Lynx XX:3 SOLO

I learned the paths of smaller animals;
valley scrub, foreshore, mountain forest.

You were waiting, a prophet, promises shining
green above the rubble of a charred forest.

Rocking the reef-tour boat, our adopted whales
surfaced (out of season) from the deep forest.

Paper souvenirs - they're here somewhere -
words on white, hauntings from the lost forest.

Clear-felled and milled, the stands of Coastal Ash;
we do not speak of the empty forest.

Out of the woods now, but so much older,
I knit, with children's bones, a witch's forest.

I had given up on love, when I saw her before me;
Yes, there she was sitting quite demurely before me.

I spoke to a friend and told him I'd seen love was around;
He laughed at me and said, "Oh sure, she's standing before me."

The moon was rising in the east, I told her I'd found love;
And in her pale silence I knew the future before me.

In the glow of the candle I met my love face to face,
Gazed into her eyes and the light grew brighter before me.

And I, Akikaze, have seen many years, asked many questions;
But always it is this love, which is the answer before me.

Hear the song the recorder is playing!
Hear the joyful songs the birds are making!

What are the words you insist on saying?
What's this argument you keep on making?

Speaking to God in the prayers they're praying;
But what requests are their hearts making?

In the house of his Friend has he been staying.
His voice speaks truth in the silence it's making.

By the old fox outfoxed, hunters aren't preying.
Let the player's tune finish this poem I'm making.

EARLY SEPTEMBER
C W Hawes

A Monday in early September. The sun is hot, but the southerly breeze is cool for a change. Evidence of the long absence of rain is everywhere. The iced tea still tastes good. The crickets are chanting their prayers, while birds look south.

My mother is of hearty eastern European stock: Slav and Magyar blood flows in her veins. My father's mother's ancestors hailed from the British Isles. Every New Year's Day these two traditions produced a bountiful feast in the hopes that we'd have good things to eat throughout the year. Today I carry on this tradition, but, due to economics, the scale is much more modest.

     the new year's fourth day:
     sauerkraut leftovers
     but the meat is gone

NOTES TOWARD A SEQUENCE BASED ON
"The Legend of The Lost City of Ys"
Larry Kimmel

The Lost City of Ys is a medieval legend from Brittany. It concerns King Gradlon and his daughter, Dahut. To please her whim, Gradlon builds a city by the sea for her to preside over. Dahut is a beautiful and wicked princess of the first order and leads Ys in dissolute behavior, and eventually to its destruction. Alongside the pagan lore, their are saints and prophecies aplenty, but in the end Daunt, is persuaded to steal the key to the dykes that hold back the sea from Ys. To this day, sailors will sometimes see lights and hear church bells from the depths of the green waters off the coasts of Brittany.

the hermit-sage walks the cliff's edge
ringing a bell, he chants from his psalter

A script you fantasize about, and Cyd got to do it, and got a carnation stain on his shirt for the doing of it, but didn't know that at first. "Ain't no way, man, it's gotta be his, 'cause I trashed the mothah," which he had, but when told the red carnation was now a mutant peony, Cyd dropped his guitar, sat down on the edge of the bandstand, and blanched as best he could.

Route 5, along which some of oldest English settlements in America are found, never fails to surprise you as it continually transforms itself from ripening fields to dense, sun-dappled woodlands to brown, exuberant rivers and back again.

And there are stretches where the deep forest trees huddle close to the road, the leaf and limb of both sides intertwining in a tunnel of shade above the car. This closeness of the forest brings an intimacy I've not felt anywhere else, a vague connection with the past, however aloof and indifferent it always is.

Not far from here the first Thanksgiving was held; just the word itself coaxes grade school images of turkeys and wigwams, fires and muskets up out of my own past. But today, in light of the vast, populous country that sprang from such modest beginnings, I can't help but wonder what might have happened had we not rewarded the Native Americans' generosity and kindness with the beleaguering fact of their own extinction, had we honored the words of the faiths our European ancestors sailed so steadfastly to this coast to safeguard and practice. It's all here in sunsets and sediments, in leaf-rot and growth rings, another path we could have taken.
In 2007 Virginia will celebrate the four hundredth anniversary of its founding. Even as expertly pickled as the phantoms of the past have been in places like Williamsburg where children amble about in bonnets and three-cornered hats, it's hard not to imagine what a different nation America might be had we blended our beliefs rather than stamp out another's.

on a knitted brow
knit one, pearl two,
wailing a song
whaling along
the lines form

at the right
spaces between the yarns
never empty.
hot apple pie awaits
no longer a plebian dream.

sound with feathers
prayers carried by Gabriel
to the inward sun.
wings on notes sing
life itself the music.

