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It is a place, where the edges of the stream are warmly touched by dandelions, having to survive the tumultuous winds writing and I stare off bare and rugged since 1992. Drawing out bricks in the heart. Shooting blanks at times. Pecking at the bone, it’s dimly whittled form is no more but covered in the fluid of my life.
Yet on being – the eggshell that can hold the yolk and fetter the chain.
On impact, in toe with the children, who are pulling at magnetic speed thus we are writing not ideal, to say the least, but it works. The children are fencing and nagging at my computer screen. My yelling will be of no avail.
Carving out solid hours to fulfill my art is a small part of the challenge the other is finding activities that will hold the children while I write. Often I write emails or texts to myself to keep traction on my current projects.
For example, Dear writing, you’ll have to wait til dinner, while their mouths are full of meats and sweets then I’ll meet you at the pavilion – please you’ve forewarned me of the children. I’ve given my love, my arms, my blood and you’ll require the same.
P.S. even if it’s midnight, I’m coming to write.~KrissyMosley2017
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Where there was ash beauty has come
Where there was pain love can suffice
Where there was hate none can deny
“love covers a multitude of sins”Oh how sweet
joy can remain… -
To leap, with innovation
a steady -course
and stick with it no matter
its tempest force
till day breaks with open arms… -
In this place where my choices are alone but my own nonetheless.
In a place where sorry can’t cut through hurt.
Lonely are the roads to forgiveness.
Lonely paper smiles.
While they choke on safety. Too hard to smooth down. A fraying side too weak to hold us together now. Too careful to let the waters part. And so we pray for a warm rising of the broken sun.
A warmth so strong it forgives our private hurts. Just one single blade of rays would reach through my forest of loneliness and see that I belong…
In this place.
Poetrykrissymosley©2017
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We have not hills, to lay our bodies down.
Where the sweet meadow grass will meet.We are gridlock into stagnant, narrow city streets
Where the devil’s work in white chalk lines under zip codes of purgatory.Every hand to hand, proportions to eat.
Catch a bus, catch a case, catch a plea
Should you escape you’ll turn another corner.Where the red-fern blood runs through and propositions at will…
Will you sell your soul for a dollar a smile?
This devil we know, these corners we know.They carry bodies
in white chalk lines.Corners for sale,
Corners that are forgotten
Unless we should capture
This devil and start all over againPoetry by Krissy Mosley here is the recorded audio version enjoy
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Not everyone likes taking the family photo. There’s usually one or more. However, I’ve learned a great deal with photos they capture moments and moods of many faces. Whether good or bad. Indifferent or sad. We’d come gathering all our emotions on the stage. It may not have been the best of times, yet we’ll remember this one. In love, when some of us are so very young. Some were tired and ready for the day to be done. Some not so sure what to be, even the in-betweens are okay.
image family photo by Margaret Mitchell
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It’s a cold October day the temperatures finally cascade into the mid-forties. At 7:25 am in my view the brown leaves scatter along the pavement and the cold wind has found a gentle resting place on our faces. Maybe my place of residence spills deeply in absence of satisfaction. The cumbering roads and missing lights. Street corners and bodegas are quiet for now.
Yet there is a taste for hope. It would be soft and wise to feel hope once more. Surely Hope is salt in the wounds, where we the wicked have crippled ourselves. Surely Hope would bleed the towers of darkness. Surely hope to shelter the pain in our lives that fall like flesh. And hope sharp as a knife. Cooling safe passage, surely hope will strengthen us.
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A Feeling turned into a dream of things.
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