February, 2013

A Journal for Linking Poets  



– An excerpt –
Steffen Horstmann

Crystal chalices are shattered
By the voice of Begum Akhtar.

Sutras rise in calligraphy
 From the palms of Begum Akhtar.

& palace mirrors liquefy, rippling
With the image of Begum Akhtar.

& a raga floats, visible as smoke,
 From the lips of Begum Akhtar.

She is lotus-shaped clouds
Shading the pavilions of Charikar.

She is mist camouflaging elephants
In the sandalwood groves of Bihar.

She is wind piping notes
Through a flute on a sandbar.

Phosphorous gems radiate
In the diadem of Begum Akhtar.

Himalayas blaze with auras
Within the gaze of Begum Akhtar.

& wraiths rise from the Blue Nile,
Dissolving in the skies of Sennar.

& rainbows blossom from light
Swelling in the estuaries of Qatar.

She is the surf of the Arabian Sea.
She is the languid flight of the nightjar.

She is the monsoon's vortex of rain.
She is light exploding within a star.

She is the voice that issues from wind
Turning pages of The Zohar.

& she sings of the luminous
Minarets of Charminar.

& she sings of the white fires
Blooming from the corona of a star.

& she sings of phoenixes ascending
The ashen rubble of Srinagar.

& she sings of bulbuls
Bursting from the throat of Attar.

& she sings of the waters of Babylon
Blazing with the face of Ishtar.

& she sings of winged-seeds whirling
Through the temple courtyards of Shalimar.

& she sings of the Zamzam springs
Illumined by the torch of a star.

& as she sings images alter within
Mosaic windows in the tomb of Akbar.

– The opulent ink of an azure
Aurora shimmering above Kandahar.

– The pyramids of spectral light
Imploding above ruins in Samar.

– The circular clouds whipping
 From Ararat to the straits of Shinar.

– The steam thick as tufts of cotton
Piping from a hissing samovar.

– The Arabian moon transforming
Into the image of Hagar.

– The ravishing Muse whispering
Words that flow from the quill of Pindar.

– The willows casting reflections
Of menorahs in the waters of the Isar.

– The rushing Sarasvati
Flooding the scorched plains of Thar.

– The Egyptian catacombs
Stalked by the shadow of a jaguar.

– The watercolor horizon
Leaking from the brush of Renoir.

& Layla's shadow has fallen like cloth
Upon the tomb of Begum Akhtar.

In Vaikuntha turquoise suns encircle
The astral body of Begum Akhtar.


Where she meditates within an incandescent sphere.
Where she levitates above waves of frozen rivers.

Where her silhouette is emblazoned on a molten cloud.
Where her indigo shadow wavers behind a veil of light.

Where circling falcons form a vortex around her.
Where she is subsumed in the white dust of snow dervishes.

Where her voice shatters the crystals of stars.
Where she is the frost of diamonds melting into rays.

Where she is the night shimmering like black sand.
Where her image undulates on a reef of celestial fire.

Where her sculptural form rises in the sky's rotunda.


Emerald irises bursted
From the tomb of Begum Akhtar.

Through silk shrouds a bodhi tree sprang 
From the heart of Begum Akhtar.

& particles of light teemed
In a field of swaying jowar.

& tanagers swarmed meadows
Of saxifrage in Jhalawar.

& sprigs of lightning forked
 From the throne of Anshar.

& raindrops tapped the drums
Of puddles on dirt roads in Dhar.

& echoes thundered from turrets
In an ancient fortress at Salasar.

& throngs of bees rose like whirlwinds 
From the ripples of hills in Jawahar.

& thunderheads sizzled with blue lightning
Above Sikh temples in Amritsar.

& glacial seas formed
 From the breath of Kishar.


The Ganges is phosphorescent
Within the pupils of Begum Akhtar.

The Jhelum is glass populated
With reflections of Begum Akhtar.

The Sind emits fluid vapor shaping
A mask of the face of Begum Akhtar.

Her voice spirals in the slipstream
Of a flashing jacamar.

Her voice the echo rising
From waterfalls in Barakar.

