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  1. 1. Page 1 of 33 TABLE OF CONTENTS 29:1 Febuary, 2014 LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets with Symbiotic Poetry SOLO POETRY GHAZALS SOLO POETRY IN YOUR COUNTRY Steffen Horstmann IN YOUR COUNTRY Steffen Horstman Whirlwinds teem amid monoliths built Over centuries by slaves in your country. On coastal plains the sky is a sea surging With clouds shaped like waves in your country. THE MANIKARNIKA GHAT Stephen Horstman The iridescent plumage of nocturnal birds gleams When an oceanic wind raves in your country. Kings are entombed in icy chambers sealed In a labyrinth of caves in your country. Maire-Morrissey Cummins Seething funnel clouds surge through wastes Occupied by warring enclaves in your country. HAIBUN LOCKED OUT Gerard J. Conforti The sun throbbing like a heart evaporates Blue mists flowing from caves in your country. Sages summon rain with the percussion Of timbrels & claves in your country. FINE ROOTS Janet Lynn Davis Voices of massacred nomads stir in the dust Of their hurried graves in your country. SUNRISE AT THE BEACH Elizabeth Howard Groves of Empress trees burn as a phoenix Propelled by thermals raves in your country. The radiating light of the firmament Bursts into indigo waves in your country. Maire-Morrissey Cummins WATER STREET Ruth Holzer TUXEDO PARKWAY Ruth Holzer SOME NOTES ON PARADISE Bob Lucky THE MANIKARNIKA GHAT Steffen Horstmann Mynah birds burst from a cloud of ash that billows From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Jasmine incense swirls in a fuming gust that blows From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. WHAT’S NEW? Adelaide B. Shaw Moths with flaming wings whirled in smoke that rose From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. A MOMENT BLURRED Alexander Jankiewicz The apparitions of gazelles cast leaping shadows From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Sparks pulsate in latticed smoke that flows 2/19/2014
  2. 2. Page 2 of 33 Maire-Morrissey From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Cummins Rings of embers convulsed as phoenixes rose NOT TOO OLD From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. FOR THE COLD Jeanne Jorgensen Chanted sutras are heard in crackling echoes From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. SOLITUDE Adelaide B. Shaw Through curtains of cobalt flames Shiva rose From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Maire-Morrissey Cummins DEEP RIVER Jenny Ward Angyal STOWAWAY BEACH Ed Baranosky PRIMAL PERSUASION Neelam Dadhwal Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic WINTER INNUENDO Neelam Dadhwal RODS & CONES john martone LIFE WITH LARRY Jeanne Lupton Sergio Ortiga NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION: Maire-Morrissey Cummins YOU MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING, SO REALITY CANNOT DESTROY YOU LOCKED OUT Chen-ou Liu Gerard J. Conforti WHITE SKY Sabine Sommerkamp SPIRITUAL FLICKERS Ram Krishna Singh I AM Debbie Strange BLACK Alexander Jankiewicz HAIBUN I am lead out of the steel doors of the psych ward. For a moment the spring breeze is in my hair. No where else to go, I head back to my room in a rooming house. After arriving there, I put all my belongings away and then fall into a deep sleep on my bed. I awake in the pitch-black room and turn on the lamplight. I am still not feeling well, but I don’t care about going back to the hospital, where I wasn’t treated well and suffered great emotional rejection and pain. spring night the sound of stirring trees outside I already know I won’t be staying very long in my room. I gaze at the capsules of pills. I’m still very depressed and psychotic. They let me go too soon. In an armchair I think for hours about life. I take a handful of pills with a glass of water. I can hear traffic going by; drivers honking their horns. I jump at every kind of noise. I take the pills and fall once again into a color of dark sleep. I jump up sweating and my sheets are wet through. The morning arrives. I sit up and gaze at the blue painted wall. I know I must get help. When I tell my landlady what has been happening, she phones for an ambulance. When I’m back in the ER the doctors and nurses began to detoxify me. For six months I am back in the psyche ward taking a lot of emotional punishment. They are out to change my life all the Wolfgang Beutke way back to childhood —back to the present adulthood. My emotions tear at the rejection and pain. They want me to cease writing and find a part-time job. After leaving the hospital I am still angry about what the staff has done to me. I find partSEQUENCES time work and continue to write despite the heavy odds against me. 2/19/2014
