(Sept. 2001) Page 2

VAL MAGNUSON Born in Detroit, Michigan and lives at Bush Lake in historical, Holly, Michigan and occassionally on the Gulf of Mexico in Dunedin, Florida. Val has a BA from Wayne State University and an MBA from Central Michigan University. Ms. Magnuson is a member of the Michigan Bi-Lateral Trade Team Canada and is a noted stained glass artist. Ms. Magnuson has had her work exhibited in the Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, Canada and the Corning Museum of Glass. Val has been awarded many prizes for her poetry and is the author of "Destiny" published by Poet Works Press. Her virtual homes are http://valmagnuson.com and the Poet's Porch, - Val's poetry is featured throughout the world and on the internet.

SUNSET POINT © Val Magnuson In the Lighthouse of the Great Beyond Floating upon lotus flowers and cloud leaves Flumes slipping like priestly robes Into the sunlit sea Subsequent shards from the Glory Hole of God At the feet of the Master, I sit Yellow, Komodo dragon Angel of Light My ketch, "Vision" tenuously pinned To this sight Seaward west steering to Sunset Point To bid au revoir to the Celestial Circle And its luminous flowers The Golden Halo has designed One splendid watercolor One rarefied air bouquet The Cosmic palette melting Perfectly arrayed down down down to zero amarillo To rise on other islands And bring life to other gardens Earth echoing each trembling atom's Ephermeral display I sail superbly, superbly free Upon this sunset memory CARNIVAL OF THE DEAD © Val Magnuson, June 2001 This is the big time baby- Orgasmic State, it ain't- It's the place you come to die And I - still have my pen- Bring one shopping bag Speechless Valentines Cloudy pillows, It's the carnival of the dead pantomime One green sequined kiss on the cheek As they slap you Onto the beaded stake, Forget the birthday cake- It is big enough- Liberated walls, one unsure window Overlooking a garden With oleander, palm trees and bougainvillaea You just can't see it And a gasping pool Where virgins are served And old men drool- The neighbors live on different planets No dogs - no cats - not even one damn bird No bark, meow or crap allowed They like the oven clean When they put you in the frying pan - DEUS EX MACHINE © Val Magnuson At the edge of the outer spectrum's cusp Beyond the arco iris hemisphere I fly the emerald tides On a magic carpet ride Spirit, soul and me Voyage Carpe Diem III Superbly, superbly free.... Me, the winged flyer Holding tightly to the sun He and I just being one Traveling on the sound of light Golden, fanciful flight From the great beyond The Great Genie cosmically nods I hear the whispered thoughts of God I am then- The impassioned purple sage- With happy, yellow state engaged alpha balancer omega watcher cosmic jumper Atlantis runner Crafting what was seen From the little Deus Ex Machine valmag@tm.net

FRED WOLVEN Fred Wolven is a teaching poet, editor of forthcoming Ann Arbor Review, and seeking wider audiences in ezines. He has appeared in Poetry Life & Times several times before. Fred says, "I believe poetry is more than art, mediation, music, or myth. After all, all writing is a form of mediation in motion, a relaxed, interactive exercise involving mind, body and spirit. Creating poems is like candlelight perception; such a process enables me to dance both inward and out, and in so doing gain and share some kind of understanding."

