Krissy Mosley Ministries

Walking through the corridors of summer,

past the heated mist.

drifting winds – offering her sentimental feelings

feeling young,

feeling whimsical

feeling brave

feeling holy-sedated

I wished a tiny prayer upon a nation.

kindness sis Krissy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Innocence and ingenuity a double consciousness of the self” to be good and colored is to be provoked-powerful and powerless in the same passing breath. Like the air I’m breathing is so high, standing at the mercy of the auction block,

” bringing out your dead, you son of a preacher!”

that is the hunting growing in the Americas’ schoolyard

that is the devastation rotting in a message on Sunday Morning

that is the dead blackbird in a second-grade locker

that is a pipeline from school to prison

that is a massive, shooting dying to be dead

living to be dead

that is to pray…

God I know this is the next fire time

God I know, there is a rainbow to follow

God, I want to know good, not happily ever after

God I want to know the sweet bye and bye

God, may we live the- good life

and die happy

full of old age. kindness sis Krissy

 

 

Today the rain was falling fat like little birds fighting over the last crumb of bread, the tin roof clicks and clicks at me until I stop and pay attention. Watering the basil I’ve planted over the summer, refreshing the old yellow peppers still on the vine. Someone once said “water holds memory” maybe like a movie or a script waiting for the playback in the back of my head.

I was there two weeks ago sitting at a table. The conversation went something like this,

Mrs Potrho: you know, I’m thinking nonviolence didn’t do much.

me: how’s that?

Mrs. Portho: well my daughter said she had a bit of an incident, at the shopping mall where a woman ran into her or they ran into each other. Anyhow, my daughter said excuse me. To be polite and the other woman involved said “watch it you black B***ch”, now at this point my daughter said in haste, “do you want to take this outside”?

me: um, I hope she was able to walk away?

Mrs. Portho: you know – my daughter was right. It’s too late for turning the other cheek.

me: but, nonviolence is resistance in itself. It’s offering, peace, it’s offering something that the world is shouting for. That is to say, do I want justice?  Do I want the laws to change? Do I want all persons, no matter the color of skin to feel safe? Surely I do.

me: revenge only calls for more blood and more death.

After that, we changed the subject.

feel free to add your thoughts below- I’d love to hear what you’d done in this situation your Kindness sis. Krissy

 

 

When the spirits talk, they’ll call trusting the beginning of innocence, that is to say, all that is good in the world, all that the world has called good.  Beyond the prime abandonment of wanted desires, they’ll call you out of chasing your own shadows, out of stupidity,  out of wanting to be wanted.

out in the middle of sidewalk stands a two year down to his white diaper, he garbles words for spirits, he knows mama’s milk is not coming. he knows the sirens. he knows the beauty of the cold – hard cement between his feet. he plays with peekaboo in the wind, he goes inside the tiny door,

combusting watching. It takes everything in me not to pick him up, not to go next door and give him all the good I’ve ever known. kindness sis. Krissy 

Dear Love, I think I gave myself eczema, I knew I did it. my kneecaps are freezer burned,  forearms, every day a  painfully new textured,  risen tree- trunk, treasures talking, broken waters, jaws out of joint…

I think I scratched out a placed called home in the layers of my skin, gut out the first layer  never mine second, never mind the  hallucinations in the brain, in the pain, under the covers in the night, where Jesus kissed us gently on our foreheads, soft black woolly,

I think I scratched out sacred-blood, where home never had to leave, never had to say goodbye, praying to the rain, praying to round bloody drops that bleed.

dear four-year-old, small pigtail girl, don’t scratch your prayers down deep in the night

dig deeper, to reach heaven, dig deeper, you never left Eden, deeper the taste of fields berries and mint drip and drip, nakedly.

Dear love, I give you this healing….Kindness sis Krissy

Dear wounds that wake me up in the middle of the night, more like 3:44am

I wanted to sleep like my life depended only because I think my life depended on it.

