February, 2013

A Journal for Linking Poets  



Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman

breaking dawn
the empty school bus
makes a practice run                    Julie Warther

that silence just before
the first bird sings                        Angela Terry

lazy afternoon
sun-ripe tomatoes
linger on the vine                        Cara Holman

a deflated beach ball
in the pool skimmer                    Julie

late summer moon –
so much we still
wanted to do                                Angela

leaf shimmer
the whiteness of birch bark          Cara



Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman

heat index rising
a record turnout
at race for the Cure                        Julie Warther

dorsal fins in unison
our footprints on the sand            Angela Terry

pruning back –
the mingles scent
of lemon balm and sage                Cara Holman

two part harmony
the katydids and crickets                Julie

early migration –
three new birds
for her life list                                   Angela

from the playground
voices on the breeze                        Cara



Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman

August nights
whether we see them or not
showers of stars                                Julie Warther

wedding plans
another full moon passes                Angela Terry

Indian summer
an oak leaf lands
at my feet                                           Cara Holman

the blank where we forgot
to mark the growth chart                Julie

fading with the light
the red stain on planet Mars            Angela

clouds chase clouds
across the sky                                    Cara





Patricia Prime
Rodney Williams

wilderness trek
the milkweed pod bursts
silencing bellbirds

sheer cliffs
mirrored in stillness
down the gorge
through raging white-water
a jet-boat roars

on the sandy shore
the lovers’ silhouettes

she repeats
still in a whisper
yes, I love you




Patricia Prime
Rodney Williams

captive audience ~
hauling on board an octopus
deep sea fisherman

phoning her daughter
by the bridge
across to the island
a dolphin with her calf

across dry grassland
a mob of kangaroos

black wallabies
on this road through burnt trees
sprouting green



Autumn Noelle Hall
Claire Everett

cross-cut star
each point bearing the pip of
apples from the Tree of Light,
Lugh’s otherworldly gift

wind in her hair
she draws down the moon...
how sweetly she weeps
for they who have passed,
sing all a green willow!

a dip of the hazel stick
from its fork,
the severed branch still
thirsting for water

tap- tap -tap
acorns take the silence
deeper into gold...
heart of oak, the faith of ships,
the Druid's Door

hard hub of cart wheel,
boundary mark of Kings,
keel of wooden barque
and wizard’s wand, all wych elm—
steadfast, unyielding

crannoch and lock gates
these carrs of alder
with roots of stone...
catkins of faery pigment,
shade for the Merry Men

their longbows cut
from sap-and-heartwood joins
of the Old Tree
yew sprigs sewn into a shroud
to shepherd them on death’s way

Birchen Maiden
inking a paper moon,
yours the bard's spring cup,
yours the silver Ribbon Tree
and yours the besom broom

Odin’s Horse—
World Tree from which he hung
and won the runes,
now ash maypole festooned...
be-ribboned by star-path dance

weave the maypole's crown
from blackthorn's starry blossom...
yet, here is Strife,
Dark Mother of the Woods
fixing fate with pins of sleep

blossoming heather
your ring-around-the-fruit-tree
brings bounteous luck...
‘fraoch’-for fierceness
and battle bravery

fires of holly
forging the warrior's blade,
testing his mettle...
here, where snow begins to bleed,
another life laid down

the song thrush
piping his sad elegy
from yon rowan tree
even the Shaman’s staff
unable to bring him back...

as the Milky Way
sprang from the strewn May petals
of Olwen's path
a wish beneath the hawthorn
might reach the faery lands

droplets of blood
drooping in clusters from
blackberry vine...
a cup of its wine best quaffed
with consent from the Fay

yellow gorse
lantern of the moors
whose flame is nectar...
hope springs from fires of deadwood
and blooms to bar the Sidhe

trembling leaves,
lift your silver bellies
to her light...
the white poplar’s incense
whispers of Mother Moon

hollow heart of the shallows
for a wandering poet...
Taliesin's raft of reeds

a sacrifice,
Elder Woman—for your wood,
my own...
lay me down beneath your boughs
to wake in the Otherworld

Bran knows the magic
lies in ivy's spiralling...
sing ye then
the Cutty Wren,
once more into the green!





Patricia Prime
Owen Bullock

Let us indulge in summer in some seaside venue say Waihi, Cooper’s Beach, Piha or the Coromandel where wind sifts among shells that balance sea and shore, separates them between land and water. A snag of seaweed binds them together.

                        summer sun
                        the first waves
                        touch my feet

I surround microscopic organisms and ingest them. I sluice the current, subside with the night. I surrender to the fish that draws me in like a man with no voice, who cannot write, sing, protest, or love.

