Krissy Mosley Ministries

 

 

 

 

“Prayers in the blood,” she said couched over I could see, the pain piercing through her eyes – beholding the mother of Jesus on the cross and for several hours we waited. The light in the bedroom was dim, the small lampshade flickered while the sun caught the latter glimpse in the afternoon. The dust settled over her collection of bibles. “Thompson Chain reference”, “Schofield” “Amplified” the list goes on. 

when she was ready she led her final prayer- for ninety-three years prayer had been her way forward in every season. Her manifesto on survival –  “God you get the glory”  she’d say when things went wrong and even when they went the way she wanted.

“Get glory to your self  O’ God”

One word of prayer links a lineage of prayers that have gone before us, and long after our feet should walk upon the earth. The prayer of faith remains like blood.

with slanted eyes, her lips gave out- Father we thank you- You’ve been my cup, my oil, “my lifter of my head” “you’ve seen me through every change in my body and now that my body has one last cord to give, I’m still thankful,”

and the rest she prayed in her language a lost tongue, no longer spoken- but I’d heard that sound growing up.  I’d seen this smile of rest, sitting over her face, the gentle white midst, appearing “like a vapor”

Prayer is never lost, even when we’d stop praying.

“Prayer is in the blood”

Mother Arnold is dearly missed but her prayers live on.

Kindness sis, krissy

 

 

 

 

     

In my world, that is the world in my head,

the construct of race isn’t a thing, the fear of others isn’t a thing

it isn’t pushed and pecked – punished by the shade of its skin ,

it isn’t less chosen- what is the aggravated difference between midnight and twilight in its degrees of sparkles

the pendulum of color has its swing –

has its summation – brought about death and life all on the same swing

such fear of truth,

such resurrected friends

such urgency of humanness to smile at oncoming traffic

the leaves are slowing waking – the warmth of September winds

in my skin- all the world is beautiful

Kindness sis Krissy

 

 

 

In my head

the world’s a better place.

Rowing alone in the dark, where the forest bares it alms in the dark-segregated but fixated -finding the light in the dark. Blindly knowing hope-

what privilege of hope is to conjure up a march, when your body can longer move,

what privilege to hope, to  believe beyond a massacre, beyond home,

what privilege to make it home at night in the dark and find your body in place -where you last took off your shoes and slipped on your slippers.

what privilege of hope to use your grandmother’s prayer closet -when she herself is no longer of this world, but her hope, her prayers still pray for you beyond the grave

What privilege of hope to taste – mama’s cornbread pudding, in grandma’s green bean casserole on a Sunday

What privilege of hope for children to play alone in the dark,

make it back inside and watch the sunrise.

kindness sis. Krissy

 

Beyond the great- by and by, I hear the sound of rain marching through streets, marching onto roofs and houses, accompanied by the sky, bitten-by its thunder. Flashing -the glory of the morning. Swinging in the branches, tapping on the power lines. Beating out the rhythms of fall. Whats’ to come. What is to love of love itself.

Undoubtedly the potential of love in all its glory

kindness sis. Krissy

Often it is said with such desperation, there is a surge of danger- lurking, gasping in the dank air between two worlds of their’s and mine. In my world, I knew a warmth only the sun gives, where many of the saints are living elders sitting on their porches, spitting wisdom through their full cheeks.

I knew a path where the children’s’ wardrobe is “Dapper Dan” in bulletproof uniforms the lastest school dress code, so that no kids, not one are taken before their time. I knew the names of the saints’ closely watching over every child, Marry-Ann, Carla, Rosa-Marie, and June.

Ah, sweet June had come to give her peak – virtually rising with stillness in her wings, permeating summer’s fruit red with sweetness,

restoring the faintest soul, from “A raisin in the sun” to the “moonlight through trees”

winds to blow, a world so free, children so full, laughter ricocheted from belly to belly

kindness sis. Krissy

 

 

She is not a woman who has fallen into depression and dug -deeply to get out

She is not the kind of girl that was so green- life has compelled her to see God

She is not a lonely girl, sitting all alone, and not dealing with her loneliness

She is not the wannabe survivor, pretending everything is alright

She is not the little girl making mud-balls into planets without dreaming

She is not the kind of woman standing behind a man.

no, she is all of this,

conquering, conquest after conquest

visioning, chancing everything

falling and getting up

setting aside the old only to starting over

throwing out the negatives just to have

a tiny piece of her story

Kindness sis, Krissy

 

 

 

 

I could own all my ugliness

like I’d

never had to hide,

breaking through,

the dark

silhouette of the moment,

                            paying for it,

                                shoe after shoe,

                                                                                   coke bottle,

stitch waist,

nails, highlight

                               narrow butt,

     bubble butt,

             cosmetics, glow,

                    mattifying creams

I almost let the world convince me,

I needed to buy myself

right off the shelf.

 

after all, it                                                                                                                                         almost seemed right,

kindness sis, Krissy

 

 

 

 

 

Looking over my shoulder

I was 13 when poetry found me in the library

hovering over the latest beauty magazines

wondering why I couldn’t see myself

Moma’s job had just ended, we still needed money for the past due light-bill

going to church wasn’t bad, as I recall Moma gave over every last cent paying for a miracle.

In the morning the sun rose gently, helping us with another lightless day

then it was poetry and I, stride by stride,

pain and grief, blood in the middle.

  I was writing,

kindness sis. Krissy 

 

 

unsuspended, steady -unsteady

chaos steps out into the morning air, just the same as me

chaos beats at me like two fighters in the ring

pounding, adrenaline

all this time I thought the closest thing to God

was water.

I thought when God made man

God and creation- one big-fat human dance

and then I thought, one day to God is as one thousand to man

so that is to say, seven thousands years of grace

and seven thousand more, God would take to make man

seven thousand to my 39 years

of  14,244.458

sounds like unsuspended, unexpected steady, unsteady

ready even when I’m not,

one big-fat grace, kindness sis Krissy