Febuary, 2014

A Journal for Linking Poets
with Symbiotic Poetry




Peter Newton
Kathe L. Palka

what we are
capable of
flying squirrel

   offline for the weekend
    watching eagles on the river



summer vacation
packing what I can't live

arm in arm
    my only carry-on



waking to the loon
whether to laugh
or cry

     miles away
    still I reach for him



the kids fall back
in line

   a tinge of blue in the chalk dust
   of each eraser clap






Angela Terry
Cara Holman

Julie Warther

wind howling through the mist
calling the lost boys                                           Angela

padded footsteps
down a labyrinthine hallway                               Cara

ready or not
a creak
of the wardrobe door                                        Julie

begging the wizard
for a heart and a brain                                       Angela

ruby slippers
I count the mileposts
until home                                                         Cara

birdsong —
climbing out of the rabbit hole                Julie



Angela Terry
Cara Holman

Julie Warther

all the things
we no longer believe in...
seashells without sounds                                        Angela

the steady drip
of rain from the eaves                                            Cara

Thanksgiving alone
snap of the wishbone
in the disposal                                                         Julie

breaking the silence
smoke alarm cheeps                                                Angela

white noise
bare branches
covered in moss                                                        Cara

the letter stamped
return to sender                                                        Julie



Julie Warther
Cara Holman
Angela Terry

we try it his way —
a rocky path
in thin-soled shoes                                                    Julie

digging my toes
into warm sand                                                        Cara

summer heat —
even her string bikini
too heavy                                                                  Angela

spreading aloe
on the sunburn                                                        Julie

blackberry bramble
the old 45
full of  scratches                                                        Cara

under a new moon
pencil dancing                                                           Angela


Julie Warther
Cara Holman
Angela Terry

black Friday
a mothball
stuck in Santa’s beard                           Julie

wool mittens hung
on the heater to dry                               Cara

holiday dance
in the high school gym
Brylcreem                                             Angela

planting kisses
on peanut butter blossoms                      Julie

winter sunshine
a crate of oranges
from grandma                                       Cara

caroling party
the eggnog spiked with rum                   Angela



Giselle Maya

Jane Reichhold  

of the species survive
what do they see
the amber eyes of the cat
gazing from her grass nest

a tiger cat named Anise makes a globe summer nest in high grasses bent low by turning turbanwise at the edge of the garden where she hides from summer heat and intruders such as the stray cat Snowdrop, wild boars, foxes, hares and the sound of a distant tractor. She naps and greets me when I walk by with a questioning meow — comes forth when summer air cools with the sound of cicadas


world white veils
in wind stilled fog
the sea rises
on the way to heaven
brakes squeal in the curve

It is August and on the other side of the coastal mountain range it is as hot as any stove. That makes our flow of air from west to east come to a halt to turn into fog.
Some people like it and others do not. What they all like are the cooler temperatures that we enjoy. It is amazing to see the prices they pay to vacation here without the sun,
under dripping trees and gray skies.

an exultation
of papillions
wild flower meadows
never seen by those
who ever cut their grass

white queen anne’s lace and blue chicory speckle the meadow together with insects of many species — a habitat for wild things to gather morning dew and pollen yet there are those who cut this splendor all summer long — even though there are signs up by the roadside saying ‘cut the grass less often’        


purple dusk
the fragrance of iris
as another bud unfolds
reality of growing older

refusing to give in to pain, darkness, my heart lingers among the tall weeds of the flower beds. No wonder we call them ‘flower beds’ – what a perfect place to park our souls over night. To sleep among the flowers as fairies do; head cradled by the curve of a petal. These days that I am only partly human as the bonds to earth grow slender are such a joy!

velvet folds
of oak and pine mountains
in a near village
a painter’s still lifes and landscapes
his work not forgotten

I visit a castle where Serge Rippert’s wife and son have organised an exhibit of his best work on the vaulted stone walls — an apt gesture of homage to the painter.