                        sign of life
                        the gasses

                        chosen at random
                        letters in
                        the scrabble victory

I’ve got my stories too. I bet you know them. This floral sarong? The op-shop. This striped beach bag – a gift. Or from the Salvation Army. You decide. I too am something other than what I seem.

                        late afternoon
                        the blackbird shifts
                        to a minor key

                        pale shadow
                        through the open window
                        the cat returns






Jane Reichhold
Giselle Maya

white stones
the sound of the autumn moon
in the wind  

not a thing added
not a leaf taken away

back home
the jobless son

tenure coming up
nerves strung high    
whistling swans
bring to the river valley
Canada-cold air

only a light frost
on white roses

gathering kindling
for the fire the scent
of chrysanthemum

both with white hair
still the attraction            

almost Thanksgiving
a fox crosses the night road
light on his tail

lovers in the backseat
gasp in surprise when   

the voice of an owl
spirits away romance
from a swift embrace

even in the darkness
the way home is clear   

the moon gathers
the day’s heat

the adults skinny dipping
on the abandoned beach

late summer sun
among grazing clouds
pools of sky

taking a long drink
the fountain of youth

their gossamer intricacy
as great as the mind

fairy garments hung out to dry
the little caps and poppy cloaks   
sun-warm clean
shirts from the dryer
never know spring   

in an old chapel
the song of hand-cut limestone

ringing again
around the small town
a bronze bell   
Rothko sky
a raptor on the high wire

frozen in its tracks
a hunted rabbit blends
with the frost

this life of wild parsley

the dream
of the bearded man
changes things

his kiss of greeting
scratches my cheek

I remember the scent
of the sixties

now a drop of bergamot
essential oil on the wrist

a rising star
in the dark pines
a slender moon      

sweet potato pie
I can’t resist a second slice

ripe plums
I roll down the window
to free a wasp

drawn to her sweetness
the letter read once again     

sharing ginger tea
cooled by rippling wavelets
of conversation

ignoring all the hottest news
the explosion in the garden  

the missing link
flowers without bees

borne by the wind
the way of the will     

Started – November 14, 2012
Finished – December   2, 2012


ml hand

Haiga by Maya Lyubenova, Plovdiv, Bulgaria



Rodney Williams
Patricia Prime

never averse
to telling a story twice
our old sweetheart
would quote her brother as a lad –
what’s the puddin’s name, Mum?

blackberry bushes
beyond a barbed-wire fence
entice us
with views of a dessert pie
to find a way across those spikes

in rubber boots
with buckets in hand
I walk again
with my dear old Mother
memories popping up like mushrooms

between each visit,
never makes a fuss
while baking a cake,
always a smile for any job
she knows I don’t like doing

our aunt
an artist with marzipan
decorating wedding cakes . . .
give me her gamey rabbit stews

summer funfair
ice cream melting in our hands
thrill of the bumper cars
as we chase and turn to collide
with headlong screams

a magician
in her own kitchen
merely starting points
she conjures unique delights

carving the turkey
my thoughts go out
to a recluse friend
in New Mexico – he subsists
on words alone





Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime

westerly gale – already the cherry blossom gone

swimming between the water-filters, a duck

your company – and a  kingfisher on a bent branch

made by the outgoing tide, patterns on the sandbank

slack tide – the whitebaiter packing his gear

scooting past us on the pathway, holiday children

around the haiku boulder a week ago a blast of colour

going around in circles – fitness fanatics

getting up speed, the toddler on the tiny bike

against a backdrop of kauri – pink toon trees

somewhere above the river the birds disagree

after the storm, the car-park fills with families






Ann Piet Anderson
Francis Fike
Marchiene Vroon Rienstra

dense gray morning fog.
sunrise melting mist away
bares a church steeple      (ff)

thousands of bright falling leaves
silently cover the ground   (apa)

waves crash through icebergs
glittering fountains of spray
freezing as they fall  (mvr)

piercing through newfallen snow
green spear of the daffodil   (ff)

swiftly moving clouds;
only a few moonbeams shine
through to slice the dark   (apa)

dancing on the lake's surface
countless sunfired diamonds   (mvr)

sweet fresh strawberries
he brings to the candlelight
for her, with white wine   (ff)

empty bottles, bowls and cups
arms, hearts full of each other  (apa)

a bright whir of wings
two hummingbirds hovering
at the red feeder   (mvr)

six weaned pink piglets crowding
head to head at the filled trough   (ff)

paws pressed to its chest
a black squirrel looks lakeward
still as a statue   (mvr)

swooping eagle captures it
not a fish dinner tonight   (apa)

no sushi . . . but look –
the golden full moon rising
through the bare branches   (ff)

with creaking claw-like limbs
a leafless tree scrapes the sky   (mvr)

