(November 2003) Page 2

MICHAEL PAUL LADANYI Michael Paul Ladanyi resides with his wife and two daughters in the foothills of the North Georgia Mountains. His poetry has appeared over 200 times in print and online journals in the US and abroad during the last two years. His most recent print publications include: Snow Monkey, Spring 2003, Maxis Review, (Marygrove College, MI) Spring 2003, Joey and the Black Boots, Spring 2003 farewell issue #41, and The Circle, #24 Winter 2003. His most recent online publications include: ken*again, Volume 4 #2 Summer 2003, Write-away-poetry, Summer 2003, The Muse Apprentice Guild, Spring 2003, Poems Niederngasse, #57 May 2003, Voices, Spring 2003 and The Pedestal Magazine, Summer 2003 issue #16. His work is upcoming in several magazines and collections of poetry, including: In Our Own Words: A Generation Defining Itself Volume 5, James River Poetry Review, Epiphany Magazine, Retort Magazine and others. Michael's chapbook, Palm Shadows, was released in June 2002 by Purple Rose Publications, Mar Vista CA, the printers of Promise Magazine. He's currently searching for a publisher for his full length poetry book, Humming Riddles In Naked Seasons. Michael's chapbook, Spelling Crows of Winter, $8.95 ISBN 1-58998-229-0, was released in Sept. 2003 by Pudding House Publications (Click the link for more info or visit Michael's personal website). Michael's poetry has been awarded many Editor's Choice and Poem of the Issue Awards. He received a Poet's Hall of Fame Nomination from Skyline Literary Magazine, (May 2002 issue) for his piece, Liquid Chiron's and Periwinkle Sound, and placed in the top ten of the Net Poetry and Art Competition, (Dec. 2002) with his piece, Spelling Crows of Winter. Michael served as a poetry editor with Rustlings of the Wind for over a year, until the publisher decided to close the magazine after a successful five year run. He is a poetry reviewer with the magazine Write-away-poetry and the founder, creator, publisher and co-editor of Adagio Verse Quarterly.

Folded Paper and Teal Water © Michael Paul Ladanyi What is it you dream of when your poor eyes are on thin gray trees, those that sail the palms of diapas on November nights as small but infinite deaths descending the flat edge of the world? Have they ever choked upon skull and bone shadows feigning regress? I have been told that there is a dance long and sweet, hollow with blues and greens, folded paper vibrations that forever weep with smiles and laughing hazel eyes. Do you know of it? There are dead auburn leaves rotting on frosted ground above the root cellar, above dusty jars of pickles and pears resting on musty shelves, sharing space with small brown spiders and comic books from the seventies. What is it you will say to me when we meet again? Will your words be filled with tired blood and dangling mistakes? The old brass chimes still hang from the back porch, they are voices under teal water, their eyeing sound passing by me as imperfect tones of you. Silently Gathering © Michael Paul Ladanyi Winter's walnut-etched mouth is opening and closing like murmurs from gray stones, distinct behind November's damp ears, lamenting like a drunk poet who's work is no longer read. The sky's walls are sleeping, spilled with warbled, low, pine-sap colored clouds. The frost is thick, a vain departure gleaming like a grounded wraith, yellow-white candlelight floating in night's deeper pocket of jagged cold, lost languages shifting uneasy in the bone-bleach glow of their discovery. There could be waiting ghosts leaning carelessly and unseen against frozen trunks of old oaks, here. They could be wondering if I remember more innocent names than they, as they pass by me on their way to toil with task no longer relevant. Winter nights are this way, like death unhinged, silently gathering small treasures to bury in pale places we would never think to look. Spelling Crows of Winter © Michael Paul Ladanyi Spelling crows of winter have come, fallen over the pained horizon and settled here on slim legs of squawking sorrows. Brown and yellow leaves of November’s waning blood cover the pedantic ground, reminding the rain-smoke morning hanging tattered of promises rotting in the amber glow of my cigarette, like damp smells of lovemaking and misery. War stains distant sky’s like cracked and frosted windows of old houses, staring out on the crimson sun crawling away from itself. Long fields are crippled and gray, wish to move away from this; I hear them sighing thinly like old mothers of dead children. Spilled Wine and Broken Bread © Michael Paul Ladanyi I have thought to fall asleep at night with my door ajar, as those that open to reveal deathbeds where family gathers, stand leaning with eyes of plaster, waiting, ready to pick up phones that lead to wailing places. There is no ferryman before the death. He cannot guide those that have not yet come to him. Slender ghosts whisper this from crooked corners of midnight rooms, their ceaseless voices murmur of old wooden walls and childhood whims. I have heard them, they tell me I am not really here, tell me my bones are only pitiful sticks, their marrow my future eyes. My throated syllables to them in dreams are spilled wine and broken bread; their persistent words drown me. Dying of Day © Michael Paul Ladanyi Late November’s severely thin sky is yellow, falling wounded toward the naked mouth of night; bone-thatched trees seem to be choking on it, like children that have drank sugar water for days. He has been ill for years, carving small starving words like shards of ice from the deep ground of winter’s frozen dead. His house murmurs, its doors are crooked, its windows sick like broken eyes. Oaks are tapping the curtained window behind him, rasping with moss-damp voice, as he pens words in tattered ways, sending them into the throat of dying day.

