Krissy Mosley Ministries

The evening and the morning, are one and the same-

beckoning my loins to pray.

And yet a little while – our bodies exude a mist of metaphysical liberation

with limits because we have forgotten our tongues, uttering the essence of being.

My knees are wrapped in the riverbeds in the east

stroked by lightning, caressed by thunder, the angel passes by

I’m encouraged to believe these storms aren’t man-made.

The old men on corners, the children refused to play.

And yet for a little while, I beseech the one who made the skies.

The one who transforms rain to fire.

The one who gives inspiration.

The one who plants cellular bones in the womb.

The one who knows the seven wonders of the earth.

It’s the only one who listens when I pray….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She had moved in- reconnecting endings, like shadows following us.

Rising, to make amends, telling of her memoirs-

thoughts of he, thoughts of she,

Never losing the weight -she sacrificed her dreams.

Mothering -to make the lights turn on.

Mothering, to keep that heat- singe every fiery demon within.

Mothering our names,

Mothering our pelvic rhythms,

Mothering my veins,

Mothering my wings that one day I might overstand the outcomes.

My people gave the earth it’s dirt, my people are like you

wanting to survive –

wanting life as privilege,

wanting to taste goodness, like galaxies

wanting joy like religion,

wanting love, like sweet Serengeti,

wanting their freedoms like you….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In all things, art is like tender wounds. Only a few will heal.

Earnestly shedding the light that darkness yields.

We touched the starry skies less we sleep.

We harness the passions of our dreams.

We surrender multitudes – uneased mysteries.

We ride the banks that our forefathers,

trapped our burdens, through the blood.

And we surrender, this thunder between the skies.

Therefore, our eyes run clear,

our knees sweat, our bodies transcends a common pain.

As we pray –  on the mountain in my soul,

We touched the starry skies less we sleep.

 

On the knees of Sunday’s hem.

To trim away fat and grief.

I come, not because of Jesus,

not because of poverty’s righteous view.

Nor because broken window seals -while the dust settles through.

Not to be born again, and die of royalties -peculiar few.

On the knees of Sunday’s hem.

A praying mantis lifts her tentacles in tune.

For love’s bearing seed. Seated far above earthly cares.

To satisfy these wooden bellies.  For I have come to witness,

the birds dropping dew. I have come to pray like lovers do.

Yes, I have to come to eat the bread and the wine.

I have come to stow away.

My mother’s fears, for the sake of time.

 

 

 

 

Take my body to the farm.

I’ll lay my wounds on the ground.

Encapsulate my tears in honey.

Let the oxygen reach, nano cells of my brain.

Revive the laughter of my soul.

Revive the hope of growing old.

Revive the rivers flowing in my belly.

Revive the tongues of my trees.

Revive my spirit.

Revive my eyes that I might see.

Revive my heart’s former dreams.

Revive the latter rain in me.

Revive the years from whence I came.

Revive each connective hymns – let me sing.

Revive my cartilage in my knees.

Revive my copper cowbells – let me pray.

Revive all of me.

Let me shutter, the elder’s branches,

Let us be crystals made of fine wines,

Let us feel the power,

Breathing through the vines.

 

 

 

At the knee, I often speak.

For the sake of time – I name skies upon my bed.

Aurora, Little Bear-

Drifting my prayers upon highest loft.

Shall I ask for help?

Shall I ask for more?

 

Tiny lights romancing together. Laying their burdens down-

Laying their burdens down.

Mama weaving, her broom’s made of straw.

Mama bringing in the sheep,

Just to hear another man preach.

She believed the Most-High, ought to be a woman.

Then we might all get a little sleep.

 

I write the dreams of my elders.

I write the songs of sweepers.

I write the melody of gatekeepers

I write the mothering spirit of branches,

hueing maple sapp with bark and sugar.

I write of the distance traveled long before earth.

I write of wings sown in prayer and navigating me.

I write of the mountains dancing in my belly.

I write rythms of oceans.

Afterall Poetry is treasured earth.

 

 

 

 

She sat on us – dressing our skins with a bountiful awaiting.

She gave us – aloe’s bitter mist.

Her dew is full and refreshing.

I never saw clouds fall, quite like heavy burdens exploding.

I ‘ve seen the sky carrying her young.

I’ve stepped through teary, boughs rejoicing.

I no longer pray on my knees .

I’ve given them a rest.

 

 

 

She heaves  hymns – someday they might sing.

Thine hands have anointed waters, that I might be healed.

Over jagged edges of all the living.

Loving me- preserved by grace.

O’ come now- look upon these feeble knees;

search our hearts lest we agree.

Thine mercy  covers all of me.

Thine hands have anointed waters, that I might be healed.

Over murky tears,

Over murky stains,

Sweet communion – preserved by grace.

Poet Krissy Mosley- VisionarieKindness©2016

It’s opening my wild nostrils.

It’s taking in the sun.

She showers us –

that I might hear,

that I might see-

Seven thousand cords,

shaking hands with trees

nourishing the very essence of my being.

Surely, there’s no need for bread.

No need for pens.

Let my heart lend her canvas,

while my spirit supplies the ink.

I’m on the journey-

riding the waves of peace…