Her voice the whispering sands
Of desert isles in Kathiawar.

Her voice an aria of air rising
In the cloud chasms of Ahaggar.

& wisps of her voice circulate in air
As a street musician plucks a sitar–

Whirling through the smashed golds
Of wind-thrashed foliage in Srinagar.


A chinar's leaves shine like green flames
Before the spectre of Begum Akhtar.

She inhabits Kashmir zephyrs
Scented with jasmine attar.

She emanates from jade pools
In the oasis of Kashgar.

She disperses poppies amid cenotaphs
In the ruins of Darwar.

She is glimpsed in mirages
Glimmering on the plains of Zaccar.

She is seen on Thakurganj road
When fog streams like steam from fresh tar.


Ahaggar: A highland region in southern Algeria.
Akbar (1555-1605): Mughal Emperor. Akbar's tomb in Sikander, India, is an important Mughal architectural masterpiece.
Amritsar: City in Northwestern India.
< ritsar
Anshar: Mesopatamian sky god.
Attar: A natural perfume extracted from the juices of flowers, herbs, spices, and/or barks into a base oil.
Attar (1145-1221): Persian mystical poet widely known for his epic poem The Conference of The Birds.
Begum Akhtar (1914-1974): Beloved singer of Ghazal, Dadra and Thumri.
She is known as the Queen of Ghazals.
Blue Nile: Ethiopian river believed to be the River Gihan mentioned as flowing out of the Garden of Eden in Genesis 2.
Bodhi Tree: The sacred fig tree under which Siddhartha Gautama achieved spiritual enlightenment.
< Bodhi_Tree
Bulbul: Persian songbird reminiscent of the nightingale.
Charikar: Capital of Parwar Province in northern Afghanistan.
Charminar: Monument built in 1591, located in Hyderabad, Andra Pradesh, India.
< harminar
Chinar: An oriental plane tree.
Hagar: Mother of Ishmael. She is revered in the Islamic faith and acknowledged as a matriarch in all Abrahamic faiths.
Isar: An Austrian/German river.
Ishtar: Assyrian and Babylonian goddess of fertility, war, love, and sex.
Jacamar: A tropical forest bird.
Jalsaghar: Bengali for "The Music Room." It is the title of an 1958 Bollywood film in which Begum Akhtar appeared.
< alsaghar
Jhelum: An Indian/Pakistani river.
< i/Jhelum_River
Jowar: An Old World grass, several varieties of which are widely cultivated as grain.
Kishar: Mesopatamian Earth goddess.
Layla: Character from "The Madman and Layla," a love story originating from classic Arabic literature later adopted and popularized by numerous poets.
Nightjar: A nocturnal bird known for its stealth.
Pindar (522-443BC): An ancient Greek lyric poet from Thebes.
Raga: One of the melodic modes of Indian classical music. It utilizes a series of five or more notes upon which a melody is constructed.
Samar: A province in the Philippines.
Sarasvati: A river in northwestern India.
Sennar: A state in Sudan.
Shalimar: The Shalimar gardens in Lahore, Pakistan.
<,_Pakistanhttp://en.wikipedia.o rg/wiki/Shalimar,_Pakistan
Shinar: A biblical geographic locale of uncertain boundaries in Mesopatamia.
Sind: A glacial river in Kashmir.
Srinagar: The summer capital of Kashmir.
Thakarganj road: The road in Lucknow, India, where Begum Akhtar's tomb is located.
Thar: The Great Indian desert which forms a natural border between India and Pakistan.
Vaikuntha: Home of Vishnu. It is believed to be the place of eternal bliss.
<http://en.wikipedia.ofg/wiki/Vaikunthahttp://en.wikipedia.ofg/wiki/vaikuntha Zamzam Well: When Hagar and Ishmael were left in the desert,
God answered Hagar's plea for water for Ishmael with the Zamzam spring in Mecca.
Zafar (1775-1862): A poet and the last Mughal Emperor. After his involvement in the Indian Rebellion of 1857 the British tried and then exiled him to Burma.
The Zohar (Hebrew): Contains a discussion of the nature of God, the origin and structure of the universe, the nature of souls, redemption, the relationship of Ego to Darkness and "true self" to "The Light of God," and the relationship between the "universal energy" and man.