HAIKU FOR LYNX
Ruth Franke

Kleine Bank am See
der Rohrsänger pfeift im Schilf
sonst nichts als Stille

the gloss
of travel brochures
tarnished. . .
seductive promises
trail from silver wingtips

opening the door
to her apartment
the dust
of a thousand longings
remains untouched

                                knowing the future
                                cancer's web connecting
                                breast to lung
                                shoulder to thighbone
                                she chooses a gravesite

                                her body
                                a lush garden
                                cancer vine growing
                                like kudzu
                                on a red gravel bank

                                chemo and radiation
                                toxins she cannot endure
                                she lies inert
                                unable to raise her head
                                to turn in the bed

                                antibiotics pump
                                through her veins
                                day and night
                                the beeper screaming
                                for more and more

                                more and more
                                morphine, too,
                                patches and pumps
                                only her purse
                                growing smaller

                                pneumonia
                                curse and blessing
                                the call to come
                                the last visit
                                a hospital bed

                                my body rushes
                                feet drag
                                how I dread
                                to see her like this
                                what to say

                                her smile
                                family talk
                                a little joke
                                yet the cough
                                the raling breath

                                phone call
                                in the night
                                she's gone
                                you have
                                to tell mama

                                ask me
                                to cross the Sahara
                                to drink the Dead Sea
                                don't ask me to tell mama
                                her daughter is dead

SCENES FROM RIVERVIEW
Francis Masat

folks gather around
a new face - with one suitcase
in a noisy lounge
to hear the same old stories
told by family and friends

graceful old willows -
wave and bend in the stiff wind
evening shadows grow
as daytime memories fade
week after week after week

out of Mom's wheel chair
a child's tattered doll tumbles
Mother and I smile
sharing a glass of water
she asks again "What is cake?"

floating white dust motes
move through the rays of sunset
past an unmarked door
a blank where a name once was
Grandpa scratches his gray head

Saturday Party
in an Alzheimer's unit
Happy Birthday sung
again-and-again and then
again-and-again again

We'll sleep a dancing sleep
on the foamy crest
of an ocean wave
kissed and kissed again
by joyful dolphins.

We'll sleep
the sun-drift sleep
of pollen
drifting, drifting,
with the drifting wind.

We'll sleep with mountain arms
around the puma
and feel
the living warmth
of its golden fur.

We'll sleep there
in the meadow
where speckled eggs
are hidden
in a lark's dreamy nest.

We'll sleep
in the everywhere blue
and know
the sun's everlasting path
across the sky.

THREE QUATRAIN WRITTEN IN CHIEH CHU FASHION, MAILED
AFTER HIKING TO TOWN FOR THE SAKE OF BRINGING BACK
BEANS AND RICE
Karma Tenzing Wangchuk

Unrecognized by others, it doesn't matter -
I know my heart well, and it knows me well too.
People preen themselves while the rivers rise.
They'll drown just for the sake of looking good.

Eyebrow hairs turning white with every moon . . .
Won't be long now before I'm really old.
When my time comes, I plan to be ready for it.
Hope to cheat Mr. Death, leave him only ash.

Ankle bones calloused from sitting crosslegged,
Mumbling mantra even when he seems asleep . . .
Ask him what he's learned after all these years,
He'll draw a circle in the dirt, then wipe it out.

like the waves,
we meet and part.
parched sand, drinks the ocean,
and gives away some grains.
treasured memoirs, turn into pearls.

the contact feels good,
what about separation?
a masochistic yearning
to be caressed, to get soaked
again, in selfish love.

it’s a perfect love.
thirstier sand, churns wilder waves,
in a quest to be together.
only regret is, the lack of control.
waiting, till nature took its course.