  3. 3. Page 3 of 33 ON THE GREEN Scott Mason MENAGERIE ON THE HUDSON Scott Mason years pass into the glory of God helping me FINE ROOTS "No more hurting people Peace" * Janet Lynn Davis RAUSCHENDES LICHT Helga Stania with pebbles I prop them back up— my lavender barely past seedling stage uprooted by wind FLICKERING LIGHT Helga Stania SHIFTING CLOUDS Rachel Sutcliffe SMALL BIRD Dick Pettit SIJO LINKED SIJO Tamara K. Walker ARCO Tamara K. Walker OURS, UNSPOKEN Tamara K. Walker PUSH, PULL Tamara K. Walker Maire-Morrissey Cummins April 15, 2013, mid-afternoon. Staring out the window, I notice that some are bowing heavily, a few others passed out. Just a couple of days ago, I had planted them carefully in a neat row down the center of the bed. Now, I must painstakingly tuck them back in. After I return inside, I learn that a horrific attack has occurred at the Boston Marathon. Much more news would follow: so many serious injuries, a child among the dead. What do parents say to their children, even those not immediately affected? * Words on a sign made by Martin Richard, eight years old, one of the three people killed. first published at Haiku News, August 2013. SUNRISE AT THE BEACH Elizabeth Howard Excited to be waking near the Gulf, we step out to enjoy sunrise on the beach. The cherry-red sun is already hot as a breakfast tart, far too hot for bare feet. At the waterline, fish skeletons frizzle, breakfast for vagabond flies. Gulls circle and squawk; voracious terns chase the wavy waterline, the surf washing their starry feet. In the distance, fishing boats idle, belly-deep, lights blinking like sleepy eyes. A jogger chugs through the deep sand, his teeth clenched with pain. hip-deep in the shallows a man casts for mullet a rhythmic dance a ballet of light and shadow sun dancing on water SINGLE POEMS by Joanna M. Weston, Ruth Holzer, Anne Carly Abad, Edward Cody Huddleston, Chen-ou Liu Nu Quang Janet Lynn Davis Bob Lucky Debbie Strange Jim Babwe 2/19/2014
  4. 4. Page 4 of 33 Maire-Morrissey Cummins WATER STREET Ruth Holzer Uphill and down, you never reach the end of it, even though you do your best to keep going. Bars, scaffolding, crumbling walls, bars, vacant lots, construction sites, rubble, squats. Down in the harbor, a pilot boat is already leading your ship out. a locked gate— this isn’t the way to the Tower TUXEDO PARKWAY Ruth Holzer The first and only house they owned, finally buying when his employment seemed secure: a two-story brick duplex with a rental unit. They stayed in it for over 40 years, and although later she got mugged a few times on the way back from the corner grocery store and his car was stolen from the driveway and the last set of tenants trashed their apartment before absconding. There they would have remained to the end of their days, clinging to life, as he said. But then he had a fall. seepage the dark at the bottom of the stairs SOME NOTES ON PARADISE Bob Lucky every blossom a moving target the patience of a hovering sunbird in search of nectar 2/19/2014
  5. 5. Page 5 of 33 the shadow of a cedar sapling dapples the grass in a coiled garden hose I imagine the serpent This time of year the wind never dies, whistles the tune that keeps the world spinning. The ferns and banana plants, the roses and impatiens, the pomegranate trees and jacarandas dance all afternoon with butterflies and bees. From the verandah I watch like a boy without a date, pet the dog that comes to console me, and think of making a pot of tea before I close my eyes and let the wind shape my dreams. in the garden my wife and I take inventory so many things yet to be named WHAT’S NEW? Adelaide B. Shaw They come nearly every day for coffee, six, seven, eight young men. Sometimes the group includes two or three women. They call on their cell phones, text messages, talk, laugh, sip their coffee drinks, go outside for a smoke, two or three at a time or all of them, come back in and resume their talk, laughter and texting. family dinner the same old chit-chat as last week A MOMENT BLURRED Alexander Jankiewicz We're standing in front of my mother's childhood home. I've waited a long time for my daughter to be old enough to understand. This is the place that my mother spoke so much of when I was younger, before I lost her to dementia. I flashback and think of earlier times when my mother was so happy recollecting her youth. It can be strange wondering what your mother was like as a child. Sometimes a moment comes through when you see her in a seemingly helpless situation and can see in her eyes that she's too proud... or too afraid... to ask for help: a brief moment when you can see your child in your parent. standing in my mother's footsteps my daughter asks if grandmother stood there too when she was a girl 2/19/2014