Steven Carter

             Amazing to me, just before dawn this silver quickening in the sky! Every morning if desert skies are clear, a radiance of silver then blue falls from the air. I can’t help but think of  Eurydice, making a U-turn and descending back into hell because
Orpheus, like Lot’s wife, had to look back and see—

             I say amazing, but really, what could be more mundane than this? Twenty-four hours ago here I was, bleary-eyed from sleep,  pecking away on my computer, when the radiance tap-tapped on the window.

             Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! For the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

             So why should these lines from Dover Beach gate-crash my  thoughts this day, the day after Thanksgiving? Isn’t there  certitude in the silvers and blues, the quickening I mentioned? What is it in me, afraid not to look on the dark side, to cultivate darkness, the Darkness, like a fecund field?

in the yard a dying
roots reaching above ground—




Haiga by Maire Morrissey-Cummins


 Steven Carter

When I was a kid I loved gazing at the flow of water through reeds:each reed wrapped in a scarf of light—warmed, but for only a second; then the light changed, and I was gazing at a different creek, different reeds.

Change of form, change of color, change of worlds—

. . . Odd, since I don’t have a painter’s eye: but days spent walking along the creek west of our house in Alto are still with me.

folding over
a green pebble
. . .my space in the world

             And the wind! Depending on the season it blew from three directions—not the south, I never understood why. I thought of it the way local Indians once did: as a living thing, fingers of a Hand caressing the grasses like a child’s curls.

divvying up
the Marin County sky
two red-tailed hawks

             Occasionally fog rolled in from the Bay, and I saw each bank as a pillow for a  weary head, which I thought of as female. At night, when the fog was gone, she (I even
 called her Susan!) wakened and went back to  her job watching over me, keeping the monsters under the bed.

When I pass, Susan will also pass. Perhaps, thanks to global warming, the fog too. And someday, has that day already come and gone?—some kid will find the last arrowhead in the Marin hills.

in the ripples
disguised with my face



Steven Carter

The sea enchanted me precisely because I never saw it: or saw it so rarely that I don’t remember my first trip to Stinson Beach until I was much older. Then, in the very early fifties, when I was seven or eight, I imagined I could hear invisible waves out my west window—a frame for Mt. Tam, that rugged green pyramid looming up between me and the Pacific.

The abounding blessed isles. . . Who coined that phrase? Pure gold, stamped in my imagination with a foreign imprimatur—God’s own, perhaps, or the goddess I called Susan.
behind my eyelids
dark line of sea
dark line of sky

             Then, too, for me there were always mysterious periods of lassitude, not  pleasant, what I’ve called the horse latitudes of the soul. Why do children feel  such things? I’ve asked that question in  poetry before too, only to be answered by silence, itself a form of lassitude.

             Well, eventually we get bored by smarmy pictures, paintings and photos of happy children—they all seem the same. At least for  me, only in images of  sad children is the essence of childhood revealed—revealed, I mean, in what the little ones seem to be looking for just over my shoulder: even as I  stood at my window at night, looking and listening for the waves that weren’t there.

  winter ivy
comforting thoughts
of not thinking




Gerald John Conforti

A path of flowers beacon us to walk hand in hand. The scent of buds are on your lips and the sunlight glistens in your hair.

on the shore far away stars are in my heart





Alegria Imperial

Always, a loon scours the river shore with me. We dip into indentations of footprints. Share secrets we unravel: the scalloped lips of shells, the broken ribs of fish, the names we name stones. We use no words. The loon thinks he sings, his song always a dirge. I
sigh on endless waves, my sighs fragile as peace. We count our regrets on fingers of evergreens, codes a river will never understand. At sunset, the loon spreads its wings to scoop the sun. I let loose my hair in strands to make a web. We wait.