reaching for the sun
budding forsythia twigs
cast shadows on snow   (apa)

fresh green tufts the hillside trees
under a shower's rainbow   (ff)

a mountain meadow
wildflowers, colors past count
some of them with wings   (mvr)

eroding sand slips down dune
white surf rolls along the shore   (apa)

combers coming in
hemming the brown skirt of land
leave shoreline shining   (ff)

honking of geese high above
riding cool currents southward   (mvr)

flocks rest at Todd Farm.
nearby, lovers pick apples
at the Crane Orchards   (apa)

a lone goose, circling, calls for
its mate;  close shotguns blasting   (ff)

piles of dead branches
crackling as they burn away.
tears in the darkness   (mvr)

bright Winterberries emerge
from melting crystal ice tombs   (apa)

on the frozen pond
at the public park, skaters
glide over bluegills   (ff)

snowmelt swells the flowing creek
free at last from winter's grasp   (mvr)

grey pelts breaking out
now on streamside willow buds –
soft flowering fur   (ff)

turning soon to green, hiding
a nest,  will the eggs survive?   (apa)

oval globe glowing
through the skylight at midnight
way too much sunshine   (mvr)

firefly on dark path flashing?
the abbot's flickering lantern   (ff)

motors' steady hum:
parade of boats homeward bound
fireworks now finished   (apa)

beneath stars, a beach bonfire
lighting up children's faces   (mvr)

on the grey water
under a homing heron
fish make widening rings   (ff)

inside a tangle of weeds –
safe for the present moment   (apa)

covering the bank
feathery goldenrod blooms
shelter green acorns   (mvr)

freed from cracked grey milkweed pods
down-winged brown seeds rise on wind   (ff)





