She holds my hand
She corrects my posture
“Sit up chile,” her lips swayed but didn’t speak
Walked round past hurtful things- open wounds
We’d shared our prayers, prostrated our worth
Tenaciously watering down myths bout my kind
She made her tonics bustling hope
Tell her why my skin does fly,
Lifted above rims of pain.
Jolted, and squeezed,
thus wrangled glass,
I’d sing beating my cow drums with my thumbs.
Heaving low and high,
The cicadas on Cicero,
Blackbirds,
Caged birds,
Little birds like me
Scanting,
Let the dew catch her blade of grass.
Watch the wind whirls her summer’s haze
Tell my sister,
She knows why I sing.
Down on my knees,
I’d get in my spirit,
tending to my wounds.
Touching quarry -deep.
Tapping rain excavating debris,
Down on my knees, there is a word
that speaks beyond what I can see,
There is a faith in me,
There is a gentle resting place,
It has always been,
As I take time,
Down on my knees again….
image by: http://www.lovethispic.com/image/49752/morning-coffee
I’ve touched mechanical parts of my soul.
I’ve touched rock watching these waters leap over me,
I’ve touched joy knowing,
I’m stronger than I realize
Bout time
I pray with water in my hands
just in case-
Bout time I see
a future designed
congruent with me.
So you can have my father’s plantation
you can have watch night,
my house coat and every measure of fabricated cotton.
Bout time, I’d be moving on
The reservoir of our souls
the land of joyous keeping.
A place where I belong.
A simple flowing stream,
A calming force.
Breathing out every stress of life,
Breathing in beauty to thrive.
It may be hidden in the deepest
thoughts of prayer and surrender.
It may await us in the deepest levels of knowing who we are,
Or rest just above naval mines.
Maybe in the gutters of Skid Row,
Straddling opposite directions facing the rust belt.
Where we once saw factory workers, sweatshops, and church-goers,
drinking against the Hudson River.
Proving love is still the answer,
withstanding that we don’t agree.
Love is time
Love is the wound
Love is fire
Love is old
Love is deeper than any depth searching over and over
Love is dream
Love is prayer
Love is master
Love is slave
Love is….
Our insides are just the same.
Nakedly disclosing our earthen-burdens
webbed of suffering, and morning joy
O’ that we may live,
like the roots that we are,
ring by ring but we are the stories.
Nakedly, we count raindrop’s golden dust.
Ode to our inner bark, that our hearts would heave
abundance…
That’s what caused the
cool whispering leaves to chill,
dah-ta, ooh ee
right beside me,
cuddling my toes,
right as I’d stood still.
I captured this image yesterday on the playground with my little one…
Krissy Mosley Ministries 