I wanted to trade my frustration, any sense normalcy

I wanted my Kumbaya moment,

I wanted the rapper on the hip-hop station to include real words that even at 39, I could say was relevant and I could relate

I wanted the humans walking to stop, feel the earth rotating

I wanted to see people hold their brown babies, mija, mijo, welcome to the good life, with little centavos (pennies)  we’ve saved  a good place to close your eyes and sleep

relax those heavy dark circles inside your head and dream

dream the trees preparing themselves for winter,

see the city ripe with opportunity

see the small business, see a proud family

I pray you dream the red-river,

remember the slave codes

dream-  and remember the gas-chamber

walk down the remember the trail of tears

and remember, the ghost of nation

dream -rapid sharks in the mouth

teeth in acid

I pray you remember…. Kindness sis. Krissy

As summer makes its grand-ending, 39 strings, harp, worn over. Air-taste so sweet, we laugh and laugh as if to say. Goodbye. So long necklace-beads of sweatbands Mari-Gras- bass to the sole of our shoes, still dancing, muddy, middle-toe rubbing index, said we’d stayed up all night to watch the sun play tricks on us. Bless us all our days.    As if to say, till we meet again, Toni Morrison,

Mesmerizing one sun to another, hips so thirsty, we drink, blue waters, ice-so-cold til our tounges quiver, let the ghost rise, high beyond the beams of 88′ degrees in 2019.

Wonder “how-she made it over” In the shady black and blue ink. Correcting the eyes of millions – to read- to read- to love and pause…

I’m not saying this right..man o-o-o man,  fe-e-l me, girl. cmon. feels like a cry, traveling, made its way from my ankles, only now, it’s standing in front of me, feels like, God’s shoulder, I can get a good lean in. 

and the words,  just won’t come in right.

this ain’t goodbye,

we’ll be reading, it will last a lifetime- your kindness sis. Krissy

In my mind, I’ve come across the world-shakingly staring at all the tiny things that stays the same, the blue-eyed sky, milkweeds tall as people, always moving towards me. I thought maybe just maybe, I’m not asking God the right questions

and somehow guilt plasters its weight on to my body in good fat, lard, ghee, avocado oil, more importantly, the stain of its fear pressing into the church clothes I don’t know how to get rid of, so I wear them. Sunday’s peasant dress tuck into tub ware,  deportations -small – small helpless children, high heel, black pumps – I know what its like mothers are gone (sold away  ) I know what its like being in another country, not from the one you came- sister somewhere, mama -somewhere, and then there’s me, six generations later

sister’s house was raided I was too far away- God seemed further and all she wanted was a home, all I wanted was a goal that she could be proud of. When asked she’ll tell you all that’s behind her now, she’s moved on…

I ‘ve gone back to God persistently asking …

there’s no time be concerned with niceties, 

God and church are not one and the same

I do believe God understands my rage,

God meets me on my street, in my home

where the air is not so clean, pass the bodega and the meat shop

right over 21st street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In myself, now that I am enough

I still smell the wide eye ashes that swing in mid-summer

jealous rains that stir up tornadoes with rage and determination

determined to disrupt everything we’ve been planting

determined to stay longer than I intended

rational about my thoughts

what they use to say- darkie, cooning-Negra

I pay that no-never mind these days, what I am…

don’t get me wrong, I still melt when I hear those words but,

the bones I am becoming, are welded in bones of stone

a hue of splendor, dashingly dark red lit with determination

small fame, now that I enough, I don’t need hormones to be tall

or cat-eye lashes to be seen

now that I am enough,

my words are enough

my voice is enough

my shout is resurrected

my stance is secure

my purpose is steadfast

my prayer is fervent

my joy is made whole

now that I am enough… Kindness sis Krissy

 

 

 

The truth bares its bone of bones and trade

they’d trade their spirits for red wine- roses picked clean.

mother began to sing, “Nobody Knows  the trouble I’ve seen,

She’d given birth to many of Nobody things- whose arms are those -she holds the pieces of missing girls, whose legs are these – she maps a journey- underground, wild-child, indigo, negro, brown, white girl, Latino – all the hurt is the same

Whose breast are these, whose lips, whose eyes?

one helped a man find a dog,

she never came back,

one on the playground in the schoolyard

one holds the riddle, thousands of men to ban abortion

Mother had forgotten – her body, her prayers, her arms, her legs

whose blood is this? Kindness sis Krissy