Pure Poetry.

As a teenager I wrote poetry it was a great relief as I would create room for the inner life of emotions I was not full able to express as a floundering girl trapsing about the city in combat boots and and velvet coats. As you grow older, naturally you become more in control of your life and have less time to be spent on developing and reflecting on your emotions and the rich world you can in habit there because you have jobs and relationships and things to do, presumably. Occasionally the need to expose the dream life of rich emotional context comes out and I am inspired to jott down my feelings again. In being so inspired by this interview I am called to create this space which is the rich gift of poetry. Not for you, but a gift to myself, to allow the room to feel with out intent, I hope to find other poets to share or perhaps to inspire others to find their own words to drape on their feelings, but today I feel rich. So I'm gonna give the old college try.
Poet Christian Wiman on Love, Faith, and Cancer | Moyers & Company | BillMoyers.com

The Emerald Room.

My emerald room was once a cement fortress
a command center in my heart
with sleek glass walls mirroring a smoky infinte beyond
in the center was an eternal flame and a lone egg chair
I could swivel in control
the architect as security guard
eagle eye inside my heart
there was no frolicking laughter of a child
no water to wash away pains
no comfort to brave the storm
my heart was a penthouse of power

but
pain is an erosive magnet
the mercury slips inside my walls
confronting the love I would lose each day
magnifying my deeper well
my better design
my truer fashion
if each energy center was a jewel what would it look like
I pushed in
I jackhammered out
concrete breaking like ice sheets
blistering my hands with the grief and desires I had been spared so long
I begged my heart to beat to water
I built a pool with lush green plants
a costa rican jungle waterfall
sprung inside my emerald room
the walls gleaming mineral deposits so rich and fiery in the lower lights
i heard sounds of laughter and splashes of joy
my little girl holds a baby girl
and my heart weeps the waters collect
my lagoon is thriving
the fire is lit
I am welcomed in to my new construction.
The emerald heart pavilion is occupied.


 Embattled to quit
(The Harvest of Intuition, a formal apology)

 For when it was an almost
 it was a mystery
 a sparkle in the sunlight
 a whispering push of yes
these limitless hours
these countless times of fracture
to hold back
to feel worthy
to surrendar to bodily exhaust
to tempted rejections of mountings (joy
the lingering carrot
a bridge to find the way
 this mission grows cold -

a savory frost of spook
a dry lump of clay
 accidental drumings to the pillgramidge of OOPS
 this is a no fault state
nothing but extraordinary ordinary over here.

 face plump with wet,
 a slow simmer is ignited some ancient millitary code
some rusty root of optimist
a guiding inner to find a place of peace
it was why I was selected or why i volunteered
whatever I have neglected has all but upt and disappeared.