KEIN KOPF ÜBER MEINEM
Dietmar Tauchner

kein kopf über meinem frühlingshimmel
tauchen mit offenen augen
der blick eines schädels ins leere
winterkälte rieche nichts
am ende des schneelands blaue berge
atemzug um atemzug todeszone
schneeflocken leben wird zu einem kissen
klar der fluss fließt
erwacht die sonne ist schon da

NO HEAD ABOVE MINE
Dietmar Tauchner

no head above mine spring sky
diving with open eyes
skull's glance into emptiness
winter cold smelling nothing
at the snowland's end blue mountains
breath for breath death's zone
snowflakes life becomes a pillow
of course the river flows
awakening the sun is already there

SEASONS BETWEEN
Geraldine Toh

a thin green blade
spring enters the heart
leaves of grass
I press between these pages
a lingering summer

maple road
the long way to the heart winds
through autumn hills
this new path-- is it too soon
to ask where it will lead us?

dreams of a long winter
brief days divided, divided again
what gifts will we uncover
hidden in the snow?
a year's forgotten branches -
all the brighter they'll burn

guide me surely through turmoil, show me the future's bright light, accompany me onward

provide safe harbor at day's end, love me as long as we live, for I will love you always

*This is to be read as three tanka side by side but it also works as one poem with longer lines.

we hurt ourselves
while fighting
and then that sorry
which follows
is meant for whom?

at the airport
not once did my son turn
to bid us farewell
had I been him I would have
- a dozen times

The wind lifts
her curved nudity hidden
in water curtain:
I touch the strings that whisper
love in each falling drop

clouds hide october's moon-
cry of a distant train
followed by silence

J.E. Stanley

courthouse handrail
weathered by emotions
...always there
a schoolboy in shackles
gets a breath of fresh air

a stampede of stripes
a blur of beige among them
zebra mother stares
at the fate of her colt
then runs with the others

bricks seeing sunshine
for the first time in ages
urban renewal
changing minds and spirits
…and bars into churches

slowly following
a spot of warmth in the hall
the cat knows the sun
but runs from shadows
of passing clouds

sailboat frozen
in lake glass
autumn’s first chill
now melted
by the passion in your eyes

ceiling fan and its shadow
spinning oppositely
in the TV’s light
…some things are mind-boggling

How I miss her! When we talk on the cell, her voice scatters.

What I wonder: will my stomach get queasy on the schooner?

After a nap, I return to task: making shapes of shapely words.

Sun-flares glint from the farm pond;
Cut-finger reeds grow beside the bank.
Barn swallows dive to drink;
Dragonflies cling to swaying reeds.
Let us nap in the meadow:
No fish swim in clear water!

New bombings on the London Tube: police shoot a Brazilian.

Lying down for a short nap, I become homesick again.

Silent in the shallows, he lifts his foot, slowly rakes the river bed.

A sudden lunge. A silver flash. A small wave ripples to the shore.


LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets TABLE OF CONTENTS XX:3 October, 2005



