Krissy Mosley Ministries

Tell me, has it been so long?
When we knew, we would never die
Brought back by the river’s call.
Bit by bit- bowed high
But never without the sky.

Going on the miles we left behind.
Savoring but for one moment,
Just to open wide, celesta blues

This is, what life is
This is, how we live
By the river’s call

Has it been so long
We are strangers, appearing
Singing the lord’s song

Tell me now, how has it been?
Since my last confession,
Each depth of freedom shears
Living but for one moment

By the river,
Lingering miles, but never without the sky
Surely we would never die

To the girl going on fourteen
They’ll say you can’t
Put on your left shoes
Write with your left hand.

But it was never them, just us
That I should dare to be anything

I’ll use scissors to cut away- pretending
those howling polls

March while they are fasting
Stay awake but watch them sleep
In your veins, don’t push more blood
But fire- thrashing upon the floors

The ocean will come, the mountains will clap its hands
They’ll say you can’t
But it was never them, just us

 

Sitting alongside the young Journey River,
Our heads cleanly-shaven,
We have given our glory to the waters.
Our tears are old and gray.

Temporarily blinded by this need for eternity.
Their bodily perfume runs along its banks.
Taken away with Rosehips and Hibiscus,

We have come once more to cross.
We come for the elders who desire to go home in the middle of the Journey.
For the babies born in the high tides while we sit.
Grooming prayers made in river-soot,
Laughing with moaning visions
The end is not yet.

Perhaps I’ve told my life dreams for the zillionth time.
Sinking further into something I know nothing about.
The sulfur in my mouth,
The stillness thumping in third shift
The metal particles, I find glimmering,
I scratch deeper in sleep, and it feels like
They have brought the rapture to my bed.
And I do not know who they are

What is left, how tired the train squeals over the tracks
The smell darkness for the first time and it is holy
Yes the elders have come to walk their planks
The dead will minister to us, and we will still fall into hands
Of shepherds in wolves clothing.
Know it not that I am something rare and wonderful.

Poetry Krissy Mosley

My knees are made of rivers.

Not my own, but I do not know it,

Private landings synchronizing

limb to limb.

My womb is spirit-

My womb is spirit.

A window onto its own

dawdling stride in rhyme

through war zones.

Rivers bending backward

but I do not know it,

Shallow, unheard, rushing- faster

I tell her to slow down; she does not hear the groundbreaking.

Her windows are made of oolong feet,

And she must,

Walk to zion.

Poetry Krissy Mosley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But, then she decided to

discover the thing she had hiding away,

From the world’s ridicule,

Tarnished,wrapped in memories hands,

It was her spirit,

It was her time,

To let herself out

Poetry Krissy Mosley) Free google image)

 

 

Love pulls on light; two eyes are made one,
Her temporal lobes sounding

To remember heaven’s fragrance
The colors of her people in jasper,
Such delicate handmade frost

Moving reams,
Light pulls on love, upon this dance
And she listens to the microscopic quivering prayers,
And she listens to salt savoring oceans
Inside empty cupboards, the dead are there

Anticipating her second-coming,
The waters’ of heaven, must roar
The waters’ of heaven, must stoke fires ajar

She must love me,
Listening

 

Let the universe lend her ears to my knees,
Let not my crooked streets be in vain,
Let our song carry us in the heat.

Carry rock.
Carry on.
Carry children.

Carry our wilderness.
Carry Wasteland.
Carry me.

So if you ask me why I pray.
What more shall I do
But carry it, on my knees.
By a thousand marigolds that do not toil.
Tread lightly,
Overwhelmed , Over-coiled

Burned in my right palm
A sensuous bleeding

To be born
To weep
To groom
To love

Let the universe lend her ears to my knees
Let not my crooked streets be in vain

I am overjoyed for this review; thank you Claudia Moss

I am this river,

The thing I cannot see.