Bambi Steiner
Jane Reichhold

thin skin tears apart
as clouds pass cliff edges
an old sickle moon

cutting through the darkness
the call of a lonely owl 

blood red talons
wrapped around his arm
barfly leads him home 

discouraged with online dating
she spins a web of hair and scent  

Venus appears
now more seductive than ever
through bare-limbed trees   

holy chastity covers the earth
first big snow storm of the year  

neighbors compete
which old guy gets to dig
out my driveway   

delivering a dozen red roses
and chapped lips to her door   

exhibit opening
so many compliments
and the most sales 

everything converges at that one point
on the horizon she never reaches 

that dratted knee ligament
has gone out again  

slowly reclining back to earth
dry grass covered in frost 

the night turns white
without stars  

wrapped tightly in black silk
her diamonds lost in cleavage  

the opera star
stares into the footlights  

forgotten line

a sea of old memories tosses
the names of young lovers   

spelled out
in cherry blossoms
a summons  

his budding young porn star
younger than he thought  

exposing herself
leaves nothing to imagination
orange tiger lilies   

leaning in to sniff
pollen on the blouse 

coming to rest
sunlight on a pile of leaves
the dozing cat  

how can I help her?
friend with a pacemaker  

background noise
all those cicadas chirping
leaves growing   

next year’s babies
made of sunshine  

yoga instructor's
delta of splayed legs
letting out his breath  

her attention caught
by her own desire 

southern exposure
looking across the dunes
at bikini beach  

everyone’s feet disappear
in the mist from the surf 

sliding through clouds
the balsamic moon pales
amid morning shades 

bright crimson smears
sailors take warning  

in her socks
a strange surprise from
St. Nicolas  

reseeding heir lines
old king takes a new wife  

such pressure
to reproduce or perish
reprinting the book

spring two thousand thirteen
all the new leaves are virtual  

petals flutter
on a wind-still afternoon
his snoring  

root cellar warms up again
dreaming apple farts are first love 

Started – October 22, 2012
Finished: - December 14, 2012





shirley sachiko kishiyama  

in celebration
of an artistic weekend
a picnic for two

celadon sage tenders green      
nourishment is light but sound

South Dakota –
a Sioux child born during
the calves grow hair moon

a river cuts the earth
salmon swim to their birthplace

carving her pumpkin
she releases the demon
hidden within

seeds drop to the ground and wait
for the next incarnation

period of peace
the kingfisher goddess nests
for its second week

because the pipes have frozen
stream water must be gathered

dearly beloved
the white limousine pulls
slowly away

a chariot is built
by connecting the stars

7-year itch
fallen from grace
both of them

the father of her daughters
has shattered her world

visitation –
matching palm prints
on prison glass

an octopus captures prey
the seahorse battles for its mate

hippie chicks+IBQ-
wildflower chains
around their necks

humpty dumpty sits upright
on the vernal equinox

stone quarry
a giggling gelatinous
mass of eggs

opalisque gibbous moonrise
waxing through the film of fog

harvest festival
beneath a stiff moustache
grape stained lips

walnut skins stain the paper
swirls of cream in coffee

initials scribbled
on a ferris wheel seat –
departing carnival

traces of breath in the air
crystalline icy stasis

emergency room –
this recession much worse
than the wound

low tide in the afternoon
sucks energy from the soul

party crowd –
butterscotch brownies make
everyone high

adhd today
a warrior in the past

still thriving
albeit harsh conditions
little lichen

a facsimile of change
the creek begins melting

during courtship
a turtle dove stretches
tall and bows

ribbons on gay packages
hold a secret under wraps

blind date
straightening the cushions
on his sofa

he loved the doomed chanteuse
but he could not keep her safe

piece by piece
we discard a wood
jigsaw puzzle

visiting the continents
as if they were Pangaea

airplane cargo –
harvested bones and oil
from the catacombs

in the glow of tsukimi
poets write into the night

Japanese squid
protecting its hatch
releases its ink

black strands across the pillow
and dreams of waking with him

fifties couple
moony over Kay Starr
on the phonograph

she fell spraining her right wrist
and cannot throw the frisbee

loud keening –
the Irish peasants
wear arm bands

our lady of Paris pets
her a pack of thirsty gargoyles

tallest building
a window washer waves
at the crowd

surf scrambling across tide pools
refreshes anemones

a familiar pause
between sips

french fries with mayonnaise
cheese burger with everything

crossing the tracks –
a herd of hungry cattle
head for the barn

unseasonable flooding
train travelers are delayed

coping with drought
for nearly fifty years –
a farmer and his wife

tissues dry after chemo
only loving kindness left

welcome back
slobbering kisses
from a st. bernard

walk her down the aisle
a parting hug ends the psalm

race track
an announcer's blessing
starts the cars

plump gourd round as the moon
quietly waits to be pie

autumn evening
loud-colored squares
in her quilt

the town plaza promenade
deserted in november

city to city
a traveling salesman
knocks on doors

today they are side by side
stepping over the threshold

ain't got no money
to speak of and yet
we harmonize

a barrel cut in half
blooming lavender

waking of insects
a chillable red box
in the recycle

he believes death is final
yet the bare branch is budding

spilling over
into the afterworld
her gray locks

at long last the void
suffer those who resist

giving in
to fate or coincidence
hunter's moon

indigo to midnight blue
a curtain drops on the fields

corn shucking
Mennonite hands
in motion

I stared into your darkness
johnny I hardly knew you

strangers mourning
for a beached whale
washed ashore

it's a tradition to break
in the seventh inning stretch

gopher mound
a crocus coming pushes
through the dirt

digging in the garden
she doesn't hear the phone ring

southern spring
an iced tea glass scars
the mahogany

another hemisphere
the whirlpools are backwards

frequent flyer
my circadian rhythm
out of balance

still asleep hardly awake
a newborn starts the journey

mother's holiday
another fuschia basket
for her porch

hard to be happy in may
after last fall's falling out

fond memories
the soft breasts I used
to rest my head on

land once under the ocean
emerges like painted hills

solar eclipse
through welding glasses
third season moon

the arctic tern surpasses
those of us who seek warm climes

sudden aloneness
not a single goose
graces the pond

the pavilion is golden
whole ryoanji is plain

the suiseki
cannot find any
as perfect as you

please meet for tea before
it snows on the lake tai rocks

late supper
christmas carolers
for dessert

coming back to the people
opera night in the taverns

the class clown
makes a fool of himself
college reunion

not too much sadder than
when there’s no one around

departing birds
it seems so early
to say farewell

the first day of painting class
I bring scones she brings mooncakes

flies and guys hang out
in the beer garden

a revival tent went up
so the sinning might go down

skunk cabbage
we lift our noses
in the air

coyote pups need feeding
lost cat posters near the parks

easter service
a large brim hat looms
in front of me

no more human sacrifice
let us put a stop to war

a long distance from start
to finish

in the end the beginning
promised all that was to be

june 2011- june 2012



Haiga by Maya Lyubenova, Plovdiv, Bulgaria


David Terelinck
Beverley George
Shona Bridge

hippie markets
the scent of incense
and streaky bacon
an uncollared dog
circles the tables

of unsold clothing
packed away at nightfall
puppets hang
on still strings

soapstone sculptures
in exotic curves
distracted by the hips
of the fortune teller

trying to guess
what it is you bought
for my birthday
you bring me jasmine tea
in your favourite cup

a clink of spoons
as she tries out
for the school band
her uniform hem
already too short

collecting fares
his thoughts ride
the incoming swell
that first summer surf
and glimpse of bare flesh