C.S. SNOW C.S. Snow (AKA Howard Muse) was born and raised in Las Vegas, Nevada. A self taught Musician, Songwriter, and Poet, and self styled Modern Progressive Artist, Howie has also for most of his years been an activist in Gay and Lesbian civil rights and Native American causes. He now lives in a basement somewhere in Lake Elsewhere, Ca. Scotty says of his alias: "Howard Muse runs the Yahoo poetry group Loonatic Fringe Poetry. His book "Observations" was published in 1997. He also recently had several poems published in the Kedco anthology; "Millenium Dawn." He's my humourist and parodist. Age: Perpetually 33 Actually I came up with the name when I was 23. I was in Las Vegas staying at The Mirage, watching a documentary on...what else? The Spruce Goose!....Howard Hughs....reclusive Gadzillionaire....get it? Howard Indian Muse represents the memory of my dear friend Bill Roberts; who taught me that Doris Day is the Patron Saint of Parking, among other valuable lessons. Go with God, Dear Bill! He is currently collabourating with C.S. Snow and Gillian Stokes (& some guy named Lee J. Massey IV) on "Moon Tan: Poetry And Prose For Night Owls" to be published in the fall of 2004. Occasionally writes under the pseudonym of an alter-ego; a playful Human named C.S. Snow. C.S. will cya Nov 1. Mr. Muse also maintains a flat in Piccadilly Circus, one in The Haight, and a Castle; "Heaven Head," on Loch Ness."

The Wind Talker © C.S. Snow you could be, I could be a wind-walker, a dream catcher I see inside your eyes. This beautiful dream, I fall into A dream catcher, inside your heart nothing shall pass unless it treads lightly on your soul to enter other worlds on it's way to flight amongst the birds and stars between the truth and lies there lies a birth of honour and of strength to light my way into your heart. you will be, I shall be a wind talker, a soul catcher inside to light the very heart of my soul, to be there among all. longevity © C.S. Snow i've seen super nova and millenia pass'd i've woven the sky before you in patterns and billows of pearl-white forever your imagination and blue i've hung the steep heavens in twinkle and dreams of vision, of awe and delight i've sculpted the mountain, valley and slope and speckled the skies with wing'd flight oceans blue-green and swimming with myth poured lovingly out of my hand stretching on to infinity, wonder and legend embrace you wherever you stand so, be blind to these things if you willfully must not the first, nor will you be the last but, I offer one caveat, open your eyes i can make you a thing of the past From Forthcoming e-book Moon Tan, (Fall 2004) section: Leah's Garden Young Kokopelli © C.S. Snow For Tim. I didn't know Tim. I know him now. Inspired by "In Memory Of Tim" By David L. Wagner Young kokopelli take up your flute Pound on your drum strum on your lute Dance in the air sail on the wind Gates of Heaven flung open Just come on in! We've been waiting for you But, all too soon We're graced with your presence Song of the loon Rings in our ears through the still of the night No distress in it's voicing all, now, is right We carry you still in the safe of our hearts We'll meet again soon faith never departs! And, should you be willing to watch over us Serephim sing out, No more dust to dust! AHO.

