Dear Great Spirit,
I don’t take it lightly this thing called living.
So many I know are not happy.
So many suffer from the slightest offense.
Looking at the memories
I’m Truly thankful to be alive.
Thankful for this voice.
Thankful for once more day.
Thankful for the visions to come
I’m not done & not dead yet books in the making..
(poetry open mic Photo by Asadah Kirkland Chicago Visionary Soulful Bookfair)
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
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…
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 again
Poetry by Krissy Mosley here is the recorded audio version enjoy
Krissy Mosley Ministries 