September 15, 2012





Mike Keville
Jane Reichhold
Ken Wanamaker

puppies chasing
tails in the garden patch...
summer afternoon       kw

those tiny wet noses
blossoms in the water dish     kw

warming up
on the pitcher's mound
field of dreams     kw

free-falling from the sky
and then waking up     kw

reaching toward zenith –
the full moon in no hurry
this cold night        kw

a sock with a hole in it
all ten toes are numb     jr

but happily dancing
among the pines      kw

they tango slowly
across the ballroom floor     kw

a rendezvous
in the cloak room muffled
by mink stoles     kw

she wants to marry him
only because he is not rich    jr

holes in his pants
and pockets full of nothing
Freddie, the Freeloader      kw

leading the 4th of July parade
the lost dog with the kinky tail      jr

or the moon exploding
on this warm night?       kw

young girls wearing less and less
today how much more they know     jr

strapless gown
spiked heels and a pearly strand
her first red carpet      kw

a queen not yet six years old
Honey Boo Boo as a sex kitten      jr

in bloom
our first lady opens
the games      mm

robins playing 'pick-up-stix'
in the front yard       kw

such a crime
under blue skies
magnolia burn      mm

while the town slept
the dish ran away with the spoon    kw

in the back seat of the junk car
young lovers     jr

though old and rusty
the engine still purrs     kw

deep in the river
a sunken paddle boat covered
with barnacles      jr

frozen in the icy marsh
an old decoy on its side      kw

duck bottoms
old guys make jokes
primed with whiskey      jr

in red back-lighting ruffles
on her bloomers draw his eye      kw

still wet
Degas places his painting
on a chair      jr

toweling off and thinking
The Beautiful One Comes     kw

online order
will it get here before
the relatives?     jr

sisters, cousins and aunts
taste her spiced pumpkin soup      kw

ohs and ahs
a dollop of whipped cream
honors the full moon     jr

red and golden leaves
swirling down the garden path     kw

art show over
a quietness descends
on all the efforts      jr

only one ray of sunlight
on the front row pews      kw

the bride
her radiance outshines
any flower      jr

all smiles in the afterglow
of an spring shower      kw

Written on the AHA Forum
June through December, 2012





Patricia Prime
Owen Bullock

The light in the art gallery is intense, the colours white and pearl grey, and suspended from the high glass ceiling is a mobile of gigantic inflatable flowers, opening and closing in sequence.

            flower chandelier
            red, yellow, bee-less
            and scentless

We’ve come to see the Degas to Dali exhibition. It’s a fascinating show: on one wall is a landscape by Van Gogh called “Olive Trees” and I’m shocked at a modest-sized work by surrealist René Magritte – “The Black Flag” – his response to the Nazi bombing of Guernica.

            Indian summer ~
            Dappled light in Bonnard’s
            “Lane at Vermonnet”

After two hours in the gallery, we step outside into autumn sunshine. Near the entrance, we wait for friends to join us. They apologise for being late and we walk to the café to sit down and talk and eat.

            pukeko tracks
            beside the squashed
            pukeko chick

            across the porch
            mid-morning light




Claire Chatelet aka Sprite
Dick Pettit aka Ricardo
Ken Wanamaker
Mary White
Pris Campbell

heat lightning
illumines the old meadow...
lowing calves      ken

hesitant steps
returning from the festival       ricardo

mud caked
floral wellies in odd sizes
can tell so many tales      mary

only a dormouse heard
the safecracker notch numbers      ken

he writes about
love, Proust, orchids
and her flaming hair      pris

the moon like a comma
that icy night we eloped      sprite

getting old,
it groweth cold, and fades away
like morning dew...       ricardo

The Grateful Dead blare
from purloined school speakers       pris

as time stills
the bard on his couch strains
to hear under-voices     ricardo

beneath the eagle, a swift
swoops to catch a feather      mary

this powderpuff
seems pinker in the haze
of a dawn fog     pris

from under a log
a toad watches the rain     ken

at Hogwarts
Harry dances widdershins
around the Maypole       ken

where else to lose one's clothes
but in the fleshpots of Vegas?      ricardo

let's fast forward
forty years of just deserts
to the Faustian deadline   sprite/mary/ricardo