summer dusk
a spider gnaws
at the sunset




Alexander Jankiewicz

He looked like the typical suit and appeared to be in his 50s. The only thing that drew my attention to him was the gold loop in his left ear. He was holding a newspaper in front of his face which made him unseen except from his earlobes up. I could see his expressionless eyes shifting from left to right and then from right to left. His eye brows slowly formed a shape that could only be understood as confusion. He lowered the newspaper to his lap and shifted his eyes toward the window to see the world passing by.
Another shift…and our eyes suddenly met. Before I could apologize for staring, he uttered something that sounded like “What am I doing here?” and then grunted. He stood up and exited at the next stop. As the bus pulled away, I could see him standing at the corner with his head turned upward toward the sky: motionless with his arms hanging at his sides. The newspaper was nowhere in sight.

a quick glance away
from the headline of today
on a crowded bus
a lone businessman forgets
the road his life has taken




Alexander Jankiewicz

She was just a baby. Only a couple of years have passed since diapers. OK… eleven years.
First tooth. First step. First day at school. First sleepover. First Period… I remember joking about convents once… when she was still just a baby.

on my daughter’s eyes
an added line
applied to my face
when I look in the mirror




 Roger Jones

  "Happy Birthday!"
  "Well, thank you!" my mother says. "Who am I talking to?"
  "This is your son."
  I have to remind her who I am three more times as we talk, but  her voice sounds good today.
  "Has anyone else called to wish you a happy birthday?” I ask.
  "Oh yeah, Ray writes pretty regularly now," she says,  misunderstanding.  "A lot better than when he first got out of the Navy."
  I don't remind her that Uncle Ray died years ago, his ashes long  since scattered at sea.

winter night
half-moon blown
behind torn clouds



 Roger Jones
 I was in his position all too many times; I understood. I  never wanted to meet the Chosen Guy either. So it wasn't a surprise to me, at my fiancée’s party, when I excused myself to leave the room a moment, that he seized the situation to say thanks and to bid
farewell to her and the other guests, then ducked out a back door. When I re-entered the room, I saw through a double front window the glint of his side mirror, and heard the car door slam.

sudden flash
in the peach tree
the jay's blue wing





Jeanne Jorgensen

           One of the last jobs of a very busy summer season was trying to destroy or plug any or all tiny entryways that a swarm of wasps were using to build a winter nest somewhere behind the siding of our daughter, Shelley Anne', house.
             If you know anything about wasps, getting rid of them is a very tricky and, often, dangerous job even this late in August.

                                     45 years ago
                                     a June wedding
                                     love at first sight

             "A very tricky and dangerous job" quickly deteriorated into something approaching a circus act. Husband (Richard) 6' and son (Ken)6' 3", with cans of wasp killer, proceeded as  inconspicuously as possible, spraying both wasps and into cracks
in the house wall. Shelley Anne was sweeping the sidewalk as she kept 2 curious grandchildren as far away as possible.

                         late summer heat     the scent of roses

             It was at this point that I left and walked around to visit with our cats in the back yard. Getting in the way of bees or wasps was not on my "to do" list, especially since I am the one  with so many allergies.

                         between my toes            blades of grass
                                                      a lady bug

             I really don't remember how long I visited with the cats. Nor did I learn how successful Richard and Ken had been until my husband came stumbling out the back door holding an ice pack on his nose.

             'What happened?"  I asked.

             "Oh, the damn wasp bit me!!" I tried not to laugh, however, Shelley Anne came out the back door chuckling.

             " . . . you know dad. He tried to kill what was left with the broom!"

             Suddenly, we both noticed what looked like water pouring out of Richard's nostrils. He was also very pale and his hands were trembling. He assured everyone that he was fine then jumped up to go back into the house. Shelley Anne and Ken were
right behind him. From being unable to pee, to being incontinent as he stumbled out of his shoes and literally pushed out the back door before he threw himself back into the swing  . . . seemed like an eternity.

                         lazily    a few golden leaves    dust the air

              Terrified and almost trancelike, I rose and said,
 "I'll go inside and get my EpiPen."

We would not be able to sort out exactly what order things happened that morning until much later. Taking just a moment to check the instructions, Shelley Anne injected the .3 mg. of epinephrine into her dad's left thigh, then spoke into the phone I hadn't even noticed.