	SOLO WORKS GHAZALS FOREST by Lorin Ford THIS LOVE by C W Hawes VOICES by C W Hawes HAIBUN EARLY SEPTEMBER by C W Hawes NEW YEAR'S FEAST by C W Hawes NOTES TOWARD A SEQUENCE BASED ON "The Legend of The Lost City of Ys" by Larry Kimmel FEELING NO PAIN by Larry Kimmel ROUTE FIVE, VIRGINIA by Gary LeBel SEQUENCES A PAPER DOLL WORLD by Ed Baranosky HOW TO ELBMUH by John M. Bennett HAIKU FOR LYNX Ruth Franke INCIDENTAL TOURIST by Laryalee Fraser THE WEB by Elizabeth Howard SCENES FROM RIVERVIEW by Francis Masat THREE QUATRAIN WRITTEN IN CHIEH CHU FASHION, MAILED AFTER HIKING TO TOWN FOR THE SAKE OF BRINGING BACK BEANS AND RICE by Karma Tenzing Wangchuk UNDER A FINGERNAIL MOON by Kelly Ann Malone A TANKA SEQUENCE by June Moreau LONG-DISTANCE LOVE by Mrinalini DRAGON by anna rugis MOSQUITOES by R.K.Singh RACING THE MOON by Sandra Simpson KEIN KOPF ÜBER MEINEM by Dietmar Tauchner NO HEAD ABOVE MINE trs. by Dietmar Tauchner SEASONS BETWEEN by Geraldine Toh LIGHTHOUSE GUARDIAN COMPANION by Michael Williams SINGLE POEMS Mario Fitterer, Trs. Gene Rollins C W Hawes Kala Ramesh CURVED NUDITY by R.K.Singh J.E. Stanley M. Franklyn Teaford SIJO Gino Peregrini Harriot West GRAPHICS "Antigen" by Scott Macleod & John M. Bennett & Baron Scott Macleod	GHAZALS FOREST Lorin Ford I learned the paths of smaller animals; valley scrub, foreshore, mountain forest. You were waiting, a prophet, promises shining green above the rubble of a charred forest. Limping across Antarctica, brandy in my ice, I clean forgot the tangled forest. Rocking the reef-tour boat, our adopted whales surfaced (out of season) from the deep forest. Paper souvenirs - they're here somewhere - words on white, hauntings from the lost forest. Clear-felled and milled, the stands of Coastal Ash; we do not speak of the empty forest. Out of the woods now, but so much older, I knit, with children's bones, a witch's forest. THIS LOVE C W Hawes I had given up on love, when I saw her before me; Yes, there she was sitting quite demurely before me. I spoke to a friend and told him I'd seen love was around; He laughed at me and said, "Oh sure, she's standing before me." The moon was rising in the east, I told her I'd found love; And in her pale silence I knew the future before me. In the glow of the candle I met my love face to face, Gazed into her eyes and the light grew brighter before me. And I, Akikaze, have seen many years, asked many questions; But always it is this love, which is the answer before me. VOICES C W Hawes Hear the song the recorder is playing! Hear the joyful songs the birds are making! The hunt is on and the dogs are baying; It's the wily old fox they are making. What are the words you insist on saying? What's this argument you keep on making? Speaking to God in the prayers they're praying; But what requests are their hearts making? In the house of his Friend has he been staying. His voice speaks truth in the silence it's making. By the old fox outfoxed, hunters aren't preying. Let the player's tune finish this poem I'm making. HAIBUN EARLY SEPTEMBER C W Hawes A Monday in early September. The sun is hot, but the southerly breeze is cool for a change. Evidence of the long absence of rain is everywhere. The iced tea still tastes good. The crickets are chanting their prayers, while birds look south. this summer a hundred summers long leaves falling NEW YEAR'S FEAST C W Hawes My mother is of hearty eastern European stock: Slav and Magyar blood flows in her veins. My father's mother's ancestors hailed from the British Isles. Every New Year's Day these two traditions produced a bountiful feast in the hopes that we'd have good things to eat throughout the year. Today I carry on this tradition, but, due to economics, the scale is much more modest. the new year's fourth day: sauerkraut leftovers but the meat is gone NOTES TOWARD A SEQUENCE BASED ON "The Legend of The Lost City of Ys" Larry Kimmel The Lost City of Ys is a medieval legend from Brittany. It concerns King Gradlon and his daughter, Dahut. To please her whim, Gradlon builds a city by the sea for her to preside over. Dahut is a beautiful and wicked princess of the first order and leads Ys in dissolute behavior, and eventually to its destruction. Alongside the pagan lore, their are saints and prophecies aplenty, but in the end Daunt, is persuaded to steal the key to the dykes that hold back the sea from Ys. To this day, sailors will sometimes see lights and hear church bells from the depths of the green waters off the coasts of Brittany. lavender twilight the pearl gray castle higher than the highest cathedral wicked pretty the siren-princess awaits her victim gossip grips the town another body rolled by the surf seals not what they seem to be in a white tower the siren-princess ponders a crystal ball dressed in hides the hermit-sage walks the cliff's edge ringing a bell, he chants from his psalter his fearful prophesy – the castle's shadow inching across the cobble square FEELING