electroplating all leaves
an alchemist wind       sprite

be thou this night
a light to my errant path
oh wandering moon      ken

a rising tide sweeps
more treasures ashore     pris

Composed online at The Renku Group
between 24.8.12 and 16.9.12



Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime

westerly gale – already the cherry blossom gone

swimming between the water-filters, a duck

your company – and a  kingfisher on a bent branch

made by the outgoing tide, patterns on the sandbank

slack tide – the whitebaiter packing his gear

scooting past us on the pathway, holiday children

around the haiku boulder a week ago a blast of colour

going around in circles fitness fanatics

getting up speed, the toddler on the tiny bike

against a backdrop of kauri pink toon trees

somewhere above the river the birds disagree

after the storm, the car-park fills with families




Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime

sailing paper boats down the river's swift flow

the steep path scattered with scarlet petals

above roof tiles smoke clings to the chimney

on the green park bench a blue handprint

bees racing from blossom to blossom

over the hedge the white birdhouse stands empty

absolutely still – sheep on the distant hillside

laden with ripe fruit orange trees

from beyond the board fence a burst of laughter

beside the new path, ripples on the lake

his pocket-sized dog still full of running

a single purple magnolia among green leaves



Jane Reichhold
Bambi Steiner

a white stone
on our path to the beach
the moon  

twenty-eight notches on bone
forty thousand years old

all kinds of information
another fire   

sun solders the horizon
billowing radiant clouds   

the gentle blessings
of snow

pasture of dry grass
barbed wire lets the wind in

soft voice
but it is the warmth
filling her ear  

love stories of the gods
still alive on our breath  

heaven and hell
barely concealed beneath
cheerleader's skirts          

a wad of gum on her butt
he forgives her shortcomings  

Eden apple
organic label stuck on top
of fang marks   

banned from the garden
all sex becomes a sin 

summer night
omniscient goddess winks
a lunar eclipse   

heads of ripe wheat bend and sway
now you see them; now you don’t  

deep in the "furrow"
burying the ancient name
of Virgo   

daughter of the wine-maker
the last god to leave the earth 

scientific names
the holy of holies
still dwell in flowers   
Dylan Thomas’s “green fuse”
for these earthbound fireworks 
the wordless poems
of morning   
Venus rises from the sea
leaving a train of dew 

those thoughts
of short term memory loss
blink and they’re gone 

grace to enter the unknown
as a reborn innocent  

a dazzling paradise
my favorite beach under
a heavy snowfall 

infinite stars fill the skies
the blackest even fuller 

next stop on the galaxy
will only our hearts travel
to those realms   

"forever' is a bitch"
last word after goodbye 
still trying
to love myself

in the driveway sits the Ford
he left with a flat tire 

 evening breeze
the rising moon is
no longer full   

remembering last summer's heat
with another hot flash  

burst of sunlight
beneath storm clouds
cliffs turn redder 

apologizing for the lost letter
my spam watchdog ate it 

telling sweet lies
the bedfellow's voice
debate on TV    

tired of politics I go outdoors
there is spring in the meadow  

red, orange and pink
lips now open wide
from deep-throated bulbs   

Happy Birth Day to you and Dorje
he’s a great addition to the family  

Started: September 1, 2012
Finished: October 10. 2012




fathers day



rock arch

The London Arch
on the southern coastline of Australia
taken by Allan Foster



Anne Benjamin
Amelia Fielden
Jan Foster
Marilyn Humbert
Keitha Keyes

fighting dawn storm


Cazneaux tree

The sun is peeping above the rim of the folded and faulted rock span that makes up the Flinders Ranges as I wake. South of our campsite is Wilpena Pound. We travel along back tracks, the landscape appears flat to the foot of the red rock wall. But it is undulating and rolling, sparsely covered with a film of green between bluebush and stunted black oaks after record rains some months earlier. In the middle of this lonely place is a solitary river red gum. Gnarled and scarred it emphasizes a difficult life in this country of weather contrasts. An ample girth betrays life through many seasons. Exposed silvery-white roots radiate out from the base and creep along the top soil like giant tentacles. I place my hand on it’s trunk as the autumn breeze tousles the blue-green leaves in whispers from long ago: echoes of thud-stamp and didgeridoo. This is the tree Cazneaux photographed in 1937.

the Cazneaux tree endures
many moods of the outback

aye, there's the rub

This January afternoon is very hot and dry, but the climate in the club as we dance to a cheerful jazz band is air-conditioned chill. Suddenly there is a strident interruption: a broadcast message urges all those living in certain areas of the capital to leave now in order to defend their homes against an out-of-control bushfire. It couldn't be happening here...could it? The sky outside is doomsday purplish-black. A dense blanket of smoke smothers our suburb for many hours while leaves are cleared from roof gutters and plans are made to evacuate. By morning, we are still there and the peril has passed. The radio talks more and more of the devastation and tragedies one day has brought to Canberra.

those who've survived,
how do they sleep … to sleep
perchance to dream



On our farm in the Mallee, water is scarce. We get into big trouble if we waste it. Once a week, or on special occasions, we have a bath. Everyone uses the same two inches of water in the bottom of the bath. My youngest sister goes first and Dad is last. Then the water is scooped out of the bath and put on the geraniums.
Today’s special occasion is a trip to town, in the middle of the irrigation area. We love it there, where water and cousins are plentiful.