             "The EpiPen was given at 11:50 am."

             A few moments later, I rose and walked around into the  front yard.

                                     unexpected . . .
                                     Dick's chest discomfort
                                     ambulance arrives





 Ryan Jessup

just over the blowing trees a white bed of light appears through the skyline and the rain settles to a calm and pleasant pattern and I imagine death being somewhat like this with everything that has hurt and bothered me coming to a halt giving way to a perfect horizon gradually opening before me calling me over to a homeland that I cannot imagine but then again what do I know I am only a man and this is only a day in a life after a storm that allows me once more the chance to believe

end of summer
a single hawk vanishes
into the sun






Ryan Jessup

the sustaining gift has been returning home to you and I have soaked it up like water vanishing in the soil of a flower pot the miracle has been returning home to you living our days together packaging up our time and storing it deep in our heart of hearts away from the wild away from the world twin spirit of eternal love returning to you has
been my life remaining with you shall be my heaven

an evening on the deck
we admire the trees
in our glasses of wine





Doris Lynch

On a barely-maintained road we bounce in an old Volkswagen toward the beach as though practicing to ride waves. Abandoning the car on the warm berm—its blacktop crumbling—I and my two friends—all in our twenties—whisk off our sandals and sink our bare feet into sand that is already tinged with coolness. As we jog over the dunes, grains disengage themselves, at first singly then en masse. When we reach ocean’s edge, the sun flattens below a cloud changing into a bold red slash. The first stars appear, hovering over the small-capped waves. After sunset, the families with children disappear, as do the dog-walkers. Lovers lope away, arms wrapped around each other’s hips. Only we remain watching lights bob on the fishing boats. We hear voices too, the sounds of fishermen released from work-a-day cares and eager for adventure. Men seeking wildness. Every so often one reels in a fish. If it’s big enough or puts up a fight, they whoop and holler. But soon we hear only the rhythmic lapping of waves as the boats rise and fall under a canopy of glowing stars.


on the cool sand
watching luminescent fish
plow through the sea





Doris Lynch

Four sisters gather at Joanne’s house.  It’s Dad’s 80th birthday.  He its in the easy chair, hand on the remote, but he’s strangely silent even as the Sixers race up and down the court.  My niece, Kayleigh, arrives bringing the redhead tally up to four.  Joanne asks Kayleigh’s friend to snap a photo.  From around the room, we head toward Dad, and as Kayleigh leans in to cradle her Granddad’s shoulder, he jumps halfway to standing and flings a right hook.

We step back realizing that we’ve scared Dad who no longer recognizes us. He only remembers danger:  Japanese soldiers on Okinawa or brash kids from his Philly neighborhood who fought hard.

We attempt to gather around him again but each time we draw near, dad has the same reaction. He eyes us warily, curls his hands into fists, and jabs at the air or the daughter nearest to him.  Star athlete as always.

outside on the deck
plunk of one orange
then another





Doris Lynch

On Christmas Eve, a friend calls and instead of her usual chat with my husband, she asks to speak to me first. “Lena has cancer,” she says.“Breast cancer. She’s known for two months but gosh, you now how private she is.  She wanted to keep it secret.”

The memories come back—my mom’s diagnosis, the doctor proclaiming six months to live—instead of her seven-year odyssey of some very sick days, others when the cancer seemed only a bad memory.

I want to talk to Lena, send her an aural hug, but she’s resting. Instead Lu fills me in on the details—the name of hospital, time of operation, possible procedures.  Suddenly, I ask how Lu’s boys are.

