Http ahalynx 291 solo

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

29:1 Febuary,

2014

LYNX

A Journal for Linking Poets

with Symbiotic Poetry

SOLO POETRY

GHAZALS

IN YOUR COUNTRY Steffen Horstmann

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 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.

Seething funnel clouds surge through wastes Occupied by warring enclaves in your country.

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.

Voices of massacred nomads stir in the dust Of their hurried graves in your country.

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.

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.

Moths with flaming wings whirled in smoke that rose From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat.

The apparitions of gazelles cast leaping shadows From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Sparks pulsate in latticed smoke that flows

SOLO POETRY

IN YOUR

COUNTRY Steffen Horstman

THE MANIKARNIKA

GHAT Stephen Horstman

Maire-Morrissey Cummins

HAIBUN

LOCKED OUT Gerard J.

Conforti

FINE ROOTS

Janet Lynn Davis

SUNRISE AT

THE BEACH Elizabeth Howard


WATER STREET

Ruth Holzer

TUXEDO

PARKWAY Ruth Holzer

SOME NOTES ON PARADISE Bob Lucky

WHAT’S NEW? Adelaide B. Shaw

A MOMENT BLURRED

Alexander Jankiewicz

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2/19/2014http://www.ahapoetry.com/ahalynx/291Solo.html


NOT TOO OLD FOR THE COLDJeanne Jorgensen

SOLITUDE Adelaide B. Shaw


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:

YOU MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING, SO REALITY

CANNOT DESTROY YOU Chen-ou Liu

WHITE SKY Sabine

Sommerkamp

SPIRITUAL

FLICKERS Ram Krishna Singh

I AM Debbie Strange

BLACK Alexander

Jankiewicz

Wolfgang Beutke

SEQUENCES

From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Rings of embers convulsed as phoenixes rose

From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Chanted sutras are heard in crackling echoes

From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat. Through curtains of cobalt flames Shiva rose From pyres on the Manikarnika ghat.


HAIBUN

LOCKED OUT Gerard J. Conforti

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 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 part-

time work and continue to write despite the heavy odds against me.

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ON THE GREEN Scott Mason

MENAGERIE ON THE

HUDSON Scott Mason

RAUSCHENDES LICHT Helga Stania

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


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

years pass into the glory of God helping me

FINE ROOTS "No more hurting people Peace" * Janet Lynn Davis

with pebbles

I prop them back up— my lavender

barely past seedling stage

uprooted by wind

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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*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

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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

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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

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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

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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—

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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SINGLE POEMS

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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

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Next Lynx is scheduled for Jume 1, 2014.

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