carefree children
run under the sprinklers



I’ve come to Queenscliff on the western headland of Port Phillip Bay, to a wide expanse of shallow wetland called Swan Bay. Here the quiet is so profound I can hear the wind ruffle the wavelets on the shore. And there they are, the bay’s namesakes, a flock of black swans, preening, drifting, or simply standing in the shallow water. The safety and seclusion of this restful place could rival any expensive spa.

from life’s busyness
— wetlands

Wadi Qelt

With first light, the desert hills below me are smudged with morning haze. It is crisp, rather than cold, and at first all I hear is the crunch of limestone shale beneath the leather of my sandals. The grass here is sparse. Growing in stumpy clumps, it is as still as the rocks. Then, I hear something distant.

lifted by currents
the call of a bird


In the autumn of my life

Strolling through drifts of dry leaves with the four-legged darlings, images of another park, and a border collie, float behind my eyes. In Seattle now, the grandchildren will be running with Gypsy around the spring lake. It is sadly symbolic: their blossoming so far away, and our light fading here. I try to keep up with them all in spirit, but...

closing off Skype,
blowing kisses

Night whisper

In the gloaming the moon hangs low, a large yellow-butter ball. Its smiling face fills me with peace even though my thoughts are crowded with fears and doubts. Clear tones of singing swirl around. Every word is pronounced clearly with joy and laughter. I whisper to the night.

across an ocean
a wish on a moonbeam


A new start

Intensive English centres are attached to many high schools in Sydney. Teachers are expected to provide their students with enough English skills to join a mainstream class, in 510 hours or less. This is particularly challenging when students have no literacy in their own language.
Fadi is one such student, a fifteen year old refugee from Iraq. Never been to school before. Won’t behave properly in class. Always fighting. None of the usual arsenal of punishments work to tame him. An afternoon detention means nothing to a boy who has been on the run, through all sorts of detention camps, since he was a baby.
Today his mother is summoned to school for an interview. Just his mother. His father is dead. Through an interpreter teachers learn of her confusion and despair. For years her son has been her protector. Now that they are safe in Australia he must learn how to be a child. She has no solutions.

bent with shame
she weeps for the future
of this boy-man

Head waters

High among limestone rocks we reach the looming cave where once people worshipped the god Pan. From deep springs, it is here that the Jordan River begins its journey through history. It is a hot day, early in spring, and we cool off under fig trees. The fruit is still unripe but the shade is heavy with sweetness.
Freed from the rocks, the stream rushes in a narrow torrent. We rest beside its noisy tumbling clarity.

in the beginning
the way forward is so clear


Selecting apples in the supermarket, there is a young woman beside me. A toddler perches in the trolley’s seat and it registers that he has Down Syndrome. By her side, another young boy of about 4 years runs his toy car over the trolley, to his brother’s amusement. In response to my smile, the toddler promptly offers a cheeky grin.
As she turns to put her bag of apples in the cart, this young mother’s face and its shuttered expression are revealed, her life ahead irretrievably complicated by her son’s disability. My heart aches for her. 

life’s path
thorny with pain
… the price of love

Yellow balloons

The first time I meet the poet, I am surprised to see how tiny she is. A huge creativity married to a sprite-like physicality.
In her tanka, and in our conversations over the next ten years, she talks to me of her favourite things: feathers and plum blossoms; babies and daffodils; blue autumn air; cosmos flowers and balloons … especially yellow ones.
Yuko loves everything light.
Eventually, cancer thins her to a little voice in a fragile husk.

greying, a sunset cloud
drifts beyond the horizon

They catch my attention because each is so attractive: a young dusky, dark-haired woman and a tall graying man. There is an age difference between them. So, from a distance, I watch for a while. The woman is all passion; her orange skirts twist as she speaks; her face tumbles from sullenness, sadness, beseeching and finally to anger. He stands, almost immobile, his face closed. He seems to say little, and then he turns and walks away, leaving the young woman alone on the park bench – sobbing.

along the path
a scud of leaves
winter blusters in


Impossible to tell what time of the day it is in this cold, sterile hospital cubicle with no windows. I sit and hold my sister’s hand. Silence is punctuated by the beeps of the monitors and the comings and goings of nurses. They understand the mechanics of dying. I have yet to learn.

the colours of my life
disappearing before me


Morning brings a driving urge to write. Much has passed these last days and there is a need to make sense of things, to put events in order to better understand all that is happening.
Words tumble out, filling page after page, magical words burning with intensity. The control of my world returns as, with pen in hand, the shadows lengthening, I write until spent.

