(Sept. 2001) Page 2
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
Seaward west steering to Sunset Point
The Cosmic palette melting
To rise on other islands
I sail superbly, superbly free
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
One green sequined kiss on the cheek
It is big enough-
The neighbors live on different planets
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
I am then-
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.
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?
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 have yet to cross a river for the third time,
Now, I realize the rivers are all closed in,
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
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
Jim's website includes a lot of favorite poems by other writers as well as his own poetry.
His work appears online at
© 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.
By seeing things so differently
In so many different ways,
Backgrounds and environments
Determine most things every day.
We dissect the life we're living
Yet, as these shift with circumstance
But what's truly most amazing
Dedicated to my late friend, Bill McWhortor, and all
my red-headed relatives
The Celtic peoples have bequeathed
Im talking now of redheads,
Now the scientists are saying
The genes will dissipate for good,
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