Hope is
but a mere
faithful
friend
-
Hope is
but a mere
faithful
friend
-
Morning Breeze
brings me
Happiness
I have taken a small blogging break. It feels good in this space. Still loving life and dancing to the wind.I’m not quite sure when I’ll blog daily. After-all the wind is magical landing in my ear. Whispering to me write,dance and sing, This is me, doing my weekly Poetry…(all rights reserved2015)
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Ode my spirit
strumming
chimer -ing straws of memories
I was called here
bumming rides on-wombs of mercy
Ode spirit – shivering greatness -in birth
Ham-bone and grinning
Junes’ Snow
Blueberry oak
Expanding in Milk and Honey
Ode spirit,
I’ve come…
I’ve come, home.
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Sanity -Night,
Hog-weeds are much taller in late-spring.
Miles of untapered
Normality-falling into
shard-glass.
Hearts-pumping in misery
Watching the sun and moon hold hands
pressing breast to breast -ironsmithing, effervescent
breathing…
Fabric-wrapping Emerald’s
Violet kisses through subway tracks,
stretching printed patterns that make each girl,
Rich,
giggling in spoons of love.
In this poem I give my abstract attempt of bridge in love…So as I saw the moon and I saw the sun too I say “well now these two gift me such a delightful treat…and that’s when the words came..
Today’s prompt (optional, as always). Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about bridges. A bridge is a powerful metaphor, and when you start looking for bridges in poems, you find them everywhere. Your poem could be about a real bridge or an imaginary or ideal bridge. It could be one you cross every day, or one that simply seems to stand for something larger – for the idea of connection or distance, for the idea of movement and travel and new horizons.
Happy writing!
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Horizontally stretched in opposite direction
A runner’s stance – orchestrated
to go the distance.
Measuring her (stride)full -breath
each vibrating tentacles
evoking the wind
There are earthquakes, of explosions in all directions
no isolated acts in tragedie
each mother’s child
Just a step in way of bombing blows of9’11
Just a gunshot away of Walter Scott
Run with me-
Her elbows are rubbed in hope’s grease
her heart pumping in endurance
and though darkness has comes
She has no legs to run
her eyes glare at the finish
her strength arose from the rims of despair
Running to a
that place where hurt shall be no more
Running to the trees touch that sky
running for her freedom
running because I count too!
Running for my life
Running,
laying,- aside my fears
Running. to grow my trees,
again…
This poem is inspired by: Oklahoma Bombings, Events9’11 and the current tragedy in “Nepal”
http://kfor.com/2015/04/26/thousands-of-oklahomans-gearing-up-for-oklahoma-city-memorial-marathon/
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If I look for yesterday, I won’t ever find him.
Certainly not while the sun has gathered her children.
If I thought about tomorrow,
I’d be paralysed looking out my rearview.
I thought about traveling. I’d go to Venus, I’m not sure why.
Rambling on, I must.
Mother, she has a way that moves me .
Just how do evergreens stay so true?
Just how are the flurries flying in April?
I am fond of the animals that eat their skin course,
I never want to meet them.
This Poem makes no sense
but it feels good to vent.
I had some issues with my blog site So you won’t find day 21 for Napowrimo, I have changed themes still trying to find a theme that works for me(free is good) Nevertheless all is well. Hey things happen. I’ve gotta make the best of it and laugh real hard… Feeling Alive ,happiness is all…Much love to all the writers/Poets/ and bloggers in WordPress…
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In my dreams, I am a star.
Awaken to a service.
without bread.
Maybe I’ll outlive them all.
written in honor of Landays Poetry, I tried….
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Our spirits groan deep within.
Yearning for each mountain to climb.
A subtle gaze to look upon,
ancient-land.
The wooden staff ,
healing-breeze
For when the mountain calls you- go
Go-home to the “burning tree”
and listen closely,
the mountain speaks.
-
Since these words don’t come out right
may it be, the language of the dead
outloud I have said
To be brave is my therapy
the daunting chance –
losing it all,
Worth every spence
Since it is
I who must
answer the final-call
Krissy Mosley Ministries 