the fire
in my belly cools
to mere embers
 After the storm

Early morning sunlight limns bare branches down the fire trail beside the creek near my home. A bushfire, started by a lightning strike, has swept through the valley and left devastation in its wake. The fire trucks have gone now, wisps of smoke from the smouldering logs have faded out, leaving the ground covered in a carpet of scorched leaf litter and blackened tree trunks. There is no rustling of small animal life, no sound of birdsong, or wind sifting through leaves. Only the gurgle of water from the creek breaks the hush.
But some native plants are like the phoenix, rising from their own ashes. Soon there will be green shoots from these burnt stumps, and the soft white of flannel flowers which need the heat of a fire to germinate. The crunching underfoot will turn to the shushing of native grasses, and the resilience of life will declare itself anew.

from the ashes
new life

It is Boxing Day, the day of the annual Sydney to Hobart yacht race. A race of teamwork, technology, luck of the weather and survival. Not all the boats will make it to Hobart.
TV cameras capture the colourful chaos of every angle of the harbour. The people lining the foreshores. The spectator craft jostling for position. The competitors tacking to and fro waiting for the starting gun.
At one o’clock they are off. One by one the leaders break away from the pack.

spinnakers poised
yachts looking for clear air
and victory


Early to bed.
Extremely early to rise.
Three training sessions a day, six days a week.
Hair greening from the chlorine.
Eyes perpetually red-rimmed.
Physio for a strained shoulder.
The dread of an infection before a meet.
Still she perseveres, locking her family, too, into this deadline: 2012, the Olympic Games in London

teenage life sacrificed
for the sake of a medal


They’re calling it a 100 year flood. Brisbane and its surrounding valleys are inundated, people and their animals alike needing to be rescued. Images of cattle perched on farmland hillsides fill the news broadcasts, people wading waste-deep.
Weaving a steady path through these frames are the bright yellow vests of the State Emergency Services volunteers in their inflatable craft, gathering up their charges and ferrying them to safety.

in small boats
… a gallant armada


Trees across the track. The truck swerves. Bogged, mud above the axles. Shaken and battered, must scramble on foot to the meeting place, the granite outcrop is the highest point for miles around. The forest is thick and unyielding. Have we taken the wrong turn?   Lost and disorientated we look skyward.

in the east
a rainbow lights the path


across the sand
a changing wind blows my tears
into the salty sea











Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman

Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman

Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman

Patricia Prime
Rodney Williams

Patricia Prime
Rodney Williams

Autumn Noelle Hall
Claire Everett

Patricia Prime
Owen Bullock

Jane Reichhold
Giselle Maya

Haiga by Maya Lyubenova, Plovdiv, Bulgaria

Rodney Williams
Patricia Prime

Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime

Ann Piet Anderson
Francis Fike
Marchiene Vroon Rienstra

Bambi Steiner
Jane Reichhold

shirley sachiko kishiyama  

Haiga by Maya Lyubenova, Plovdiv, Bulgaria

David Terelinck
Beverley George
Shona Bridge

Mike Keville
Jane Reichhold
Ken Wanamaker

Patricia Prime
Owen Bullock

Claire Chatelet aka Sprite
Dick Pettit aka Ricardo
Ken Wanamaker
Mary White
Pris Campbell

Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime

Jane Reichhold
Bambi Steiner

Autumn N. Hall
Claire Evertett

Photo by Allen Foster

Anne Benjamin
Amelia Fielden
Jan Foster
Marilyn Humbert
Keitha Keyes


Back issues of Lynx:

XV:2 June, 2000
XV:3 October, 2000
XVI:1 Feb. 2001
XVI:2 June, 2001
XVI:3 October, 2001  
XVII:1 February, 2002
XVII:2 June, 2002
XVII:3 October, 2002
XVIII:1 February, 2003
XVIII:2 June, 2003
XVIII:3, October, 2003
XIX:1 February, 2004
XIX:2 June, 2004

XIX:3 October, 2004

XX:1,February, 2005

XX:2 June, 2005
XX:3 October, 2005
XXI:1February, 2006 
XXI:2, June, 2006

XXI:3,October, 2006

XXII:1 January, 2007
XXII:2 June, 2007
XXII:3 October, 2007

XXIII:1February, 2008
XXIII:2 June, 2008

XXIII:3, October, 2008
XXIV:1, February, 2009

XXIV:2, June, 2009
XXIV:3, October, 2009
XXV:1 January, 2010
XXV:2 June, 2010
XXV:3 October, 2010
XXVI:1 February, 2011
XXVI:2, June, 2011
XXVI:3 October, 20111XXVII:1 February, 2012XXVII:2 June, 2012

XXVII:3 October, 2012

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