If I 
let her go
If I start to trust myself
If Joy is for Living-
laughter is my soul
then-delay the clock
and rest a little while.
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As a twiny-girl
I said I didn’t need to pray.
Broken tail-lights
all the worlds afraid.
What a sight
to see with no eyes
and talk with handguns
it makes no sense,
and now,
all I do,
talking to the Sun…
No greater Gulf between hell and I
Perhaps the rupturing twilight
could speak
For I never saw a man with holes in both hands and still be alive
Betrayed for pennies of fear
Ah-that Christ must die
watching the dust
settle, under seeds that
refuse to do any thinking of growing
For I never saw a man on fire and not be turned to ash
weakened by devicely
pleasures,
the serpents’ crawl
bitten with just one kiss
I pray to understand
these wages of sin has given dollars of death that do not spend
Upheaving Justice, that suppose our souls, wern’t worth the saving!
Here I am -again,
if we can’t overcome
and we can’t ever overstand,
Then what’s a man gotta do to get a little water his thirst!
For I never saw a man whose only kingdom was the cross
Some men have it all, some are lost,
some earn their freedom, and others shout crucify ,crucify
For I never saw a man,forgive like this
Filtered and pushing into the dark abyss
Great drops of blood ,
if only this, cup could pass, then earth would shake with witnesses beyond the mass
No greater gulf between Hell and I
For I never saw a man with holes in both his hands and still be alive…
She wore her cotton purpled sash squares through each yard.
For I never saw a mother with such a discerning eye.
While the day withered from sunshine to bitter night.
For I never saw a mother feed the dead.
In her kitchen with each tool and recipe,
sweeping rounded pipes of potted meat
For I never saw a mother with such a piercing look
tumbling in and out of oven-soot.
Her humbled feet grounded by the gardens leaves,
just to sing a mumbled tune.
Ah- if that mother’s son could only breathe
For I never saw a mother feed the dead,
with such a discerning eye.
In Honor of National Poetry Month before -the writers Burst into writing with first sign of ink ,I thought of Alice Walker
by Alice Walker:
Never offer your heart
to someone who eats hearts
who finds heartmeat
delicious
but not rare
who sucks the juices
drop by drop
and bloody-chinned
grins
like a God.
Never offer your heart
to a heart gravy lover.
Your stewed, overseasoned
heart consumed
he will sop up your grief
with bread
and send it shuttling
from side to side
in his mouth
like bubblegum.
If you find yourself
in love
with a person
who eats hearts
these things
you must do.
Freeze your heart
immediately.
Let him—next time
he examines your chest—
find your heart cold
flinty and unappetizing.
Refrain from kissing
lest he in revenge
dampen the spark
in your soul.
Now,
sail away to Africa
where holy women
await you
on the shore—
long having practiced the art
of replacing hearts
with God and Song.
by Alice Walker
A thousand clouds
dance with fire
in tribes
of peace
Krissy Mosley Ministries 