Cezanne was one of his favorite artists who lived in Aix-en-Provence — the same intimate sense of the painter’s presence felt when visiting Cezanne’s studio evident here. The oil paint has not faded, bright greens and blues, an eggplant’s deep purple, pears and apples, jugs, a teapot, a guitar. the landscape with the perched village of Caseneuve.

lichen patina on the stones in the garden, mountain views all around, geraniums, white balloon flowers among stone tables and benches, chairs in look-out spots, to sit all day cloud-watching    


itself in a cloud
in me
a glow is always reaching
past the momentary thing

The brochure is done! On-time with a day to spare. Suddenly there is a vast openness in my day – a wide empty space that was not here yesterday. I know that within a few hours other jobs and obligations will reform themselves into a different reality – the cat’s abscessed scent gland will have to be seen by a vet, that answer to a renga partner will have to be written, I will have to correct and resend the text of the new book. But at this moment, the air coming in the open window is made of morning, scents of blooming grasses, and the sound of whistling. Still I am thankful for the night when sleep also pushes aside even these pleasant concerns and obligations.

cucumber soup
we pick elderberries
and hazelnuts
this friend whose house
is anchored on rock

Now and then we visit to walk in our gardens, speak of our brothers --
mine who taught me the Greek alphabet to recite for guests when I was a child ‘ look what my sister can do’  we share a simple meal drinking freshly picked rosemary tea, look at trees, the cat Fez joins us, disappears along stone steps among fig trees.           

the jade Buddha
with half-closed eyes
not seeing the soap opera
on the TV of my life

A friend loaned me a book that has meant very much to her. It is all about how to stop that voice within that comments, judges, and irritates constantly with unwanted monologues. As I read, though, my small voice within tells me that I need this voice. It is the source of my poems, my ideas, my will. If I could be disciplined enough to turn off this voice, the author of the book claims I could access perfect bliss. What would happen if the voice went silent! Would I be happy in a constant state of bliss? Or is bliss like happiness – it has to come and go the way an alternating current makes a vacuum cleaner roar with its work?


land of dawning sun
a narrow trail
through oak and pine
balanced chi rising

I speak to my son on the phone:  California — Provence about our lives, what we do and think, a weekly contact of voice mind heart I am grateful we are able to share. Color pencils for my grandson, a trip to Yosemite for his family, our talking refreshes this long friendship, keeps alive our connectedness.  I would like to see him more often, go camping with them, cook breakfast together, swim in Mirror Lake.                       

started August 9, 2013     
completed August 18, 2013



Owen Bullock
Patricia Prime


                                     busking in the market
                                     playing “Blind Mary”
                                     on the whistle
                                     the fire siren
                                     goes off


When they were teenagers at university, my son and his friend played their guitars and sang their own compositions on Queen Street in the heart of Auckland. They made plenty of money but also received buttons, foreign coins and abuse. Sometimes they were moved on by shopkeepers or the police but mostly they enjoyed their time performing in front of a crowd and a cold beer afterwards.

                                     how hard it is
                                     to stop people in the street
                                     the busking couple
                                     with little musical ability
                                     can surely tell you


                                     the audacity
                                     reading from
                                     The Godfather
                                     I feel compelled
                                     to give him a dollar


I’ve always felt that money should keep moving. It’s shuffling now through its own silent universe and some of it drops into my slot. There’s also the thought that we sometimes need to keep it. Most of us have received so little education on the subject of money that we often haven’t known how to manage; it’s probably more taboo than sex.

                                     outside a sex shop
                                     in the red light district
                                     of Karangahape Rd
                                     a man drops a handful of coins
                                     into a battered guitar case


Strains of music lead me to cross the street where a young boy and a man old enough to be his grandfather are playing: the child on a set of bongo drums and the man a Fender guitar that has seen better days. They resemble the typical down-and-out: straggly hair, unwashed clothing and grime-encrusted faces, but it wasn’t so bad listening to their music against the backdrop of city traffic.



David Bingham
Frank Williams

to see snow fall
I tap a sapling
with my walking stick

on entering the house
feeling the fire’s warmth

while we were out
a picture fell
from the wall

along the top of the hill
a thin line of walkers

bonfire night rockets
by the moon

dew on a cobweb
sparkles in the sun

last of the apples
gathered and pulped
for a barrel of cider

we all raise our glasses
and toast the bride & groom

pearls for his lover,
a vacuum cleaner
for the wife

a pair of swans
swim silently past

at the wood’s edge
the stillness of a viper
soaking up heat

the end of the pier show
is tonight a bright moon

Jekyll & Hyde,
his demeanor turns
on a sixpence

even a monk can’t make
this mad dog sit

after a long flight
a two hour wait
at passport control

a hand and a pentangle
alike yet not alike

so much change,
they don’t make them
the way they used to

again we check and oil
your vintage lawn mower

pink cherry blossom
and the sound of a stream
under the moss

hovering in sunlight
a swarm of mayflies

Composed: via email
Started: 4 March 2013
Finished: 26 October 2013







Claudia Brefeld
Heike Gewi
Walter Mathois

at the camp fire –
flames flicker, delay
the dusk                                                         HG

warm rain
washes the beach chair                                 WM

carried home
a straw hat
full of blueberries                                         CB

stillness ...
lost in sock holes                                          HG

the silver sickle
becomes softer –
Autumn Sonata                                               CB

dragons smile from heaven
picking chestnuts                                          WM


out of nowhere
a yellow leaf wafts over ...
Brynhild's rock                                             HG

in the wind chime
notes of Wagner                                           WM

well hidden
the folder “03-07”
conceals passion                                           CB

