LYNX XIX:1 SOLO


TABLE OF CONTENTS XIX:1, February, 2004			LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets



		SOLO WORKS GHAZAL UNDER THE ION HAMMER by michael helsem, ON THE ROAD by Gene Doty HAIBUN A GLIMPSE by Lynn Edge, RUIDOSO RAIN by Lynn Edge, IN A STRANGE CITY by Benita Kape, ONE SATURDAY MORNING by Betty Kaplan, TWO HAIBUN by r. wilson HAIKU WAT LAO BUDDHAVONG, CATLETT, VA by Ruth Holzer, SNOW by Fran Masat, FOG/MIST by R K Singh, AUTUMN WIND by Robert Wilson SIJO HOT KISSES . . . by Gino Peregrini, HUNTER'S MOON by Gino Peregrini TANKA THE GOOD CROP by Shane Bartlett, HILL POND: QUACHITA MOUNTAINS by Shane Bartlett, CAR FERRY by Tony Beyer, MENDING by Tony Beyer, DOWN DIFFERENT STONES by Owen Bullock, NEW YEAR'S DAY by Tom Clausen, tanka by Brendan Duffin, Sandra Graff, Momi Kam Holifield, and Jeanne Emrich, CITY PARK by beverley george, RAIN IN RIO by Elizabeth Howard, NOTHING LEFT TO SAY by Brenda Humphrey-McMahen, DE LIJN VAN EEN DAKRAND (THE PROFILE OF A ROOF EDGE) by Silva Ley, NEW TERRITORY by Larry Kimmel, CLOSE CALL by M. L. Mackie, CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT by Thelma Mariano, THE ASSESSOR by Patricia Prime, IMPRESSIONS by Alan Spring, tanka by Keli Stafford and Joanna M. Weston, MISCELLANEOUS by Aya Yuhki WITHOUT GENRE PEDIGREE by Sheila Murphy, COMMA by Sheila Murphy		GHAZAL UNDER THE ION HAMMER michael helsem Master of kiteslipt Spetznaz, amnesia is our leader; Determinancy gone, abductee is our leader. The tenuous adhesion of a cotton hush Yields prismatic derangement whose rent church is our leader. In strawberry fields of self-hypnosis i too roamed: A maple sapper of the charcoal is our leader. And your good squirm of lurid flashbangs now protrusive As kudzu, cannot fail to dub you as our leader. Leader! into caverns worn with jackboot march No throe may deflect; epigraph: flambeau is our leader. ON THE ROAD Gene Doty In high school, I read that novel by Kerouac, "On the Road"; I wanted to be another hipster, back on the road. In Genesis, Abram girded his robe and left Ur, his and his camels' feet going "smack" on the road. Odysseus sailed from Troy, wanting to go to Ithaca, but Homer, with his own story, became the hero's flack on the road. Don Quixote read his books, made some cardboard armor, saddled Rocinante, and took that bony hack on the road. Kerouac died of alcohol; Ginsberg, too, is dead and gone. All those hipsters became old and slack on the road. Eisenhower followed Truman, Johnson followed Kennedy: after Nixon, friend, we know only lack on the road. HAIBUN A GLIMPSE Lynn Edge On the Texas Coast, I visit the fishing village of Seadrift. As evening falls, I drive down a road running alongside the seawall. An antique hurricane lamp shines in the window of a small beach house. Over the picture window hangs a lace swag, the rose design silhouetted by the lantern's glow. Such care is taken to display a warm view, I am certain happy people live here. I pass and envy the residents their beckoning light. under dark waves iridescent red sinking sun RUIDOSO RAIN Lynn Edge In poor health, the aging Basho walks a long distance to view Mount Fuji. Discovering it covered in mist, he expresses a positive attitude in his haiku. A day when Fuji Is obscured by misty rain That's interesting -Basho Highway 70 ascends from the desert of New Mexico into the Sacramento Mountains. The road becomes a shelf scraped from sheer bluffs. Driving up the narrow Rio Hondo River Valley, I pass Hispanic villages, irrigated hay meadows, and newer horse farms lined with pipe fences. Tall lean poplars conceal red roofed haciendas. I think of Basho as clouds shroud the Sacramentos in a gray. Windshield wipers whisk away drizzle. The sunless sky dulls yellow-green cottonwoods. In the back seat, dogs sleep. I journey in the spirit of Basho. low mists- mountain tops higher than clouds IN A STRANGE CITY Benita Kape It was the year 1989. I was in a strange city, in a strange country; standing on the sidewalk of a busy street. The Christmas parade was about to pass by. Beneath me on the corner, a grating above a now dry culvert. While I was briefly looking down, the crowd began to surge forward. Falling, familiar frames, clunk; they had so quickly slipped my downward gaze. The grating impossible for a hand to reach through. Shocked faces of people around you; your own pounding heart. But I cannot tell you why I did not panic; why I had pushed through the crowd to find myself at the corner door to the select jewelry store. I walked to the counter and addressed the person in charge. "Could you help me please?" I asked. "I have lost my glasses down the culvert. A length of wire of any kind? A coat-hanger from your cloak-room perhaps?" There was a summoning of a staff member who shortly reappeared with the item requested. I had proceeded to unravel the twisted wire. It was exactly what was required, a length with a hook at one end, and so I moved outdoors, back to the culvert. Christmas shopping diamond gold crystal silver in locked cases Room is made for