NO PAIN Larry Kimmel "You been messin' with my ol' lady?" "Maybe, what's'er name?" A script you fantasize about, and Cyd got to do it, and got a carnation stain on his shirt for the doing of it, but didn't know that at first. "Ain't no way, man, it's gotta be his, 'cause I trashed the mothah," which he had, but when told the red carnation was now a mutant peony, Cyd dropped his guitar, sat down on the edge of the bandstand, and blanched as best he could. the bike clocked at 135 mph midnight and flatland in all directions one stone and it's over Lorain to Oberlin 15 miles 7 minutes me & Cyd ROUTE FIVE, VIRGINIA Gary LeBel Young corn bristles up through the sluggish mist. All along this verdant road the Saturday quietness of empty churches makes each new mile a still-life. Route 5, along which some of oldest English settlements in America are found, never fails to surprise you as it continually transforms itself from ripening fields to dense, sun-dappled woodlands to brown, exuberant rivers and back again. And there are stretches where the deep forest trees huddle close to the road, the leaf and limb of both sides intertwining in a tunnel of shade above the car. This closeness of the forest brings an intimacy I've not felt anywhere else, a vague connection with the past, however aloof and indifferent it always is. Not far from here the first Thanksgiving was held; just the word itself coaxes grade school images of turkeys and wigwams, fires and muskets up out of my own past. But today, in light of the vast, populous country that sprang from such modest beginnings, I can't help but wonder what might have happened had we not rewarded the Native Americans' generosity and kindness with the beleaguering fact of their own extinction, had we honored the words of the faiths our European ancestors sailed so steadfastly to this coast to safeguard and practice. It's all here in sunsets and sediments, in leaf-rot and growth rings, another path we could have taken. In 2007 Virginia will celebrate the four hundredth anniversary of its founding. Even as expertly pickled as the phantoms of the past have been in places like Williamsburg where children amble about in bonnets and three-cornered hats, it's hard not to imagine what a different nation America might be had we blended our beliefs rather than stamp out another's. tractor paths well-worn; the sound of the falling rain in the leaves of corn SEQUENCES A PAPER DOLL WORLD Ed Baranosky on a knitted brow knit one, pearl two, wailing a song whaling along the lines form at the right spaces between the yarns never empty. hot apple pie awaits no longer a plebian dream. sound with feathers prayers carried by Gabriel to the inward sun. wings on notes sing life itself the music. HOW TO ELBMUH John M. Bennett 1) Seep lube and pest your deldnof 2) Seem log and tramp your remalf 3) Blut flap and snag your gnignalc 4) Drip sleep and slug your apap 5) Dime slag and flunk your rovalf 6) Bin spoon and crust your ycnargalf 7) Jab lungoid and flange your gnippop HAIKU FOR LYNX Ruth Franke Kleine Bank am See der Rohrsänger pfeift im Schilf sonst nichts als Stille Secluded lake warbler's song from the reed silence deepens Aschermittwoch im Morgennebel alle Ampeln grün Ash Wednesday in morning fog all lights green Zwischen Farbkübeln das Weiß der Orchidee the orchid among paint buckets very white Besuch daheim die Leere wo die Pappel stand visiting home the gap where the poplar was Im Nachbarfenster lautlose Hände am Vibrafon behind the window hands at a vibraphone noiseless Im Bodenraum lächelt ein staubiger Clown in the attic a dusty clown smiling Boulevard im Schnee farbige Schatten der Neonlichter boulevard in snow colored shadows of the neon signs Durch Nebelgrau ein heller Klang - Sternsinger through misty rain the voices of carol singers INCIDENTAL TOURIST Laryalee Fraser pores soaked with summer she folds translucent memories in her suitcase the gloss of travel brochures tarnished. . . seductive promises trail from silver wingtips opening the door to her apartment the dust of a thousand longings remains untouched THE WEB Elizabeth Howard knowing the future cancer's web connecting breast to lung shoulder to thighbone she chooses a gravesite her body a lush garden cancer vine growing like kudzu on a red gravel bank chemo and radiation toxins she cannot endure she lies inert unable to raise her head to turn in the bed antibiotics pump through her veins day and night the beeper screaming for more and more more and more morphine, too, patches and pumps only her purse growing smaller pneumonia curse and blessing the call to come the last visit a hospital bed my body rushes feet drag how I dread to see her like this what to say her smile family talk a little joke yet the cough the raling breath phone call in the night she's gone you have to tell mama ask me to cross the Sahara to drink the Dead Sea don't ask me to tell mama her daughter is dead SCENES FROM