  6. 6. Page 6 of 33 Maire-Morrissey Cummins NOT TOO OLD FOR THE COLD Jeanne Jorgensen Winter in Edmonton seldom arrives all at once or with a Bang. I have lived in Alberta for 70 years, but I am always surprised by the first killing frost. I no longer get upset but am saddened when all of our annuals in pots and barrels turn black almost overnight. All is not doom and gloom though, for I now can ramble around our front and back yard and be grateful for all of the trees and perennials that will greet us again next spring. And, joy of joys, the mosquitoes are gone. All kinds of birds are migrating south and the leaves have turned to shades of gold, crimson and rust. Oh, and the air seems fresher as well. thin ice on the backyard birdbath puzzled robin My husband fills all of the bird feeders now for the birds that remain in our neighbourhood. Fairly regularly, a Jackrabbit arrives to clean up the grain that falls onto the ground. And then comes our first snow and the wonder it brings. Snowflakes large or small fall thickly onto eyelashes, age lines, and hair, then weighs down spruce boughs and tree branches. It also forms mounds upon everything it seems. yesterday's visit with our granddaughter . . . snow angels Although we are both elderly, my husband and I try and remain active even when the weather gets cold. With old age comes wisdom (thankfully) so we dress warmly as we go out and about. Dick helps our daughter-in-law build a backyard skating rink as well as shoveling/snow blowing not just her sidewalks and driveways, but ours and our neighbours as well. I continue attending yoga and stretch classes. Neither of us ski but Dick still skates and I enjoy walking anyplace that I know is free of ice underfoot. No broken bones for this lady if she can help it! By mid-December our coloured outdoor lights are turned on to brighten up the night as well as celebrate the coming winter Solstice. My personal joy is writing our yearly newsletter and sending it along with photos and cards (often) to stay in touch with distant friends and relatives as well as expressing our love to those close by. Hot coffee no longer just warms our bellies but hot chocolate and mulled wine our toes and souls as well. Winter in Edmonton, for us, is: a time to slowdown, walk carefully, attend seasonal concerts of many kinds, snuggle deeply, travel safely and write more poetry and non-fiction stories. Most of all, it 2/19/2014
  7. 7. Page 7 of 33 is a time to be grateful that, in Edmonton, we can enjoy all of the four seasons. so many beliefs Quaecumque Vera* still true * Latin phrase: "What soever things are true" SOLITUDE Adelaide B. Shaw An afternoon alone. Children at school, husband at work. The early spring sunshine lights up the woods across from our apartment. From the fourth floor, looking down and across, the trees appear to be dusted with a pale green fuzz. I don boots and jacket and follow the call to get closer. I walk along a stream, the ground squishy with decomposed leaves. Wild primroses– yellow, white, pink–small and delicate, barely noticeable in the leaf debris. Zig-zagging my steps, the squelching mud splashes inside my boots. The stream, clear and cold, ticks along, changing its voice as it meets rocks and fallen branches. No sounds except the stream, the snap of twigs, the cheep, cheep of an unseen bird. woodland ramble neither meditating nor day dreaming; just an empty vessel ready to fill 2/19/2014
  8. 8. Page 8 of 33 Maire-Morrissey Cummins DEEP RIVER Jenny Ward Angyal I listen for the sound of water in a dry stream bed . . . the pulse of yes beginning in my veins a spring rises out of the earth— I drink from its oak-dark eye a glimmer of starlight water like silk against my skin I swim naked in a sea of words waiting to be born 2/19/2014
  9. 9. Page 9 of 33 STOWAWAY BEACH Ed Baranosky Longing we say, because desire is full of endless distances. —Robert Hass Meditation at Lagonistas High, a circling osprey calls the late morning sun. Sandpipers whistle through the azure haze of the breaking surf. Pine branches arch Marble paths to the sea road, marking the tide's swell where the shallow bay conceals long hidden shoals. Tacking sails return scattering reflections out of a dark fog; Shoreward timbers converse with the spars in the wind. Windfall apples roll into the wet sand with ancient quinces; Pilgrims marooned anchors, forsaken stowaways. PRIMAL PERSUASION Neelam Dadhwal my dreams as the dust sparkled through sunbeams of a bamboo groove settling unsettling in the pawn of life drenched in a raindrop the wrinkled remnants of a sculpture listening to the silence of sea, curtain falls in the mist measuring the air currents she lays her hands molded in the willow sipping from which the *Bihu songs flows smoothly this last drop of ocean in ceaseless direction with forces unbinding cast its own spell to shower down the north wind in its blossom the life slowly labyrinth of the lotus buds unfolding to the call of jay birds descending on clear waters of ecstasy 2/19/2014
  10. 10. Page 10 of 33 *Bihu is celebrated as the New Year in Assam in mid April, composing of festive days for cows and buffalos and man. Bihu songs are energetic sung to the beats of drum, pepa, and gogona. Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic WINTER INNUENDO Neelam Dadhwal winding road… the fog settles my journey to the nearest herb winter song… people walking through the fog as their shadows migration— nestled new born chicks under the leftover blanket between a long road and home, the fireplace in courtyard of a stranger winter sunset… in an old boat I hear the music of oars nut cracking… the amber of fireplace in my mouth 2/19/2014
  11. 11. Page 11 of 33 RODS & CONES john martone late in bed legs warm dreams departing same sparrow song sub zero one morning this morning nothing hurts rods & cones pines encircle his shack grey matter the white matter mycelium puffball under those pines that orphanage holding his mind up to his ear hearing forest & sea knusperhaus under each pine the last stick he smells of wood smoke newfoundland outcroppings amyloid placques blanket what’s left of a dream winter sky his blanket LIFE WITH LARRY Jeanne Lupton My father told me I would live through a man 2/19/2014
  12. 12. Page 12 of 33 I finally found him my 84-year-old client who has dementia How many shrimp in this shrimp fried rice? I saw one. It’s probably the same one I saw. Are my sisters around? No, they passed away, Larry. Oh, hell! I’m sorry to have to tell you. Are my sisters around? Where am I? What am I doing here? How did I get here? How long have I been here? Do I belong here? I dose him with anti-anxiety meds so that I don't run screaming from the building Melba you are a good kitty! Isn’t she? Yes, she’s a good kitty. Yes, Melba, you’re a good kitty. cold night Larry rests on the couch listening to bluegrass I cook rice and veggies to feed him is to love him silhouette against the autumn sun Larry with dementia in the pose of The Thinker his green shirt, his bright heart "Meow” Do we have food for Melba? I just fed her “Meow” Shouldn’t we feed Melba? he says of me to the head assistant when she asks that he would prefer someone intelligent I forget his cane when we go out to eat 2/19/2014
  13. 13. Page 13 of 33 afterwards as we leave the cafe he takes my hand in his Sergio Ortiga NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION: YOU MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING, SO REALITY CANNOT DESTROY YOU Chen-ou Liu writing haiku... the cock crows as if possessed the vacuum humming I revise a spring haiku color of the sky like a cat dead for weeks my summer haiku a pause between haiku half-moon writing haiku... autumn sunlight breaks through a wall of gray winter solstice a haiku lost and found in my dream the porridge 2/19/2014
  14. 14. Page 14 of 33 on my coffee-stained desk rewriting haiku (for Jack Kerouac) SPIRITUAL FLICKERS Ram Krishna Singh Plodding away at season’s conspiracies life has proved untrue with God an empty word and prayers helpless cries I wish I could live nature’s rhythm free from bondage of clock-time rituals of work and sleep expanding haiku present on the prayer mat the hands raised in vajrasan couldn’t contact God— 2/19/2014
  15. 15. Page 15 of 33 the prayer was too long and the winter night still longer the mind creates withdrawn to its own pleasures a green thought behind the banyan tree behind the flickering lust I can’t know her from the body, skin or curve: the perfume cheats like the sacred hymns chanted in hope, and there’s no answer unknowable the soul’s pursuit hidden by its own works: the spirit’s thirst, the strife the restless silence, too much unable to see beyond the nose he says he meditates and sees visions of Buddha weeping for us the mirror swallowed my footprints on the shore I couldn’t blame the waves the geese kept flying over head the shadows kept moving afar the lane to temple through foul drain, dust, and mud: black back of Saturn in a locked enclosure a harassed devotee not much fun— cold night, asthmatic cough and lonely Christmas: no quiet place within no fresh start for the New Year I AM Debbie Strange I am the black and holy roundness of stone and water I am the loon singing lamentations to the four winds and seven seas I am the bonedust of winter on the bent jackpine 2/19/2014
  16. 16. Page 16 of 33 I am the broken guitar strings a rusted vehicle of song I am the bruised sky of January a poet ghost in an empty chair BLACK Alexander Jankiewicz dreaming under the desert sun burkas flow through the landscape leaving me behind sitting on a mountain top sunset beyond the black rises a call for prayer awake with black flowing through the cityscape colors hiding from my view the whisper of a glance from behind the black eyes try to say hello bidding peace without words 2/19/2014
  17. 17. Page 17 of 33 Wolfgang Beutke Photo: Courtesy of the Estate of Edward Steichen SEQUENCES ON THE GREEN Scott Mason railroad ties climb past the falling leaves pre-game bonfire global warming a Winter Carnival sculpture Dali might admire rites of fling Frisbee practice pays off at graduation MENAGERIE ON THE HUDSON Scott Mason 2/19/2014
  18. 18. Page 18 of 33 opening bell: blocks away, no ring for the charging bronze bull Mott St. storefront the glazed look of a Peking duck zazen duo each with a pigeon topknot: Patience & Fortitude on Museum Mile a mammoth mummified snail uniformed children surrounding the unicorn in captivation RAUSCHENDES LICHT Helga Stania Wind peitscht rauschendes Licht Blaue Männer laden das Salz der Verlorenheit als tanze es hebt ein Reptil die Füße vom Sand unbemerkt singend wandeln sich Formen grüne Wogen auf dem Grunde des Sees Stille im Strom geladener Teilchen auf Caféhaustischen reihen sich Dominosteine schwarzweiß tönt sich die Kasbah unter dem Mond für den Flug zum Mars früh einen Platz bestellt online ein Blind-Date vereinbart mit vielerlei Diensten freundliche Worte zum Jubelfest am Denkmal erklopfen wir den hohlen Klang hinter dem Fenster ein mürrisches Gesicht dahinspazierend schenk ich mein Lachen den weißen Wolken 2/19/2014
  19. 19. Page 19 of 33 FLICKERING LIGHT Helga Stania wind swirls flickering light Blue Men loading the salt of loneliness like dancing the reptile lifts its feet from the sand singing unnoticed shapes are changing green waves on the lake bed silence in the flow of charged particles on the tables of the café dominoes in line black and white the Kasbah's hue in the moonlight early reservation on a flight to Mars online arranged a blind-date with several services friendly words and a joyful celebration at the memorial by knocking we hear the hollow sound behind the window a grumpy face strolling along I send my laughter to the white clouds SHIFTING CLOUDS Rachel Sutcliffe hospital guide... the pathology department marked in red filling the space between us... words left unsaid results day... waiting the hardest part clinic running late... we reach for the oldest magazine prognosis... the future we had planned 2/19/2014
  20. 20. Page 20 of 33 hospital stay... the smell of fresh air fast forgotten 3 months... we extend our hopes late autumn... recovery unlikely the years we won't share... winter sky funeral service... outside the church cherry blossom Tatjana Debeljacki &Gordan Cosic SMALL BIRD Dick Pettit a small bird skims into the hedge winter sunshine a farm cat patrols the side of an empty field the driver gets down 2/19/2014
  21. 21. Page 21 of 33 to open wire gates for his spattered van piled sacks make a bed after the farewell party the moon persists hardly whiter than the sky between tower blocks newspapers still in bundles next to the closed café two violinists from the Conservatoire play for early commuters the escalator moves on but the music stays 'The guy had headphones, was reading a book, and he says: ”Look where you're going.” ' the producer throws a fit — outsiders on the set two city suits drop in after dinner on the folk club when the flowers were all a-blooming on a morning in May we walk through the night and come over the Downs in time for Brighton Races let's move along the stand two police coming this way our new squad will tackle hackers, scammers and high-tech cyber-pinks my computer's a minimalist and I'm just not good enough 'You're like your father— now in heaven - you have to be perfect.' light on a summer's day lasting well past midnight St John's Eve children sleep in the car after the fireworks Dad's taken off, and Mum's crying in the kitchen the clear moon turns hazy, and shadows blue as dew forms behind the long line of hill a fox's bark ”The beast's a predator 2/19/2014
  22. 22. Page 22 of 33 we just mirror to it its natural habitat.” leeches and poisonous slime and the mozzy spray don't work the delver scrapes a bone, and saves it for carbon dating the bodies were soaked in petrol but many didn't burn woods come down to small fields and farmhouses they'd been here centuries ”There was compensation but we can't rebuild the herd.” ”We decree a Europe free of every trace of corruption and disease.” the retired surgeon still scrubs up before engagements ”There's no-one under fifty in the Choral Society but it's still expanding.” a coachload of wrinklies turns into the High Street A wet winter Tuesday — and you can't move in York for tourists moorgrime so low it wets each bump in the road evening sets in a hitchhiker turns down the hill to walk to the village the moon, still bright has dropped to the top of the trees bales of straw like giant reels of cable strew the field two boys out for rabbits one gun between them ”Easy, Sarge! We dropped them all before they saw us.” demonstrations are forbidden but there's a funeral every day no spring flowers. in this arid land they take blossom from the trees hibiscus in her hair is this a message? the bar-girl puts 2/19/2014
  23. 23. Page 23 of 33 an electric hand on his thigh just in passing choc'lates, canapés, champagne, and premature ejaculation ”Sorry, darling it's just that I prefer the missionary position.” ”I like sex: it shows God has a sense of humour.” a Polish officer with eager eyes, dying 'for administrative reasons' Bodie went, and after that I haven't bothered unmoving radiance the quiet moon reveals there's no escape the past gives no direction saying 'yes' to what? the Company starts up here ”So far out!?” they said. I say: ”Far out from where?” odd blocks, car parks — it's looking like London Airport the girl laughs as I shout ”Someone must do something about my flight.” the cock stands on a tea-chest shaking his head at the hens stinging nettles poke through an old car wheel without a tyre under the trees bluebells stretch away in a mist this pile of slabs was a grave mound before the plantation out of the shade, six steps and we're lokng for the skylark becoming larger a balloon is about to land on the Building Society Thunderball comes on in style sending the fans to rapture bits of metal picked out by moonlight on the park bandstand out to create an outrage he blows himself up a searing article 2/19/2014
  24. 24. Page 24 of 33 to make them search their souls the cowards ”Doesn't the President know he's skating on a bottomless trampoline.” a clockwork orange poppin: he'll listen to your troubles when she goes on stage the others come to life FADS' last night even for the prompter some forget-me-nots the fields are cut and poppies throng the banks thick mist no callers to disturb my long morning no parsley sauce on the tuna — the cats won't touch it a dainty dish to set before the boss — if she comes in quiet work in progress as the stick stumps up the stairs no sander's come the joiner was sent to Leeds so we've done nothing a handle for the lid made from paper-clips she's put all the colours she can find in his bobble-cap he turns up his hood as wind and rain come on the moon speeds from out the ragged edges of turbulent clouds dawn chirps briefly from endless symphonic gloom Neu-Jahrs Konzert tickets must be reserved a year before a good all-round performance it has its points half the ptice is lost before you've driven home from the showroom a tired move at the exit he's pranged the car-park gate ”Five Pounds, sir. Slow across the grass, and by 2/19/2014
  25. 25. Page 25 of 33 the cowshed wall.” Sunlight and drops of rain scurry at the Spring Gala awnings flap prices are blown away in the open market daffodils, cut short in rubber bands in a tray a single bloom delicately poised twixt thumb and finger she dances with clear joy to his stocky touch a private talk money, transport, supplies till past betime they've taken the old pump-house it's a marvellous position still magic the moon on wet tarmac bordering the field where shadows fall on the road that's where he grabbed her walks in takes the cash, walks out and no-one sees him a quick-change artist losing track of who he is parades the street in a coat of many colours the world at his feet unimaginable corners of ex-finite space gold, silver, lead: all are ways to painted death the book is leather, true, but I'd use a paper label be careful someone's pressed a freesia on page 94 put it with Spring flowers someone may take it out SIJO LINKED SIJO Tamara K. Walker my heron snaps shut its beak to capture an elusive fish the same and 2/19/2014