“First Christmas apart,” she says.  “Ever.” Her family lives in Alabama; Lena, in their native Pennsylvania.
 From Lena’s car parked in front of her apartment a block from the Delaware River where it flows wild and free, Lu reports each time a friend drop off a casserole or baked goods wrapped in glistening plastic. One friend brings a small jade turtle as an amulet, something to hold and rub. Another hands Lu Lady of Fatima rosary beads she’s kept since the fourth grade. Lena is loved.

hurrying down the lane
stopped by a symphony
of sandhill cranes





   for Evan
Jenny Ward Angyal

I hold you
on my lap, close to my heart—
your brain scan
the doctor looks away

at last
you stand and walk
seizing with one hand
both thorns and flowers

driving miles
out of my way
to bump over train tracks
I follow the power lines
of your first obsessions

rain blots
the edges of your fear
as trees topple . . .
el derecho storms
giving your mind a spin

that wizard
behind the curtain
had real power—
your enchantment with tornadoes
an unbreakable spell

you write the wind
a poem on fluttering paper:
sky moving
blow windy just Earth
thunderstorms rainstrong

too many
syllables for a poem—
the names
they give the tempests
raging in your brain

at dark sky you ask
if that bright
steady star is Jupiter—
love its never-ending  storm





Ed Baranosky

writing on water
erases a secret reflection
of the rabbit moon
fog lifts late from the night sky
where the mountains sleep

today a letter arrives
expecting an answer
before it was sent
time molts migrations
shedding dreams

it has been said
eagles do not fly in flocks
since the beginning
a circle cannot be squared
without deception.

the stars appear
silently above the trees
marking the vastness
of a long return
where a dog is barking

touching the fold
with a sputtering candle
a flamed circle
expands an empty center
in the moment of burning



esra sarioglu

  weaning myself off
  of the little white pill
  my body reacts
  a jellyfish
  expands and contracts
  lovers canoodle
  by the ocean
  I look further away
  to see
  the horizon of intimacy
  an animated woman
  talking to a friend
  her hands reach out
  to the place
  words cannot describe
  between the fall
  and the first snow
  lies a season of sadness
  nestled in
  grey skies and bare trees
  the seagull
  casts a shadow
  on a white piece of paper
  while I look for
  a clear picture


mmc thaw

Haiga by Maire Morrissey-Cummins



 Elizabeth Howard

Valentine’s Eve
among ghostly men
wafting through snow fog
you bring a sheaf
of precious flowers

before sparrows
have eaten
the scattered rice
a memo
announcing the separation

I read between the lines
of your rosy vows
toss the letter aside
it drifts across the meadow
like thistledown

the red roses we plant
kneeling together
in rich black loam
overspread the trellis
a glorious bounty

sheet lightning
your last note
your eternal love
flashes in code

home from the funeral
I sit in front of
the cold fireplace
waiting for you
to arrange the kindling





Alexander Jankiewicz

my grandmother’s grave
overlooking a village
in Germany…
summers of youth exploring
the hill where she rests in peace

the hill
where she rests in peace
and a path
we walked up together
hand in hand I rushed her

hand in hand
I rushed her not knowing
as a small boy
we were walking to where
she was in no rush to be




 ayaz daryl nielsen

early morning chill    sleeping bag     around our embrace


embarrassed    hammock    gossips


crab apple   damn   tastes like    crab apple


                          cookie jar
boy   step-


early morning light
upon the river byway
beavers working


shadows flicker
among the saguaro
moonbeams or chindé?


‘before you were born’
telling our granddaughter
about her mother


snowflakes   black   leather jacket


same new same full same
blue same crescent same gibbous
same romantic moon


*An inscription on a rock cliff by the riverbank reads:   “On the hill Nashawtuck at the meeting of the rivers and along the banks lived the Indian owners of Musketaquid  before the white men came”
Coordinates:   42°27'47"N   71°21'36"W
Nearby cities: Boston, MA, Meredith and Mountainboro





Ruth Holzer

would guess by looking
at us
that every evening you stand
beneath my window, whistling

may have taught me the force
of desire –
you, the grace
of indifference

now and then
I would rather be
by myself –
just thinking
about you

if I had begged
if you had stayed
so much the sooner
would we have become
less to each other

even in a life
without attachments
the secret place
of milk and ink
would quite undo me

where have they gone
the young woman
the older man
and the silk-lined coffer
that played Jeux Interdits

a sickly light
filers through the blinds
rousing us in time
for discreet separation