Cupid's arrow shapes blood drops
on his arm tattoo                                          HG

male hands pet
the butt                                                          WM

Don Goyo – a cloudlet soars
from the crater                                             CB

at last, snowflakes!
everything dances
in the moon ring                                          HG

ice scrapers – carefully
the skids conclude the circle              WM


zoo attraction:
peeping out of mother's pouch
koala baby                                                     CB

the magnetic field vanishes
the pupils' excitement, too                           HG

open window
tulip tips lure
the brush into the red                                  CB

asparagus harvest –
the ground raises                                          WM


night veils lay
gently on trees ...
first green                                                      HG

food truck
the scent of foreign spices                           CB

sitar sounds
sandalwood-oil flows through
her breasts                                                     WM

out of order – taking the stairs
with a broken heart                                      HG

the cat jumps
to the monitor                                              WM

sunbeams quiver
in the roaring of maize combines                 CB

the innkeeper brings
more cool beer …
half-shade                                                     HG

bomb scare – everywhere
cries and splinters                                         CB

next to the tub
rhinestones lie                                               WM

omg! news fills
with emptiness                                              HG

Luna shines
behind a heap of leaves
cellphone tunes                                             WM

squeaking gate ...
last asters bow their heads                           CB


picture hooks left
stranded on bare walls light streams
of october                                                     HG

hesitantly the comb
touches his baldness                                     WM

over the crest –
her look gliding
with a sailplane                                             CB

rooftops thaw ...
father drinks in deeply                                 HG

meditation –
Sakura blossoms rest
the bare shoulder                                          WM

a lark's trill
reaches the firmament                                  CB



Rafa Zabratyñski
George Swede

cherry blossom rain
just a few heartbeats
from the ground

first basil and sage leaves
their deep breaths on my hands

from a rose bed
straight toward the Perseids
cricket chirping

a flaming sunset
through the bare maple trees¬
the crackle underfoot

a rook shakes the silence off
the hoar-frosted walnut boughs

the pergola chimes
frozen together ... the wind's
a cappella

Fire in the Shrine
 Michael Kowalewski & Sonam Chhoki


Jacques Verhoeven
Silva Ley

            clean spectacles
            new wallpaper every day
            open the curtains

                                           ceilings, floors block painted
                                           walk into wonder rooms

            The Daily News is sailing
            everyone the leading man
            each floor tile a stage

                                           search the shocking boarders
                                           launch startling reports

            thousand days and nights                                                          
            continuous exposure
            floodlights not used

                                            drama, smoke the last stub
                                            daylight on naked bodies
             wear printed shirts
             to hide behind publicity
             change every day

                                             language on skin and hair
                                             games of reality

             collection pieces
             full shopping trolleys
             series complete

                                            manners to stroke and flatter
                                            fresh designs in 'Grand Hotel'

             computerized child
             to grow an image - thinker
             to play his way

                                            icons of 'upward thumbs'
                                            one minute of fame

             flashes of spinning prints
             fashion seems endless

                                             eyes as burning torches
                                             I want it all - I want it how

             open internet
             fiercely lightning signals
             mass marketing

                                             tricks with gaudy photo's
                                             carnival of the fiddler

             words simplified
             abc of pictograms
              new norm: rapidity

                                              astronauts and dada - ism
                                              no character arrived
             presuming in fear
             Fortunes wheel in action
             a grumbling drone

                                               meanwhile in dark soil            
                                               the seasons change

             in your two fists
              communication's happiness
              a 21 inch tablet

                                               hummingbirds in a rainforest
                                               butterflies on flowers

              watch 'Lucky TV'
              read slogans on floor tiles
              'the world is going on'

                                                share text at the horizon
                                                a cinema of 'Delusion'. (Waanzien)

Location: Written in the Museum Of The Image) in Breda, The Netherlands in connection with the exhibition WAANZIEN (seeing delusion).Visitors find answers to the questions: How to make sense out of today's (media) delusions? How to spot image tricks in our visual culture? Is our brain fooling us or are we fooled? 21 - 12 – 2013. See:

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

weiter Morgen
das Land bis zum Fluss
trägt Vogelgesang

von wilden Narzissen
löst sich der Tau

Mit jedem Schluck Tee
die Skyline gewinnt
an Konturen

Aufbruch zum Kailash
und die Götter schweigen

a morning wide open
the land down to the stream
holding birdsong

from wild daffodils
dew drops

with every sip of tea
the skyline
becomes clearer

departure to Kailash
and the gods remain silent

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

Pfirsiche reifen
am Mittagsufer das Spiel
von Schatten und Licht

Siesta – im Kreuzgang
zwei dösende Tauben

als Garry Cooper
siegte —
man drehte schwarz-weiß

vom Brautstrauß nur Blüten
auf heißem Asphalt


peaches ripening
at the bank of noon
the game of shadows and light

siesta – in the cloister
two snoozing doves

when Carry Cooper
triumphed ──
they shot monochrome

from the bridal bouquet
only blossoms on hot asphalt

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

Spätes Licht
Im roten Wald verliert
sich eine Herde

Rauschbeeren pflücken
auf unsicherem Grund

weitab ihr Klagen
die Fähe wieder und wieder

Wind jagt ums Haus
der Junge schnitzt einen Totempfahl

late light
A herd dissolved
into red woods

picking mossberries
on unstable ground

far away
the vixen's wail again and again

wind whirls around the house
a boy cuts a totem pole

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

verschneites Tal ...
taste mich
dem Innern zu

jeder Eiskristall
ein Kindertraum

grün lodert die Nacht
überm Fjell

Zum hohen Mond
Küßt mir aus der Brust das Leben

snowy valley –
feeling my way
to the inside

every ice crystal
a child‘s dream

solar winds
the night's green flare
beyond the fell

to the high moon
Kiss the life from out my breast

MT.MERU: Michael Kowalewski &Sonam Chhoki

Helga Stania
Ramona Linke
den Kreuzweg entlang
wandert Nebel   

des Ahorns farbige Pracht
rauschender Raum der Stille    

am Fluss
hangaufwärts pflücken sie

Helga Stania
Ramona Linke

Der Tintenfleck
in Luthers Schreibstube

 einst tanzten Elfen
am Fuß der Teufelsmauer* 

 vom Brunnen
Silber abschöpfen
es zieht ein Mondenschatten  



Helga Stania
Ramona Linke
noontime bells
misty shrouds
on the way of the cross   / HS

the maple tree's colorful splendor    / RL
a space of rustling silence    / HS

uphill from the river
being picked

Helga Stania
Ramona Linke

the inkspot
in Luther's scriptorium
faded away

long ago elves danced
at the base of the *Devil's wall  

 skimming silver
from the fountain ──
“a shadow cast by the moonlight”

Marilyn Humbert
Maria Encarnacao
Amelia Fielden
Merle Connolly
Keitha Keyes
Lois Holland
Dorothy Walker

each night
in my dreams
I dance
while he strums
rivers of moon-glitter

restless seas
windblown clouds
for island shores
and new experiences

largest island
smallest continent
flooding one summer
in flames the next

to go
or to stay and defend
our home …
still undecided
when the bushfire hits

a family's joys, sorrows
a myriad tales to tell,
walls have no tongues

tempting aromas
warmth from the kitchen
squeals and laughter
from the cozy lounge room
the music of childhood

this house
once filled with children
now empty
except for memories
of lost loves

in this wilderness
with stars above
and grass beneath my feet
I seek a way forward

rainy streets
grey-sky grumbles —
I rush out
at the hint of sunshine

Monday morning
Sydney city roaring
with energy
I pick up the pace
on hot asphalt footpaths

in the clutter
of the city
a man works, sleeps, works
years creep into decades

from the headland
I gaze down at the sea
as spume sprays rocks
the rhythmic song of the waves
soothes me, slowing time

hand in hand
we walk the shoreline
our steps in time
with wavelets
dancing on the sand


