If I should lay down in wellness/ all else will fall away.  When I am at loss for words. There is no threat all/ else will fall away.

In wellness, in sweet relief…all else will fall away. ~Krissy ♥

I’m thankful for this blog to share a story, to share a plea.I’m thankful for glowing winds. I’m thankful for jolly mountain tops and dashing streams. I’m thankful for city parks and noisy streets. Most of all I’m thankful for quiets moments of peace. ~Krissy Mosley 2017

Image: by my own personal camera

To deny a people their human rights is to challenge their  very Humanity- Nelson Mandela

I was ten maybe the girl-next-door was about eight. I remember the smoke circling our house. The flames escape me.  Just that afternoon I pleaded with mom to let me play in the back with our neighbor.  Her mother brought her baby sister outside. She sat her next to us – we’d bake mud pies and pretending to have houses of our own.

The sun seemed to be in a hurry, the street lights pressed in the fabric of our summer dresses.  Mommy called me to return. I climbed back through a cubby-hole that led from my backyard to my friend. The sirens blared just as night had settled down.

In the beginning, the smell of smoke had been faint but the fall out was too severe. Mommy stood in her robe praying and yelling for me to get back in bed.

When the newspaper arrived in the morning, I wanted to read it. My youthful mind, disturbed. My friend, taken to the hospital for 3rd-degree burns.  Her baby sister died due to smoke inhalation.  I remember my neighbor’s mother always smoked. Why would she burn the house down? Why didn’t I stay?

I counted each address on Cherry Street. I counted the two street lights over. My friend was placed in foster care. I was brave enough to go – I had to see for myself.

I crawled through the cubby-hole that led from my yard to her home. It was all rubbish. The pieces that were left told one story –  it would be mine alone to tell. I tried to pretend that she’d come home and wrap my mind around the year of 1992.

I can see the mud pies. The little baby in her swaddled pamper. I see the street lights turning on and the rusty hole that led from my yard to hers.

(true story from my childhood in San Antonio T.X. Photo image pixabay.com)

I wish to paint the sky flat-ward that I may climb and tell the heavens to come down – drink her fatty calf and sip a golden tea. All will be well/ just you wait and see.

(photo image by pixabay.com)

My bones are clean on Africa’s couch, I’d left my tears asleep. If I’d wake those traveling tears we’d crossed Boston – cobblestones where our hips are made of tea.

My bones are peckishly-manufactured, to adhere but too often the river steals our bones away.  All along I’ve acquired this urban coast and hush my father’s bones asleep.

Before “The Warmth of Many Suns” beyond our hearts of flesh, my eyes return each resting flight,

watch the river abade, Ivory smile- her bones are made in mine.~Krissy

The troubles of this world – all consuming blaze/ to exchange these eyes for an intimate sight and return our fears to its depth.

“The fire next time has come.” A lusting thunder creeps. A wave for wave in this destruction is home. Without a prayer, I pray, we dying men will meet, a miraculous thing to see. A miraculous thing to see.~Krissy

(photo image: Pixabay.com)

Its’ gonna rain sooner or later, we’ve all become decedents of the thing we’re chasing.  Maybe it’s destiny. Maybe it’s chance. The profound nature of being caught in a snare. To escape with our very life, with one eye and hold dear the light we have found. ~Krissy

(photo image by: pixabay.com )

Dear God, all this talk about civil unrest. I know first-hand, what it’s like to grow up fatherless.  Move from home to home because the rent is too high.

The beans and rice we consumed- mother never once complained. A Security Guard by night and Home Health Aide by day.  Her only hope was a song of faith. “Life gets sweeter and sweeter as the days go by.”

The sun still shines, winds come and they go. “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness as a mighty stream.”

We are stout people like trees. Our hearts are round-broken hearts of flesh but our knees are not our own. We give them to those who seek refuge, a bare sustenance of hope.