ONE LITTLE GIRL LOOKS OVER THE EDGE © Fred Wolven One little girl, looking over the pier edge, drops a piece of cookie into the marina water, waits for a fish to rise, swallowing the crumbling pieces of dough. Her sister, or mother, I can't be sure which, straddles her bicycle, patiently watching over her young charge. What if, I wonder, the little one toppled in, falling off dockside; would I be quick enough to grab her, only twenty feet away, or could her family member reach out before me and prevent her from sinking into the brackish waters, sliding down, becoming quickly entangled in weeds? Tied up in slips just east of the pier the masts of various size sailing vessels are silhouetted against a white fluffy clouded sky. Can such a peaceable scene be part of this terrifying kingdom near the sea with its near drowning, even if only in a dark dream? I WILL NOT WATCH FROM THE SHORE © Fred Wolven Two times I have walked off into the hills. Each time I see the mountain winds touch rivers. Hiking on the Appalachian Trail in Tennessee I came upon a river in a rainstorm. I crossed that stream carefully stepping from rock to rock, leaving a disgruntled black bear on the side I left. Not long ago, hiking through foothills in Georgia, I crossed and recrossed a stream in my path. Then it was a beautiful sunny summer's day. The birds were still, no squirrels scurrying in the trees, the insects quiet in the afternoon heat. I have yet to cross a river for the third time, though yesterday I walked out into the ocean, envisioning ancient ruins buried in the sands. Overhead pelicans and gulls skimmed low over the waters. The fish beneath the surface blend in with the sand; tiny unseen creatures burrow down deep into the ocean floor; clouds gather, separate and reform against a hazy, blue afternoon sky. Now, I realize the rivers are all closed in, and the ocean's tides move in and out. So, too, I know if I can escape from a bear or find hidden ruins, anything is possible; therefore, I will not watch from the shore. OF CHARLOTTE, NOT IN THE WEB © Fred Wolven Did you know the other Charlotte, not the one of the web, but the second or third not usually remembered, in fact, nearly lost somehow in the volumes of myth and legend, not of, but from the same childhood venue as the other? Which one was the original I don't know. I'd have difficulty recalling the stories of this other Charlotte if it weren't for my remembering the working-with-things activities Bly and others of us succeed with over these several years. Yes, each time I pick up objects-always joining my writers in this exercise-I feel something very different from sitting in front of a computer and attempting to conjure up or pull out phrases which somehow approximate the vitality of this world as I experience it. After all, if you must know, there really is no web at all in the other Charlotte's story, but there is a cave, and both children and adults vanish in it slipping away in the blackened edges. A MOVEMENT BY BACK BAY WATERS © Fred Wolven Walking alongside the river bay waters I imagine diving in deep, a fish turning and twisting, dropping, spiraling down until too low I cannot escape the pressure. The blackish color invites me in. Should I join the bank-hugging grasses, touch and in touching break the stone skipping ripples lapping and overlapping each other as they spread out and across until vanishing from my human view? How will I know when my father steps ashore, one foot in front of the other, each deftly placed, if his hand, extending always toward me in my early dreams, is one path lighting from the dark into wisdom? The cold mountain stream runs clear. The darken back bay water clouds under an August sun. I stretch out, reaching toward the tree, stop, take my time, and remember the unfinished story of the woman turning away from a hovering red- winged blackbird. This lady returns to her village, but I still don't know why the bird hovers so close nor why she never turns looking at it. And I sit down naked on warm stone, alone save for these darker waters and my father returning in dreams. poetfred@bellsouth.net

JIM DUNLAP, Jim Dunlap's work has appeared in sixty plus small press magazines to date, including PLAINSONGS, CANDELABRUM, the PARIS/ ATLANTIC, DIE NIEDERNGASSE and POTPOURRI. He has been in the Writers' Digest top 100 three times, and for the past five years he was newsletter editor for the Des Moines Area Writers' Network. He recently resigned to spend more time writing, submitting and attending to neglected business. Jim's website includes a lot of favorite poems by other writers as well as his own poetry. His work appears online at http://www.thepoetsporch.com and www.aceonline.com.au/~db/ www.thewrittenpage.com/ and many more.

PERSONALITY PROFILED © Jim Dunlap Genetics and environment, The argument goes on -- Has DNA made you a pawn, Or just cirumstantially bent? Is your character determined By where you've been...and when? Do philosphy and Zen Favor one choice...or a blend? Electric synapses, firing, engage Performances upon life's stage -- And whipsaw us from joy to pain: As Life's experiences accrue, Each page adds to the book that's you. A SINISTER SYNAESTHESIA FOR MUDDLED RECEPTORS © Jim Dunlap By seeing things so differently In so many different ways, Backgrounds and environments Determine most things every day. Experiences delineate How we live and why -- But conforming to another's views Just makes us live a lie. We dissect the life we're living To evaluate expenditures, And probe the outer limits Demarcating life's parameters. Yet, as these shift with circumstance To some more salubrious clime, We retroanalyze ourselves In vain...time after time. But what's truly most amazing Through life's every curtain call Is that, despite our differences, We communicate at all. A BLAND, MONOTONOUS, FUTURE © Jim Dunlap Dedicated to my late friend, Bill McWhortor, and all my red-headed relatives The Celtic peoples have bequeathed a heritage thats priceless and unique; but those precious genes are facing a future very grim ... and bleak. Im talking now of redheads, though it applies as well to blonds. The genes for dark hair dominate and will snip those ancient bonds. Now the scientists are saying that crossbreeding will destroy the diversity of appearance that Caucasians now enjoy. The genes will dissipate for good, and redheads will be no more; And then the blonds will follow ... Right out evolutions door. RHYMER01@email.msn.com