Kathe L. Palka

among the roses
a few slow bees

garden lovers
on nearly every bench
a dedication

in the arboretum
hiding among old pines
a young sequoia

chasing each other
in the children’s garden

from a claw-foot tub planter
scent of Alyssum

air so sweet
you can taste it
Hershey Gardens




R K Singh

november dusk
fiery cleavage on roadside
breathless coalfield

blue black fumes
swirl around his head –
floating hand

smoggy mist
filling each collier's house
with yama's call

open cast mining
burning smoke on the road
dying vultures

the wind hushed
a collier died
in the cage

tired pitman
carrying coal on bike –
only meal

with burning eyes –
abandoned mine




Ken Wanamaker

pine crickets
filling the woods with song
autumn deepens

soft whispers overheard
by the crescent moon

in the back seat
of an old convertible
the deal is sealed

a Joint Session approves
the legalization of pot

crowds cheering
the New Year's Eve balloon...
Times Square

his sack emptied of crumbs
the old man waves goodbye

carrying a villain
and priceless strands of emeralds
the Orient Express

a patch of new grass
bending in the draft

sweet basil and chicory
fill our baskets

focusing on AUM
all concerns fade away

at the burlesque
sequined pasties jiggling
under a spotlight

a lone sunflower nods
beside the hitching post





November's first ice
the catfish and bass
deeper and slower
            Daryl Nielsen


teaching practice
the class full
of teddies
            Rachel Sutcliffe


through lattices
this condensation
of phrases
the glimpses we veil
in silence
             Alegria Imperial



what glues
raindrops to foggy
consider my hand
slipping away
            Alegria Imperial


jasmine flower–
I feel it far away
from my home
            Pravat Kumar Padhy


desert walk–
the footprints
filled with joy
            Pravat Kumar Padhy

old tree–
I feel warmth
of affection
            Pravat Kumar Padhy


melting candle–
widow wipes her
burning tears
            Pravat Kumar Padhy



the wrong teeth marks
on a dog bite
            Alegria Imperial


blind date
she smiles then notices
his shoes 

Blind Date
sie lächelt dann bemerkt
seine Schuhe
            Brian Robertson


from its cocoon
to the spider's web
life of a moth
            Edward Cody Huddleston,


New Year’s Eve
I close the curtains
to reflect
on the bright and dark days
of my long journey
            Nu Quang


waking up
dreams flow down rivers
in pillow creases

beim Aufwachen
Träume rinnen in Flüssen
entlang der Kissenfalten
            Brian Robertson


what color
is my job processing data?
I look down
at the sluggish stream
reflecting the somber sky
            Nu Quang


a scenic drive . . .
how much scenery
can he enjoy
with his eyes on the road
most of the time?
            Nu Quang


rainy day
my taxi driver

regnerischer Tag
mein Taxifahrer
            Brian Robertson


my student loans
as heavy as a soldier’s gear–
I pray
my aging spine
stays strong to carry it
            Nu Quang


quiet café
zen monks type out chants
on laptops

ruhiges Café
Zen-Mönchen tippen Chants
auf Laptops
            Brian Robertson


the doorbell
her youngest's
first tour of duty
            Daryl Nielsen 






Steffen Horstmann



Steven Carter

Steven Carter

Haiga by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Steven Carter

Gerald John Conforti

Alegria Imperial

Alexander Jankiewicz

Alexander Jankiewicz

 Roger Jones

 Roger Jones

Jeanne Jorgensen

 Ryan Jessup

Ryan Jessup

Doris Lynch

Doris Lynch

Doris Lynch



 Jenny Ward Angyal

Ed Baranosky

esra sarioglu

Haiga by Maire Morrissey-Cummins

 Elizabeth Howard

Alexander Jankiewicz

 ayaz daryl nielsen

Ruth Holzer

Kathe L. Palka

R K Singh

Ken Wanamaker



Daryl Nielsen

Rachel Sutcliffe

Alegria Imperial

Pravat Kumar Padhy

Brian Robertson

Edward Cody Huddleston,

Nu Quang


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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Next Lynx is scheduled for June 1, 2013.

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