RICHARD VALLANCE About Richard Vallance Born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, March 11th., 1945, Richard is a member of AuthorsDen, under his family name, Richard Vallance Janke.  A graduate of Wilfred Laurier University (1968) and The University of Western Ontario (MLS), he is fluently bilingual in English and French, and reads Spanish and Italian, ancient Greek and Latin well.  He wrote his first poems at the ages of 17 and 18, in 1962-63.  For years, Richard wrote mainly in the field of Library and Information Science. At Chicago, in October, 1983, he won the $1,000 Data Courier Award for Excellence in Online Published Papers for an article in Online, Vol. 7, no. 5. Poetry: While he wrote some 200 poems before the age of 47, since then Richard has composed over 1,500 poems. His first published poem was, “Lasts the First Light”, in Arts and Literature Review (Canada, 1972). In 1998, he published his first full book of poetry, A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems, Ottawa: Providence Road Press, © 1998. 56 pp. ISBN 1-896243-07-x. In February, 2001, Richard founded his first poetry discussion group, Describe Adonis, for sonneteers. We have since grown to 10 poetry, art and digital photography groups, which you may find at our discussion forum: la nouvelle Pléiade = The New Pleiades ©. Richard's poetry page is Poesie’s laissez-faire Faire Foire, a clearing-house for poets from nations like Canada, the United States, the United Kingdom, Ireland, France and the Netherlands. PLFFF features sonnets and contemporary poems, updated quarterly, a links page to sites of other poets, and grants the monthly Prix laissez-faire Faire Foire Award . PLFFF is a member of Phenomenal Men of The Web: Arts & Humanities . Richard is the Editor of 2 Canadian poetry E-Zines.  These are advertised monthly at the end of The Vallance Review in Poetry Life and Times.  In the Winter of 2003, a third E-Zine, Kawasaki Zen Haiku, will be a showcase for haikuists. Since September, 2001, Richard has been the poetry reviewer for Poetry Life and Times, which features the monthly Vallance Review. He is also regular contributor to the same E-Zine.  Richard is also often featured with the U.S. Amerindian E-Zine, Autumn Leaves. CD-ROM Books: 1. The New Millennium Dawn Anthology (Kedco Press): 10 of Richard's poems were included in Millennium Dawn: an Anthology of Award Winning Fantasy Stories, Poetry, Novels etc.,  Kedco Studios Press, Las Vegas, NV, © 2002  ISBN 1-878431-38-2. 2. Richard’s latest CD-ROM book, Canadian Spirit Voices, © 2003, ISBN: 1-878431-44-7, is in its final pre-publication stages, and will be published by Kedco in the Spring of 2003.  You may view a summary of the book here:  Pre-publication Notice. To contact the author, please e-mail: Richard Vallance (Yahoo) (for inquiries on our poetry discussion groups) – OR –  Richard Vallance (Activator Mail) for poetry-related inquiries or submissions to our Canadian E-Zines).

THE SECOND NAYLER SONNETS, 2003 * © Richard Vallance, October 20, 2003 For Marion Genest I You feel his spirit, do you see why it delights in evils never, never pays revenge the slightest cast back glance if hit, into joy commuting some dire malaise? His spirit's joy means joy, its tendered own comes welled to those whose ire with us contends, whose egos idolize their combat zone where aggrandizement with violence blends! Must Nature rush to War for dearth of Pride? The contraries to Love, whose summons sums us to summon Friends, leave Jekyll and Hyde tame to their temptations! And soul succombs! Who flies betrayed, to hang from his own tree, unless he leaves lust's War's contentions be! II Though this, as you see, our Spirit, will see an end to all temptations, as it bears no evil in itself, shall it yet free us up to thoughts in answer to calmed prayers? Betray it, though we will, it shall bear you well, the wellspring of God's care, tendered so as roses swell from grounds where its scent too divine for us crowns love, and apropos. And what a crown wears it, of olives meek, the crown of everlasting love unfeigned, its kingdom its entreaty its mystique, its kindest realm in Love never detained. "Rejoice in God alone!", its whisper prays. There will you find that Pride of mind decays. III Who else on earth cares for it, as poor? How, orphaned, can it call its life its own, conceived in grief, not pity's cynosure, it suffers and says Silence, though it groan. When we have gone and murdered it, we leave it grieve alone, rejoice alone as God finds me, one day, hard by, and do I grieve for him, whose feet through deserts trod! What dens he's tamed who else on earth survives? Who can know what fellowships he sought, though in scarceness found, and found if, whose lives are touched to his last compassionate thought? Would you you know release his own Death brings where one's soul's Resurrection wholly sings? ____________________________________ Robin Redbreast, Chickadees? © Richard Vallance, 2003 Petrarchan Could I, Robin Redbreast (though Fall's here) hear you, russeting, sing from russet boughs, or was this Swan Song cast, yours to my ear, May's, Indian Summer's gone & dared arouse? Perhaps you went flitting past, dreams, the last antiphonals before November's slapped us blizzard stiff, and all hell's bent to blast us, leaving us in its deathbed, gasp, trapped! Though It will not quilt you! The last was heard of you! Hey, who'se flown the coop? Who leaves leaves flit on us past our farmlands moon-interred? Though, what shall you infer from chickadees who chatter, though it freeze, through brittling frost, "Sun, you've caught our drift! Chorus drifts off trees!" ALL HALLOW'S DUSK © Richard Vallance, 2003 for Sara Russell October afternoon's All Hallow's dusk, where clouds cats paw shall cross their stippled moon along our path where black spruce needles' musk prevails on us. We've hiked too far since noon! Though look, cast back! — what growing clouds grow near and grosser still, until 1 lightninged flash so startles that we scamper from it clear and clear the copse, from branches clashed who crash? And as its rains hit us, they've come in droves. They'll come and pummel us until we freeze, though we cannot abide their cackling groves, and ran before rain's horizontalled frieze. From insides, hear groans? What's so mad attacks our garret, piqued, and drills in us brass tacks? My Carousel Home is: From here you may reach all our Yahoo Poetry Groups, our E-Zines and lots of poetry by many fine poets.