  26. 26. Page 26 of 33 not the same, mirrored reflections slip away look!— pale palms imaged in the water, somehow softer when painted tossing a smoothed pebble forcefully into the distance while taking a breath, the ripples eventually reach back to me I shed my attire and wade in as the wind stretches my hair breathing through a mask of pure oxygen by your bedside last week you convinced me to paint my fingernails chlorophyll-green now they match the ferns and moss in the fertile landscape of my mind ARCO Tamara K. Walker in the distant tunnel flanked by overgrown vines eerie pulsings of longing fill the space, but I am at ease the warm haunting notes of your viola lost in timeless limbo your back arched against the shadows on a spring afternoon inside the tunnel, decaying graffiti breathes whispers of will outside, you greet a florid landscape fertilized by self and fears OURS, UNSPOKEN Tamara K. Walker locked into your diner, talking until well past dawn's break fresh, surreal sounds of bright mid-morning leak through the door cracks the world on a fine red thread, wavering as if it would drop past sidewalks see clouds briefly eclipse the 3:00 sun parochial doodles chalked cheekily where we walked as children your voice raised in excitement as my soles print skies in the gutter the program we were watching clicks video off as we sleep a quanta of silence in between the subdued phases quieted souls rest as static turbulence swirls off the screen PUSH, PULL Tamara K. Walker sprinting away from expired chemicals' combustion I come to sit on the narrow lap of an aging see-saw underneath it groans with the weight of belated apologies on the old playground dusk falls as we set out our blanket a child swings, soaring higher and higher with each well-timed shove like the sound waves in your vowels resonate as you speak to me along the creek children play under their guardians' eyes surprisedly freeing fluff from picked cattails—soft, brown, and plain I appreciate a seed pod—beautiful, spiny, and toxic 2/19/2014
  27. 27. Page 27 of 33 Maire-Morrissey Cummins SINGLE POEMS 2/19/2014
  28. 28. Page 28 of 33 Sergio Ortega the last flare of sunset — jazz trumpet Joanna M. Weston I miss those glamorous companions of yesteryear: the ablative absolute the dative of disadvantage Ruth Holzer day's end here’s my chance to hold the sun Anne Carly Abad drinking it all in 2/19/2014
  29. 29. Page 29 of 33 champagne sky Edward Cody Huddleston, sunset light through the cracked window of the shed I lay his tools away for the season Ruth Holzer hopscotch traces on the driveway ... foreclosed house Chen-ou Liu a blue jay perches on a half-barren branch as if thinking whether to fly south or stay I have seeds for you Nu Quang Love Soup: the recipe book I give her, a former stranger who warmed my path Janet Lynn Davis faraway thunder— beating canned goods on rock faces Anne Carly Abad Year of the Horse— my lucky chance to pluck a red and gold envelope from the money tree Ruth Holzer lotus bud droplets break on leaves… chanting Anne Carly Abad wilted flower have to think of something to give Anne Carly Abad the deer's essence entering my fingers changing to antlers 2/19/2014
  30. 30. Page 30 of 33 Ruth Holzer every day I sponge her bulging tumor, her soiled cinnamon feathers still lacking the heart to put her to sleep Ruth Holzer with a passport I become a tourist in my motherland treated like a foreigner who looks for old landmarks Nu Quang family reunion even the mosquitoes gets slapped on the back Edward Cody Huddleston summer breeze my dog never tires of sleeping Bob Lucky record heat we rearrange the furniture in our basement listening to water music I imagine cruising to Alaska Nu Quang white-streaked clouds — mother's hair Joanna M. Weston we disagree — the lake ruffled by ducks Joanna M. Weston I scour rust from the kettle— everything in my mother's kitchen suddenly too old Janet Lynn Davis her short life packed in an urn smell of winter 2/19/2014
  31. 31. Page 31 of 33 Chen-ou Liu rainy season gloom the cries of a broom vendor sweep away my nap Bob Lucky nearly winter, too dry and gusty for burning— we look for a place to lay these old limbs Janet Lynn Davis ends of lines, ends of poems ... why must I wait so long to say what's most important? Janet Lynn Davis the bakeshop café a cappella harmonies waft from the kitchen on cinnamon-scented air — a teardrop steeps in my tea Debbie Strange that biting winter my sister carried me over hungry snowbanks that swallowed our footsteps before the bus opened its mouth Debbie Strange she proofreads with an arsenal of colored pencils ... I stare into the white glow of my laptop screen Chen-ou Liu I wear the wind’s black breath my raven disguise wheeling over darkling mountains haunted by moonbathing ghosts Debbie Strange first sunrise the silver strand in my hair Chen-ou Liu 2/19/2014
  32. 32. Page 32 of 33 BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS 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 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: 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 2/19/2014
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