cattails
Tribute to Jane Reichhold 1937 - 2016
Poet/Artist/Editor of lynx

1234567




hearing of her death
cottonwood seeds
ride the wind!

Steve Hodge
USA
the day is singing
come, we’ll cross
our old boundaries
exhaling peace

ayaz daryl nielsen
USA
three lines
to paint a picture
writing the good write

David J. Kelly
IRELAND


solitude garden
all the butterflies
on a rocky surface

Pravat Kumar Padhay
INDIA
vernal pool
the dried up
dreams

Tom Sacramona
USA


Paresh Tiwari
INDIA



Delores Fegen
USA
working miracles
the whole world caught in few words
addicted to art

Pitt Büerken
GERMANY

In loving memory
between stars and dictionary
haiku lessons

Dragica Ohashi
Japan


camping in the woods
a narrow path begins
and ends with itself

Ernesto P. Santiago
PHILLIPINES
purple loosestrife*
the drift of candle wax
on a breeze

Alan Summers
UNITED KINGDOM
* Jane's daughter Bambi told me she used to grow purple loosestrife on her flower farm.


in a soft breeze
a single wing shifts slightly—
a dead monarch

Don Wentworth
USA


a purple sunset
she does not resist
to verses

Nina Kovačić
CROATIA
a dove ascends
above the morning mist
windsong

Janet Qually
USA

news of Jane's death
bits of my summer night
breaking off

Chen-ou Liu
CANADA


folding the wind
over and over
in my hand
still she flapped
into sea mist

Alegria Imperial
CANADA
going home—
the last rays of sun
in the gull’s wings

Carole MacRury
USA

Basho and Jane
two crows perched on a bare branch
nod to each other

Neal Whitman
USA


Clear Flowing Stream
David Landis Barnhill
USA


It is tucked away, just a tiny waterfall and a miniature pool. But not far from Saigyō’s hut, the water still flows quietly as it did in the monk-poet’s time, as it did when Bashō visited here. Saigyō wrote:

trickling down,
pure spring water
falls over the mossy rocks,
not enough to draw up
for this hermit life

tokutoku to/otsuru iwama no/koke shimizu/kumihosu hodo mo/naki sumai kana

Bashō, arriving at this ato, this trace of a treasured past, offered his own poem, now carved onto an upright stone by the water.

dew trickles down:
in it I would try to wash away
the dust of the floating world

tsuyu tokutoku/kokoromi ni ukiyo/susugabaya

In the opening of Narrow Road to the Deep North, Bashō spoke of the ceaseless, shared flow of life. “Moon and sun are wayfarers of a hundred generations, the years too, going and coming, are wanderers.” With nature itself, we all share this same, ultimate condition: “Each day is a journey, the journey itself home.” He could not have imagined cars and computers, or a continent beyond the rising sun, or someone translating him into an unimaginable tongue. But he looked back to those who had died on their journey, knowing he would too, and he knew others would follow, a few gazing back upon him. He cherished them, without knowing them, for nature, and the poetic spirit, and wayfaring unto death binds us all.

clear water still dripping
    from moss rock to pool:
       moonlit clouds