RIVERVIEW Francis Masat folks gather around a new face - with one suitcase in a noisy lounge to hear the same old stories told by family and friends graceful old willows - wave and bend in the stiff wind evening shadows grow as daytime memories fade week after week after week out of Mom's wheel chair a child's tattered doll tumbles Mother and I smile sharing a glass of water she asks again "What is cake?" floating white dust motes move through the rays of sunset past an unmarked door a blank where a name once was Grandpa scratches his gray head Saturday Party in an Alzheimer's unit Happy Birthday sung again-and-again and then again-and-again again UNDER A FINGERNAIL MOON Kelly Ann Malone A pregnant lunar display, plugged into the sky…This is not for me. I exist under a fingernail moon, casting less of a glow. Providing scant beams, if any. I prefer the thin, silver rim that pleasantly dips north-east. It does not pierce the clouds, but gently hovers above them. It leaves us below to find our own way. It causes us to forge our own light, so that we may discover the path within the eclipse of our destinies. A TANKA SEQUENCE June Moreau We'll sleep a dancing sleep on the foamy crest of an ocean wave kissed and kissed again by joyful dolphins. We'll sleep the sun-drift sleep of pollen drifting, drifting, with the drifting wind. We'll sleep with mountain arms around the puma and feel the living warmth of its golden fur. We'll sleep with swarms and swarms of wild bees in a cloud forest of orchids We'll sleep there in the meadow where speckled eggs are hidden in a lark's dreamy nest. We'll sleep in the everywhere blue and know the sun's everlasting path across the sky. THREE QUATRAIN WRITTEN IN CHIEH CHU FASHION, MAILED AFTER HIKING TO TOWN FOR THE SAKE OF BRINGING BACK BEANS AND RICE Karma Tenzing Wangchuk Unrecognized by others, it doesn't matter - I know my heart well, and it knows me well too. People preen themselves while the rivers rise. They'll drown just for the sake of looking good. Eyebrow hairs turning white with every moon . . . Won't be long now before I'm really old. When my time comes, I plan to be ready for it. Hope to cheat Mr. Death, leave him only ash. Ankle bones calloused from sitting crosslegged, Mumbling mantra even when he seems asleep . . . Ask him what he's learned after all these years, He'll draw a circle in the dirt, then wipe it out. LONG-DISTANCE LOVE Mrinalini like the waves, we meet and part. parched sand, drinks the ocean, and gives away some grains. treasured memoirs, turn into pearls. the contact feels good, what about separation? a masochistic yearning to be caressed, to get soaked again, in selfish love. it’s a perfect love. thirstier sand, churns wilder waves, in a quest to be together. only regret is, the lack of control. waiting, till nature took its course. DRAGON anna rugis even the owl is prey to the goshawk a blowfly the specifics of it's ridiculous skid we are talking decadence the slack of muscles the collapse of friendship and our ideals composted by neglect and the spring fed streams that push and flow no matter what the academy of distrust who will write the slip? post marks on degrees of meaninglessness in one week on this street alone three houses change hands my buyers inherit nothing this is the only list I'm on we are all burning this morning the air is so clear like saints roll biddis to feed their children we are rocked and caressed in fumes ultra-violet luculent that last white bark pine the Sawtooth Mountain sage stunted as alive as dead beautiful beyond reason like the insights inside schizophrenia come to me my dragon and hold my tiny bent hand in a sky somewhere which we will firebrand one flick and we're free RACING THE MOON Sandra Simpson origami stars in a glass bowl mother's dahlias spring shower in our hair cherry blossom morning walk clouds all the way down to the smokestack puffing last rose how pink this morning one by one the trees bare my bony fingers pawlonia leaves fall at the window turning another page waking quickly heart racing the moon cranes dancing from the master's brush a red stroke streetlight to streetlight a red umbrella the beat of your heart zig-zag path to the tea-house heat lightning winter gardens trailing behind her the scent of spring market day pipe band drums up a storm practicing with chopsticks she picks up a new friend through bare branches growing daily the scaffolding MOSQUITOES R.K.Singh Without humming mosquitoes alight and bite - all night awake Leaving the signs of mosquito menace on white wall Lies with her in freezing cold - mosquitoes trill Can't flap a fly or swat a mosquito - hands so inept A mosquito drifting her attention from haiku in bath The long night passes sleeplessly I deep-breathe - mosquitoes in bed Waiting for the train alone on the platform swatting mosquitoes KEIN KOPF ÜBER MEINEM Dietmar Tauchner kein kopf über meinem frühlingshimmel tauchen mit offenen augen der blick eines schädels ins leere winterkälte rieche nichts am ende des schneelands blaue berge atemzug um atemzug todeszone schneeflocken leben wird zu einem kissen klar der fluss fließt erwacht die sonne ist schon da NO HEAD ABOVE MINE Dietmar Tauchner no head above mine spring sky diving with open eyes skull's glance into emptiness winter cold smelling nothing at the snowland's end blue mountains breath for breath death's zone snowflakes life becomes a pillow of course the river flows awakening the sun is already there SEASONS BETWEEN Geraldine Toh a thin green blade spring enters the heart leaves of grass I press between these pages a lingering summer maple road the long way to the heart winds through autumn hills this new path-- is it too soon to ask where it will lead us? dreams of a long winter brief days divided, divided again what gifts will we uncover hidden in the snow? a year's forgotten branches - all the brighter they'll burn LIGHTHOUSE GUARDIAN COMPANION* Michael Williams lighthouse of my soul, keeper of my heart, true love of my life beacon on my stormy seas, sole guardian of my hopes, companion of all my days give me peace of mind, calm my worried fears, stay close by my side guide me surely through turmoil, show me the future's bright light, accompany me onward provide safe harbor at day's end, love me as long as we live, for I will love you always This is to be read as three tanka side by side but it also works as one poem with longer lines. SINGLE POEMS* rudernd ins blaue licht der lupinen Mario Fitterer swinging into the blue light of the lupines Trs. Gene Rollins die ganze habe auf dem buckel des fremden im auge das meer Mario Fitterer all belongings on the back of the stranger in the eye the sea Trs. Gene Rollins der blick ruht auf dem ball das gefallen es ist grün Mario Fitterer the glance rests on the leaf fallen it is green Trs. Gene Rollins vogelzug am schiefernen himmel blaue ballen laub Mario Fitterer bird migration in the slatey sky blue bales of leaves Trs. Gene Rollins up and down the branch moves in the wind nodding by the fire C W Hawes the hills of her breasts are gone no stags to leap upon the mountains C W Hawes listening to the long wishlist of my daughter on the shortest day of the year C W Hawes we hurt ourselves while fighting and then that sorry which follows is meant for whom? Kala Ramesh at the airport not once did my son turn to bid us farewell had I been him I would have - a dozen times Kala Ramesh CURVED NUDITY R.K.Singh The wind lifts her curved nudity hidden in water curtain: I touch the strings that whisper love in each falling drop fuji hidden- blank pages in the wind J.E. Stanley clouds hide october's moon- cry of a distant train followed by silence J.E. Stanley jazz chord changes seasons J.E. Stanley courthouse handrail weathered by emotions ...always there a schoolboy in shackles gets a breath of fresh air M. Franklyn Teaford a stampede of stripes a blur of beige among them zebra mother stares at the fate of her colt then runs with the others M. Franklyn Teaford bricks seeing sunshine for the first time in ages urban renewal changing minds and spirits …and bars into churches M. Franklyn Teaford slowly following a spot of warmth in the hall the cat knows the sun but runs from shadows of passing clouds M. Franklyn Teaford sailboat frozen in lake glass autumn’s first chill now melted by the passion in your eyes M. Franklyn Teaford ceiling fan and its shadow spinning oppositely in the TV’s light …some things are mind-boggling others are entertaining M. Franklyn Teaford SIJO How I miss her! When we talk on the cell, her voice scatters. What I wonder: will my stomach get queasy on the schooner? After a nap, I return to task: making shapes of shapely words. Gino Peregrini Sun-flares glint from the farm pond; Cut-finger reeds grow beside the bank. Barn swallows dive to drink; Dragonflies cling to swaying reeds. Let us nap in the meadow: No fish swim in clear water! Gino Peregrini New bombings on the London Tube: police shoot a Brazilian. Lying down for a short nap, I become homesick again. Under the pine, sap sticks to my jeans while I talk on the cellphone. Gino Peregrini Lulled by patterns etched in Shirakawa sand, I dream a heron. Silent in the shallows, he lifts his foot, slowly rakes the river bed. A sudden lunge. A silver flash. A small wave ripples to the shore. Harriot West



	Submission Procedures Who We Are Deadline for next issue is January 1, 2006. Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2005. Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2005. Find out more about Renga, Sijo, Tanka, or Ghazal. Check out the previous issues of: LYNX XX:2 June, 2005 LYNX XX:1, February, 2005 LYNX XIX:3 October, 2004 LYNX XIX:2 June, 2004 LYNX XIX:1 February, 2004 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

LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets

XX:3 October, 2005

LYNX
A Journal for Linking Poets