you. The crowd had waited, watching; come for the show. On your knees carefully lowering the hook to the twinkling item below. Hands steady, feeling, listening; straining sight; hooking! Raising; slowly. You feel those around peering over your lowered shoulder. And now you are raising that shoulder; something to grasp; fingers closing. The crowd shares in the relief; pats your back, shakes your already shaking hand. And here is Santa; his little helpers scattering sweets. You no longer feel you are in a strange city. You join the parade. reindeer and sledge drizzles of ornamental snow a thirst quenching sweet ONE SATURDAY MORNING Betty Kaplan The Wall Street district where I work is always deserted on the weekend. But on this day as I walk down the street, I see a large crowd in front of a tall building. Everyone is looking up. There on the ledge, a jumper. My heart starts to pound. "OH NO" As I approach, suddenly he jumps. But I sense something is not right as the crowd quietly disperses and seems to be finding their places. Then I see it all. The trucks, the speakers, the equipment. A dummy lies on the sidewalk. Autumn leaves . . . falling falling falling *~~** eating halo halo,* an old man with missing teeth Dentistry is a luxury few can afford in the Republic of The Philippines. Two percent of the population controls all of the wealth. Poverty is rampant. The majority of the populace is grossly underpaid, living below the poverty level. The country's primary source of income is money sent home to relatives by Filipinos who have immigrated to other countries in order to make a decent living. The luxuries even poor Americans are accustomed to like flush toilets, refrigerators, ovens, cars, and air conditioning, are not available to the average Filipino. Neither is medical and dental care. It is not unusual to see people missing teeth, someone with a club foot, a child with a cleft palate, people dying from ailments they didn't need to die from including dysentery and malaria. Halo Halo is a popular filipino dessert made from crushed ice, evaporated milk, sweet potatoes, sweet beans, and fruit. It is easy to make, the ingredients inexpensive. r.wilson* all souls day - even the crickets mourn All Souls Day is an important holiday in the Philippines. Before sunrise on November 1st, families migrate to the final resting place of their relatives. In a rite that lasts well into the night, they gather around memorial stones and plots to share memories, stories, poems, and songs. Candles are lit, prayers said, some converse with the dead. In addition, three masses are held by a local priest: one in the morning, at noon, and in the afternoon. Catering to the seemingly endless procession of mourners are vendors selling food, beverages, flowers, and commemorative candles. The graveyards and memorial gardens are a sea of lights mimicking the stars above them. In the Philippines, family (pamilya) is everything. They are close knit. Respect for one's elders, dead or alive, is a given. On this day, families take time from their busy lives to commune with the dead, to dine with them, pay them homage, and let them know that they have not been forgotten. Families also get a chance to visit with relatives from faraway...people they haven't seen for a long time. All Souls Day: a festival of mourning and celebration. r.wilson HAIKU SEQUENCE WAT LAO BUDDHAVONG, CATLETT, VA Ruth Holzer ten minutes beyond the battlefield red and gold temple monastery pond among the lotus a little frog floats brightness remains here and there in the garden - feathery cockscomb bananas and plums placed carefully in the statue's lap three heads six arms - an unknown god high on a pole a smaller pagoda – the doves a wooden bell a golden bell wait side by side hanging from every twig sticky rice cakes rows of stupas ascending the hill - bones of the monks before departing I slip ten dollars under a rock SNOW Fran Masat first flurry - a bird vanishes in midair head lights flash on pencils of snow snowy plain - distant trees a lace filigree deep drifts invading my boots a trickle of water winter night - new foot prints in old snow new powder old nose same icy scent spring thaw - a sidewalk lost since fall late snow - daffodils bow except for one FOG/MIST R K Singh Swollen fogs ready to make way for the sun Morning fog: her face invisible even the sun Two dreamy eyes await the rising sun through the fogged window Standing behind the window bars observes shapes in fog The evening fog - invisible her hand on my shoulder A film of mist between my eyes and her image Mist surrounds the steel statue watches few visitors AUTUMN WIND Robert Wilson what are you singing, wind? the leaves are clapping autumn, you aren't the only one who can paint autumn sunset the golden retriever a shade browner standing in moon shadow a scarecrow after harvest sky, you've changed since we last chatted autumn wind washing sushi rice seven times the monk sipping moonlight from his soup bowl SIJO HOT KISSES . . . Gino Peregrini Hot kisses taken from her cheek in a meadow of spring grasses Wild lilies in the breeze of a Kansas spring, cool and sweet Both child and man, I desire cool soft lips, cheeks sweetened by wind HUNTER'S MOON Gino Peregrini My sons are men, my daughters women; grandchildren--I count seven. Hunter's Moon in the southeast, flushed with sunset, tracking sleep. My wife away, I sleep alone, troubled by wind and autumn rain. TANKA THE GOOD CROP Shane Bartlett 'Sow - Harvest' This rolling paper once a leaf, the dry membrane cleaner than my lungs. Earth's tobacco, shredded, rolled, a taste of the life taken. 'Harvest - Sow' Nature's life pulled up absorbed, taken for our own; so soon we give back. A flower grows; folds unfold; somewhere, a man fighting, stops. HILL POND: QUACHITA MOUNTAINS Shane Bartlett Creaky wooden dock, no wider than a gang-plank: memory's long walk. Time inflates, slows to a float over shallows perch flip for. Blue water turning darker with day's darkening: crickets' frantic song. The moon hung so suddenly, night's plea you Do Not Disturb. With wordless wind-howls the year grows tired, and ends. We sit in our home, our love grown tired, cold; the windows frost on both sides. Shane Bartlett CAR FERRY Tony Beyer dusk calm and still the sound of gannets dropping into the water lurch underfoot the last vehicle fitted improbably into the last deck space lining the gunwale watching houses on the cliff tops float by upside down the slow wake an enhanced form of stillness only in retrospect opening sun softens orange to red outlining single coves best news all day for fishermen shadow straps thick as molasses down the hillside ferns of another shore reach for us hostel door tingle-tangle bent forks and spoons hung in a mobile MENDING Tony Beyer my handicapped student reading Robert Frost can't understand why anyone would want a wall he throws himself around in his wheelchair and dribbles and loves poetry he can't walk or dress or feed himself and we talk about responsibility whoever wrote this for him has lovely handwriting but the thoughts are his can't is an important word every day when we talk but so is want he wants to use up all the time that's running out even in the middle of the night DOWN DIFFERENT STONES Owen Bullock the same old river view this evening and my children’s cries falling down different stones after moaning at me for half an hour he’s humming a tune - I’m worn out ready to crash her red velvet dress ripples down the drive as she runs to greet her sister twice today she brought a flower and twice made pigs from folded paper kids’ party they sing God Defend New Zealand in Maori in the bedroom with the door shut the baby irritated with people who fiddle with his tiny, tiny fingers in the Sunday School picture children ask Jesus for help he says "yes, I will help you" - to one side a sorrowful bird in the garden by the crumbling Venus shoots of pieris which some philistine hacked back delivering leaflets, a girl of ten or twelve looks up with such a frightened gaze where are his thoughts which travel so wildly? my brother, twelve thousand sadnesses away news of a girl from that mixed up family, nineteen now, she has a bloke and a baby looking out for dogs for his sake maybe I will always have someone to look after the cold makes my bones ache but I want to stay for the bare trees the close-grazing geese the full air my children play at getting drunk, being wasted somehow it appeals to their well-read minds after sitting by the pond I discover the true meaning of ripples when I leave they’re still widening NEW YEAR'S DAY Tom Clausen New Year's day tending our annual bonfire there is plenty of time to stare and hopefully let go of regrets... i dismiss it as impractical this idea of having a nervous breakdown - ducks tufted by the wind on the frozen lake everywhere I see signs of life and death in the balance - how good my feet feel out of their shoes is it the prize of growing older these vivid dreams so much more dramatic then what I do awake first my son now the dog paces inside the house that part that plays out the call of circling... on the trail to the top my family hikes best during the time they all combine to make light of me as if I could will some random desire I view a stranger as a potential muse who fails to perform --- the moment i fall asleep i explode orange marigolds on a far off hill-top Brendan Duffin field man walking saliva beach three balls of white feathers Brendan Duffin so alike the sunset maple and you upon the morning still aflame the day lingers still in the aspen tops my love surely there is more to be said between us bereft of you this long summer - in the planter I have so neglected a volunteer blooms this spring - was it only a dream or did it too fall with azalea blossoms in the hail? so as not to waken you I feel my way in the dark - the upstairs hallway its own little universe of doors and windows what does it matter what side of winter I face? the bones of this earth already include my own Jeanne Emrich CITY PARK beverley george late light flares on city glass ~ within the park we wait to share the moon a bird breaks from the thicket and you say knowing what our love is not reveals what it may be fruit bats crash-land in fig trees ~ again I try to reach your heart with faltering words closing dark ~ the path winds by a pool of moonlit grass creased to silver by our feet a dark bough divides the moon ~ beyond the haze of garden lights an orange taxi prowls a tree frog in the rain forest poisons the hungry snake while its blue and green skin breathes poisons from developers Sandra Graff a panicked rush of well-intended minutes floods the funnel of days drains into a jar a poem not written Sandra Graff in May when I drive to class windows open a puff of pollen from a russian olive clogs the nose of my lesson plan Sandra Graff nomads in shiny rickshaws on all-weather tires crossed paths at the dip in the road with a squirrel its cheeks packed with nuts Sandra Graff near-sighted bugs who creep upon this sonnet beware last I compare thee and smear you in the margin Sandra Graff waiting day by day to taste one ripening peach from the tree this morning they all vanish Momi Kam Holifield RAIN IN RIO Elizabeth Howard a medical clinic-- before dawn hundreds of poor patients line up along the open sewer ignore the stench and the rain the favela's drug lord descends in a Mercedes from his mountain fortress has his teeth cleaned re-ascends smiling outside a doctor's office a man in dirty clothes sleeps on the sidewalk - doctor's rich patients sidestep his bloated body in a high-rise window swallow-tailed hummingbirds hover on red flowers - in streets, under viaducts homeless boys gathering a family sleeps under a tarpaulin in a bed of flowers - morning traffic swishing past on wet streets NOTHING LEFT TO SAY Brenda Humphrey-McMahen alone on a mirrored wall this full moon hangs in darkness turning from it's reflection at his request our son between us we pose without the stepparents a stranger and his mother thoughts keep me awake as you sleep I go on listening nothing left to say on the ceiling closing this distance between us our shadows as we sleep brown stems catching snow too late in the season for another mistake my thoughts in a race against the clock losing track of the minutes I have left this bed draped in sunlit shadows the passing of another soul DE LIJN VAN EEN DAKRAND (THE PROFILE OF A ROOF EDGE) Silva Ley From the Introduction by Silva Ley: "During two beautiful summers we visited almost all the farmhouses described in the book, Historical Farmsteads in Brabant [an area of Holland] under the editorship of Ir. Huub Oome (Kempen Publ. House, 1998). We – my husband Pierre and I – cycled through the landscape of Brabant and saw with pleasure the beautiful restored barns, homes and gardens. Sometimes we were invited by the residents to see the interiors. The following poems are some of our impressions." THE HAMLET - Moergestel Winding country lanes crossing a trifling brook right of way in a hamlet a bluish vale around it vast leek fields smell all the low doors closed - two towers in the distance - Sunday’s atmosphere square hedges in front traditional shaved beeches a crooked fruit tree drops a worm – eaten apple hardly a soft thud ochre – painted lines mark the window frames the last geraniums enliven yard and garden ad a cheerful note chill of autumn, people gather now, in the ‘hearth‘ by the fire. THE HIDDEN FARMHOUSE - Oostelbeers Partly rebuilt: villages along ‘de Beerze’ the old trees saved a tower, neogothic thin points to the autumn-clouds a hidden farm behind heliant - hedges a round bow - gate fall-apples in the garden wild herbs and curly kale patches of moss on the roof of the barn behind the well a hopping child in the yard disappears in leaf-shades bluedelphinium leads to the silent doors of Sunday THERE IS A SILENCE… Oirschot Kings and regents dictators, stamping armies passed it in the past the squatting farmhouse four long centuries barns and bake house as grown together with woodland and moor as stealthily sunk, by time in the sandy soil flowering hawthorn early primroses a hedge – labyrinth highly piled faggots though wintertime passed an orchard awaiting vegetable gardens a dreaming pond red petunia’s on the well an ornamental border here is a silence of remembering, revival for whoever is listening NEW TERRITORY Larry Kimmel while I slept it snowed and a tree fell old age uncertain as a winter road* beyond the frosted window the old apple tree, bleak and gnarled afflicted with lichen - what's going to happen to me? some things are never going to happen again others never again, that way, and still others, never having entered new territory - a tundra at dusk - I await, anxious and somewhat fearful, the undefined adventure night-fog I manifest manifest manifest the next few feet of sidewalk before me, manifest my life - entire *Tanka Journal 2003; no. 23 CLOSE CALL M. L. Mackie Seeing something not really there a turkey pecks at its reflection an image of our own self-absorption when the trees are in plain view show a reality far beyond our plan to move far away from these redwoods, their history our own inextricably linked by roots generating more growth than we foresaw when we created an open invitation for loggers to purchase our land, clear cutting our hearts and her potential for nurturing our dreams while surviving herself as queen of the forest mother of all mothers the source or our sweet survival against all odds as true Californians as friends of this goddess who never let us down and never will so long as we respect her ability to reproduce her stately self so long as we continue to live within reach of her forgiving arms. CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT Thelma Mariano a fascination that never leaves her - my demented mother watches people trudge home with their bags of groceries the indignities of sickness and old age what do they matter as long as she can see the wildflowers along the road laughter bubbles up to mask her confusion I join in pretending not to notice the words that washed away following her into the murky waters of her mind sometimes I wonder if I will ever swim free she hangs onto me a little more tightly now as if I can stop the disease pulling her towards the end close to midnight I wander from room to room while outside the patter of falling rain speaks of loss and renewal THE ASSESSOR Patricia Prime coming in from the cold of a paddy-wagon the prisoner handcuffed & shackled meets his assessor facing her across a desk he makes a phone call to his lawyer not more than three minutes to present his case her hand on the panic button at her waist she takes his life history in brief dividing sheep from goats she decides that a safe cell is his best option morning light a guard finds the prisoner covered with excreta cottons from a blanket made into a noose the remanded man taken once more before the assessor psychiatrist & doctor this time a 24-hour guard IMPRESSIONS Alan Spring at dusk he sees faces in the shadows this war veteran who tells me of the lies my schoolbooks taught me even now long black hairs appear as if her ghost had all this while lain upon my pillow not yet a woman no longer a child the sister helps her brother balance on his new bicycle in my mind I see the house and the swing in the backyard tree but all I hear is her polite good mornings and sweet goodbyes at the coin laundry waiting silently for our turn life's unbearable weight waiting with us photograph a smile framed by an array of cherry blossoms her silky touch now but a memory thinking of no birth and no death I watch countless raindrops fall and become a puddle on the phone ten thousand miles away my infant son unknown to me until now burbles and laughs golden leaves falling across hand-written pages impressions of Life's grand journey passing with the wind When tall trees whisper, roses exhale their perfume stars will gaze down upon you and all the love of the attending moon. Keli Stafford For a place that I could dwell with each contained memory that would not crumble in an instant at thoughts of past despair. Keli Stafford Beethoven's Ninth on the radio - Mother knits and watches firelight Village opinion froze her brushes until she painted a winter landscape and snow fell on the canvas. The yellow hat elegant, wide-brimmed a gesture to Ascot she wore angled and flirtatious Toast too hot and I toss it hand to hand - a sunbeam gilds the kitchen I write your name and address on an envelope you left this morning Joanna M. Weston MISCELLANEOUS Aya Yuhki the sounds of a ball bouncing monotonously against the block wall gradually irritates cedar boughs swaying in the wind their silhouette increase my unease regret for days never to return listening to the crashing thunder of an early spring night in the sky between the buildings a full moon hung like a white globe-bulb to the empty moonlit plaza there came fairies and elves to dance rondos over and over all through the night PEDIGREE Sheila Murphy Honor plinks into etudes the size of largo swans Evincing sweetwear near the sojourn Week on warbly stone pro tem Innate and fiery insular As quick as wreaths are spooled To instrinsicity comme ca remaining De rigeur untimely comments Land lease functions all too near The heart embedded in each faction Of remove branching a syllable At a time resourced to mutter odd smooth Tangents laced with fur on fractions Once the scoop is over - Ripe relieving pressure on the spine Her spine your spine my spine COMMA Sheila Murphy leaves near leaves the pace achieves continuo this rest that lasts from two to seven measures as if what is unspoken occurred in perfect time



	Submission Procedures Who We Are Deadline for next issue is May 1, 2004.		Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2004. Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2004. Find out more about Renga, Sijo, Tanka, or Ghazal. Check out the previous issues of: LYNX XVIII:3 October, 2003 LYNX XVIII:2 June, 2003 LYNX XVIII:1 February, 2003 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

XIX:1, February, 2004