sending his poetry strong rhythms. The strong rhythms: capturing, shattering me. Enchanting to be in your strong rhythms. WRONG ANSWERS Andrew MacArthur Falsehood and truth blend in my song: frightened men long for the wrong answers. Merchants are counting their gold with a laugh, folding the profits in wrong answers. Prophets have stumbled away from the light, trading the right for the wrong answers. Andrew keeps wisdom so well out of reach, defeating his teachers with wrong answers. Wrong answers echo insistently. Lie. Soon we all die of these wrong answers. HAIBUN IN THE MARKET jim kacian in Djokoumatombi, between the carcasses of warthog and buck, exposed to the dust and the onerous flies, are the perfectly flayed hams and thighs, livers and kidneys of humans, and haggling is expected tropical heat— the long skirts of the venders THE SECOND WEEK jim kacian traveling by myself i cross the watershed, and everything that once ran one way now runs in another, down and down on the surface of dark water my face WAVES jim kacian Looking out my porthole on a ship in international waters the announcement being made but I can’t hear the words, only identify the language by the inflection and lilt: English first, with a segmented strength; now French, glissading; Italian, rising to double-stopped peaks, then swooping off; the white noise of German; finally Greek, with phrases moving liquid dropped from a thin point of attachment and ending bulbous; and I have no idea what they mean . . . waves, waves the endless falling back into the same sea SLATE Sheila Murphy I will brink her. I will sacrifice. I will loathe offenders when she finds them. I will alter speech and charity. I will offend my reach. I will occult my way into the dimly after-bother gap in stultifaction. No young portico cements the specked diamond fossil as I do. And no opinion pings the way my sullen goatee rues the broadside norms. No minions will have gathered falter fuel the way I mince my chaste event one seedling at a time. The only purified retainer of an avenue is how you work your way out of the slender highway. Nautical and brief and simmering the way we ought to do. A pint is good as grog when you are mutually reminded of a spark of tree. To wit, it works as reverence begins to blush to do. One class craving struggle to legitimize the lack of rationale for safer hate HAIKU SEQUENCE Excerpts from THE TRIP TO AMERICA Ion Codrescu the path that takes us to the lake - here and there the pine fragrance torrid day... a line of Canada geese in relaxed poses as I round the lake a distant cloud disappears behind the mountain lingering by the lake the endless ripples the endless wind sounds of the mountain vanish into the vastness... no aim for my wandering mountain trail - a fern leaf stands out and waves in the wind the middle of the way - two dry pines lean one on the other on the old wooden house the sign of the last flood is clear yet on the ground a detached butterfly wing - airplane's distant roar waiting in silence the blue heron and I the stream between us WINTER Tomislav Z. Vujcic Waiting for a crow the nest on the branch blocks gusts of winter wind. First snow. Following the first tracks of wild animals. Under the eaves in the swallow's nest two mice spend the winter. Double refugee am I - escaped from the enemy and now - winter frosts. Down the snow path a skier's shadow rushing after him. Snowy winter night - remembering spring and my youth. Snowstorm - in an old house darkness. On a cold morning sweating from the heat - freedom warms me. SIJO THREE SOLO SIJO Susan Butler "Dawn always begins in the bones." Hymn to Ra, Egyptian Book of the Dead Dawn begins on my skin, an anticipation of light. Earth turns, the light proceeds. Sun, a shiver of mourning. Sorrow for the loss of peaceful night, my bones weigh heavy. We laugh over childhood adventure. Our treasure, living free, living unconcerned with life, unaware of mortality. Remembering when, by his grave, we were immortals. The hard weight of my thoughts dissolved, now light shines clear as fresh rain; each leaf and bud enunciates, a gleam, each stone in high relief. This day of despair washed, there comes my son, walking home. A SIJO SEQUENCE Kirsty Karkow fleabitten grey flecked with mud no comb has tried his mane or tail yet four neat hooves beat the ground with a clear and rhythmic drumming the gait and arch of neck belie—this pride of Araby men at the gate leap to get the number slapped on the bay hip plunging beneath auction lights he drags his handler through the sand a cowboy steps up and sees a masterpiece beneath the dirt the horse stands square, head held high short breaths cloud the chilly air bathed in the sweat of his own fear this young stallion frightens all save one —the man who meets the wild-eyed gaze and dares to bid ROMANTIC ESCAPADE by Victor P. Gendrano I visited Room 816 with its truly grandiose view where I tried to recapture even fragments of memories of that passionate weekend which turned out as our final tryst. INJURED DANCER by Victor P. Gendrano eyes closed, she sways in rhythm with the piped-in radio music imagining with a smile her well-practiced ballroom dance steps as she waits in a wheelchair for her first hospital visit TANKA THE CHEMICAL FACTORY Tony Beyer years as weapons time has completed a lethal assault on the disused chemical factory every window pane broken every suspect asbestos roof sheet cracked or frayed true discoverer of empty places the wind tunes its voice through the walls a crust forms on waves the tide brings up to the railway siding and leaves gleaming yellow sky in old film of the region exhaled above industrial silhouettes trackside sulphur heaps leached into the inlet the harbour and the planet's pores imagine no rain or movement of grass or cloud hung still in the heat shudder brittle trees hold their shapes colourless odourless ready to shiver to dust bird life returns nesting in ceilings using the roof for a lookout over the mangrove marsh and thin creek channel struggling seaward acrid shadow IN A FAVOURITE HARBOUR Owen Bullock balanced on the belly dancer's head a tray with four lighted candles and the box of matches on the way home, a simple man says: marriage is security it means if you split up no-one gets more than the other hoping the couple will ask me to take their photo - on my own in a favourite harbour in strong sunlight the shadow of heat rising from the top of my head. negative thoughts drift away last time a drink with father at the local now my oldest brother takes his place FAR FROM NEWS AND CAUSES Tom Clausen Before I was born no troubles yet here and there these beauties of being here now in the attic to set a mouse trap I find a letter of long ago; it was a fiction of a new love that did not last the blue sky breeze like water falling through the trees- far from news and causes this one hour carefree even that adolescent fantasy so hard to die, this shaken sense out here of a woman in need finding me... all these spring greens and my one little heart dog tired trying to keep up this life on the backside of a heart long fifty blind duty it may be to write of love and longing but in these time worn years it got lost along the way due to a premonition of death he got married just before going to Viet Nam back alive he's now divorced and driving for UPS the event of nothingness too sublime to be considered a worthy event yet there it is with open arms and peace pine scent in the cemetery, a limousine idles this time as I run by... settled into the drive I peek back at my children each at their window so thoughtfully looking out TANKA FOR J.R. Gerard J. Conforti Breath in the spring winds into your warm heart and hear the sparrows singing in the tree boughs and walk a path of flowers There are times when the sun shines brighter upon the lakes and rivers flowing toward your heart where the stars shine gleefully I hear the spring winds singing with the sparrows and feel in my heart the winds of blue sky and warm blazing sunlight Across many mountains and flowery meadows I hear your voice in the winds blowing on this spring day where my heart is warm with love I draw you to my heart like the moonlight flows into your eyes from a drifting cloud bringing forward your love I hear the tree leaves blowing in the woods where the silently falling snow covers the dry leaves of autumn where violets bloom in the spring HOT OFF THE PRESS a series of links between found prose and poetry paul conneally Our Baby's Toe The Times (London) Dec. 13 2002 GERMANY transfixed in horror by a case of cannibalism in which an apparently respectable software specialist mutilated and ate a microchip engineer March 1998 30-year-old man in Italy eats two-year-old daughter February 1999 Venezuelan confesses to eating ten men and says "I never eat women because they have not done anything wrong" March 1999 three Finnish men and a woman eat fellow member of Satanist cult October 2001 two Kazakhstanis sentenced to death for killing seven prostitutes and making kebabs out of them the meat was shared with neighbours October 2001 Six Belarusians arrested for eating a man's raw liver -------------- a night of piercing cold in bed a family keep warm playing games with the baby round and round the garden like a teddy bear this little piggy went to market i love him so much i could eat him up december winds the feel of our baby's toe in my mouth ULSTERVILLE NIGHTS brendan duffin all these visions floor covered in sick alone in the lamplight of the bedroom my plump pink nipple behind the blond haired walker black haired walker brown haired walker green tree in the small room turning and turning endless arms stretching and stretching endless fingers from the tip of my forehead to the tip of my toes hanging slab of blackness deep stars JANE'S GENJI Sanford Goldstein no Genji do I find in our modern world where in the after of a morning poem colors of passion prevail from one bright flower to another did Genji select and savor-- today's world is without brush, without textured paper reading Jane's Genji, I move through Heian where subtleties intermingle with pine which Genji do I prefer? I ask myself-- the Don Juan Genji? the Genji in exile? what was it like, Shining Prince, to slip away from those eyes that watched your startling moves? wanting my poems to echo the sadness of the race, again I read Jane's Genji once more the face of another inspires me-- is it Jane's? is it Genji's? HIROSHIMA AND NAGASAKI Annie Gustin shadows stuck in stone-- the people were vaporized. silhouettes of souls leaning, pointing, pedaling... laughter melted into walls. hot baked potatoes we dug up right from the earth, piping in our palms-- sweet robust pumpkins roasted still clinging fast to the vine. all burned and bleeding face melted like candlewax she sat on the curb. as i passed, my sister's voice parted her lips with my name. we were so worried-- would green ever grow again? but new life sprouted. grass blades, velvet moss, lush leaves... bittersweet spring of lives shorn. *** i am a poet impregnated by the bomb. that summer morning blindfolded me in a flash --garments torn by a typhoon. thrown, ravished by fumes hot fires, sperm, blood and black rain --they found me barely breathing amidst the fallout, pen fused like a sixth finger. i'm still a poet. sentences scarring paper... see my verse turn green in the dark. my two-headed offspring, my mutated words. ~~* longevity has me at second adolescence backing towards second childhood Momi Kam Holifield in circles I rake smooth sand around the pond the way you taught me I wait on the footbridge where are you tonight? he shows me the medieval village where he was wounded secret sharer the enemy soldier a braided candle divides light from darkness sacred from mundane I shake the silver spice box flame gleaming on my nails vulture feeding in the woods quietly all of our stories the end Ruth Holzer ANTIQUE LACE Elizabeth Howard A spider sits on a doily in the cafe window-- little grandmother spinning poetry white-lace haiku hie to the pond to see the blue heron-- morning by morning the dinosaur bird flapping away sketching the precise arches of a historic bridge; the pen, distracted by a frenzy of swallows, draws childish squiggles signboard in the weeds Sampson's Mineral Wells-- where grandmother bought jugs of sulfur water a well full at home country church a belated funeral for a Korean War soldier only a photograph to mourn grandmother's dinner bell how we argued over the ringing-- now no one to claim a turn but me a plaster bust of a Victorian girl on the library shelves among so many books her book unchanging as night falls thin clouds envelop the harvest moon-- antique lace enfolding grandmother's opal BIRCH TANKA Kirsty Karkow a whirlwind strips bark from the birch pale skin exposed I hear my mother's voice accusing me of lies softly tan the belly of a birch laid bare all my past transgressions beneath his scathing gaze white birch bark curls falling on calm water in summer sun the curve of a gull’s flight against a cobalt sky COLD MOUNTAIN BECKONS Larry Kimmel awake all night I sit in the moonless dark hoping against hope for direction that still small voice but for the fridge the night would be totally silent if only dawn would never arrive this long winter night cold mountain beckons still and all a cigarette wouldn't be too bad WHERE I CANNOT FOLLOW Thelma Mariano the low score on her geriatric tests at summer’s end how swiftly the river runs to where I cannot follow crickets chirp beneath my bedroom window all night long as if they sense how badly I need a little song a ritual that began with her Alzheimer’s she waves goodbye from the balcony the tightness in my chest as I wave back seagulls and swallows fly helter-skelter under leaden skies it’s time to make it legal her reasoning is gone how quickly the tea cools in my cup I cannot keep her mind from falling further by wishing it so first snowflakes as leaves continue to plummet from the sky how powerless I feel in light of these changes ~~ if only I knew how it felt to be a butterfly I could paint my heartbeats on the wind! June Moreau* evening of crickets... i stand before a picture of a swan flying towards mountains in silence walking away after saying bye to every one, suddenly i remember the tree now out of my sight sunlight on trees- convalescing, my elderly friend asks me to put his chair by the window K. Ramesh TANKA R K Singh, India Dancing on the car top a girl holds the mike to express her love twists the audience Fears to see his own image in her eyes so avoids seeing her again betrays his cowardice *~~ Sometimes, I wonder if you lie comfortably beneath your grave's grass. Does the ground's embrace warm you? At night, I lie cold sometimes. Bill West** CLASS Sheila Murphy I was learning to be tracing pink, and then this washed away. A hand in front of me through fog enough. And diming, darling, meant the caveats were usually burgeoning with still shots left to percolate in iso(metric)-lation. Our economy is yours. Uncanny how the wives tales brim with lasting eminence through science and tenacious auditory flames. Come on and taint me in my lucid tracks. The sensatorio is brave enough to wash. Is ivy and is sandwiched between obvious young ducks. If I were mercied all the way to studios I would befriend a frame against good looks. Is thus precisely where you fit in, folded in vines of origami lounging among sparks. SHAPE John M. Bennett rock, slab bleeds fueling scud half cloud heeling IG NORE John M. Bennett home, muddy bucket seat scrape roam shifting hall R ANT John M. Bennett block, camel shitter spooky bee scant luggage supper YANK John M. Bennett cooling, sprawl lobe sample sank lube shawl louse LUSTER John M. Bennett keep, dream score spotty pants cream door sleep RUBE John M. Bennett oil, boat rough meds sack smote cluck rope peel hail lang saids, feel OR John M. Bennett rinse, true shadow lank crack crub meet sank grub nor loofa left, cry PACK John M. Bennett dub, nitch ralo era hack slink rio mort pud soga monda too, ball



	Submission Procedures Who We Are Deadline for next issue is May 1, 2003.	Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2003. Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2003. Find out more about Renga, Sijo, Tanka, Ghazal. Check out the previous issues of: LYNX XVII:3 October, 2002 LYNX XVII:2 June, 2002 LYNX XVII:1 February, 2002 LYNX XVI-3 October, 2001 LYNX XVI:2 June, 2001 LYNX XVI:1 February, 2001 LYNX XV:3 October, 2000 LYNX XV:2 June, 2000

XVIII:1 February, 2003

LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets

LYNX
A Journal for Linking Poets