FELLED OAK: Michael Kowalewski &Sonam Chhoki


Sergio Oritz Puerto Rico
Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan

cave temple —
lighting butter lamps
for the new year
the blue pines sough
echoes of past mantras

the moon on my head...
a gentle surf song
under what I think
is laughter

and here I am
writing on blades of grass
in the scrim of dawn . . .
it seems hope, like despair
is an addiction

each indiscretion
passes through me
like a gallstone. . .
this urge to surface
from my shadow

no longer enraged
at the crushing blow of time
I now embrace
the slow discoloring
of names and shapes

in the blue time
of a lilac there was a gap—
I rubbed
my eyes and thought,
“she’s lost”

a moth
stutters against the pane
in drizzling dusk . . .
she nurses mute longings
born of a fear of words

in the moonlight
a woman
rakes in the shallows. . .
her silence filled with tern cries

leafing through
the pages of her past
she laments
the grim pride
of their unbridgeable dreams

the flowers
of the city are death-like
at times . . .
my sorrow stems from a song
full of lonely nights

unremitting rain
yet with what reckless joy
birds sing at dawn . . .
such sweet insinuation
how to live with your absence

silence is rain
with the sound turned down,
memories that die . . .
life is nothing but a dream

Polonaise Fantasia
on father’s old gramophone
rain drips from the plum
he planted from a seed
in beads of notes

the concert room
forged inside my brain
a prelude of its own . . .
tree ferns frame the ocean view

with the moon
in its hair, the willow listens
to creaking prayer wheels . . .
I have learned not to speak
of your unexplained silence


Giselle Maya
Patricia Prime

out of a tea jar
the story of a man
who loved his friends
sculpted frogs of stone
his poems untranslated

for thirty years
I’ve had in my possession
your notebook
morocco-bound and red in colour
where you wrote your lyrics

wrapped in autumn leaves
the mountain chain
my roots try to find their way
to the origin of the spring

we mark my youth
on the photocopied maps
with blue circles
these are the places you’ll visit
on your overseas trip

the shepherdess
her granite tombstone
my haiku engraved
yellow roses for Toussaint

now Mahler plays
and the contralto wheels
through his lieder
when she spread her wings and flew
a husband’s hand played with a ring

from Kyoto
a kakemono with two birds
on a maple branch
lit by autumn moonrise
they are my friends for life

scalloped satin clouds
with breezes from the ocean
in the morning light
where we breakfast in a beach
café before a walk over the dunes

years leap
in a whirling dance
Swan Lake
a new generation of dancers
a new perception of the tale

watching the old film
‘Casablanca’ in black and white
with a group of students
I wonder what makes them laugh
at some of the serious scenes

a constant struggle
to recall the vagabond mind
to this place and time
it tends to wander beyond
the limits of this planet

I wish I knew how
to hold the sorrowing body
how to ease its pains
what to say to one who still
mourns the love of a dear one

evoked by our genes
recur as frequently
as the golden light of the sun

when I was twenty
I had a long way to go
in the beginning
was the motorbike with a pillion
when we travelled Britain

a young woman
standing on a stone bridge
glittering ice river
a charming man holds her
where might he be now

how many times
has spring gathered itself
to return to us
as we look back at the past
and the way the past remains






Peter Newton
Kathe L. Palka

Elizabeth McFarland
Tzetzka Ilieva

Angela Terry
Cara Holman

Julie Warther

Angela Terry
Cara Holman

Julie Warther

Elizabeth McFarland
Tzetzka Ilieva

Julie Warther
Cara Holman
Angela Terry

Julie Warther
Cara Holman
Angela Terry

Giselle Maya

Jane Reichhold  

Owen Bullock
Patricia Prime

Elizabeth McFarland
Tzetzka Ilieva

David Bingham
Frank Williams

Elizabeth McFarland
Tzetzka Ilieva

Claudia Brefeld
Heike Gewi
Walter Mathois

Rafa Zabratyñski
George Swede

Fire in the shrine
 Michael Kowalewski, UK, haiku: Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan

Jacques Verhoeven
Silva Ley

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

Claudia Brefeld
Helga Stania

MT. MERU: Michael Kowalewski, UK, haiku: Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan

Helga Stania
Ramona Linke

Helga Stania
Ramona Linke

Helga Stania
Ramona Linke

Helga Stania
Ramona Linke

Marilyn Humbert
Maria Encarnacao
Amelia Fielden
Merle Connolly
Keitha Keyes
Lois Holland
Dorothy Walker

FELLED OAK: Michael Kowalewski, UK, haiku: Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan

Sergio Oritz Puerto Rico
Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan

Giselle Maya
Patricia Prime


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, 20111
XXVII:1 February, 2012
XXVII:2 June, 20
2XXVII:3 October, 2012

XXVIII:1 February, 2013

XXVIII:2 June, 2013

XXVIII:3 October, 2013

Submit your works to Lynx

Who We Are




Materials Copyright © designated Authors 2014.

Next Lynx is scheduled for Jume 1, 2014.

Deadline for submission of work is
May 1, 2014.

Send your submissions to: