Leaf Burning Deep

All Hallows Day burns yellow
with the fire of martyrs,
with the licking flames of ancient

judgment. Gusting
maple red, and glowing
the zealous sun overflows
a wind seared sky.

Clouds circle the heavens,
like wild white geese
who fly against

this ardent azure sky.
On the seventh day
the trumpets sound
in Jericho. A shout rings out,

a sign, a frost, leaves crumble
from the trees and fall. For
a moment they were green

and growing, grasping still
to oak and walnut, poplar,
ash. They clung as though
the planet burned,

like Rome,
like the bush of Moses,
like the Saints at Pentecost.

Returning

Suspended here, my hand
has the memory of flying,

of curving, arching on air.
My palm tingles, drawn back

inside the car. I reach back
into the buffeting wind,

the invisible resistance,
the heavy push – uplift.

Pivot from the elbow.
The sweeping movement,

tilt, turn, glide, tilt back,
the slow aerial infinity,

this memory of freedom.
It is possible

to echo the motions,
even now.

The Knitted Poem

The Poetry Society (UK) is putting together the world's largest knitted poem; all knitters are
invited to participate. The fact that they are calling it the world's largest, presupposes the existence of a smaller knitted poem somewhere on the globe.

This fascinates me. Have people for centuries been stringing together words out of yarn? Has this been the case all along and I just have not known? To think I have been using ink, paper, notepads, when all along I might have been crafting my poetry through sharp needles and soft alpaca.

And yet, I think I will not participate in this largest project. I would rather twine my poems into small woolly scarves, the kind that are cozy. I like the idea of knitting hidden messages into the heels of socks, and purling my words onto individual pages roughly eight and a half by eleven.

In counterpoint to this fascinating Poetry Society project I am inspired to suggest the world's smallest knitted poems...perhaps with silk thread and toothpick knitting needles... something about as large as a 1940's ladies handkerchief -- delicate, sentimental, and exactly the size to be carried over the heart. What do you think?

Poetry Contest

Utmost Christian Writers has announced the 2009 poetry contest winners.

Hint: I'm on the list.

Check out my poem "The Finality of Rain"

Solidago

Now that magnificent golden honesty spills
under and around the morning jewels and
late indian summer Impatiens capensis, Rudbeckia hirta,
Lobelia cardinalis a flame of crimson or inspiration
offering the dew a place to cling to

make the filigrees of damp silver
etching which establishes the framework of the day.
The monochromatic wash of pale shimmer
rendering the morning grasses unfailingly uniform in
ornament and charm,

complements the nodding Coriopsis and Eupatoriums,
overhangs the elegance of unassuming gold.
Monardia media’s extravagant amethyst clusters and
prosaic stars of Aster white and purple gleam
obligingly arrogant among the oblivious
stately display of amarelo arch.
Itinerant bumblebees play host to Phoebis sennae the cloudless sulphur flutter which feeds
upon twining Ipomoea trumpets.
Morning glory is too small a measure to encompass,

enclose, enfold, the yellow secrets of leaves, the acid
sweet solace of late September,
the immoderate candor of goldenrod.

Cup of Poetry

This morning I am sipping a cup of Wuyi Oolong tea. There is a mellowness about oolongs which black teas lack, and who could resist a tea billed as “The Cup of Poetry”? I love this tea. I also love obsessively researching insignificant details that most people don’t care about. That is why this morning, with my mug of poetry beside me, I surfed a few tea sites to learn this oolong’s history.

I learned that Song dynasty poets were enraptured over this [Chinese pronunciation] wulong tea as early as the eleventh century. Also known as Rock Tea, or Crag Tea, Yancha has a unique flavor known as Rock Rhyme (Yan Yun) because of the high mineral content on Wuyi Mountain where it is grown. “Crag bone floral fragrance” one website said the flavor is called.

The secret of Wuyi Oolong is its geographical location, the uniqueness of a small spot in China where the nine-bend Jiuqu Xi River meanders among deep gorges. Thirty-six peaks, ninety-nine crags, four thousand different plant species and the Var Bohea -- the Wuyi tea plant cultivated only in this biologists dream landscape.

Did I mention, I also learned that the place where I bought my “Cup of Poetry” grows their Oolongs in Taiwan. Taiwan. There is no Wuyi mountain in Taiwan.

My tea is not the miracle weight loss Wu-Yi that several websites gushed about. It is not the tea sipped in the Imperial Tea Gardens in the Fuijan province birthplace of Oolong Teas. My tea’s rich darkness is not characterized by the poetic history of cliffs and caves interwoven with watery ravines. It’s just a good cup of tea nothing more, but nothing less.

Water Strider

In May I had a wonderful opportunity to attend my first Christian writers conference. Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference at Ridgecrest in NC, that’s a long name for a conference so wonderful that it seemed way too short. I could go on about how much I learned and how confirmed I was in the directions I felt God leading me – and I probably will in other posts – but right now I just wanted to say: “Have you looked at the BRMCWC blog?”

At the conference, on the last day, I had an opportunity to chat with Alton Gansky. Looks like it was a good idea to take him seriously when he said “send me a couple poems for the blog.” My poem “Water Strider” was posted to the BRMCWC blog today. Link is in the side bar (under Poetry) and here.

(How did he know that was my favorite of the three I sent him?)