Dear clutter, it’s been swell. Living underneath the piles of flimsy wash-cloths and moldy shelves.
I’ve tried, and you’ve lied, about the mess nobody makes.It takes courage to thoroughly clean,
Beneath basements and baseboards.
Look what we’ve become!
Shabby and raggedy,always nagging bout the times when you was as fine as oatmeal.
Please.
I’m not asking.Still my space..
My tears are no ordinary waters.
It was here, my gut rose to take its place.Its gonna be alright.
My life, is gonna be alright.Have a small bite,
These rainy cycles of loving me.All because I indulged in dark cherry, brownies …
Wait never mind the calories…
Got down in the bottom of skillet,
feeling good…
She was not just a pretty orange to peel.Her vitamin c, drove back the mucus of icicles.
Hacking deeply like rusty faucets,
sputtering brown,
then yellow ,almost pasty clear.
She would not quit, come too far in the snow.
Open the oceans wide and you’ll find me.
In the arms of hope,
I’m finding my way to life….
She picked and scratched her edges.Her uterus burst forth in hunger.
By default she gravitated toward evil and worshipped,
in meal,in song,in suffering.
Trying to hold crazy together.
Her crooked places made her stumbled in
Amen,Amen Amen.
Her Halleluiah, swallowed vigorously the evil she had married in her head,
sinner and saint.
Amen.Amen.Amen
She would be driven out in bullet holes,HIV,and over grown-fur coats.
Trying to hold crazy together.
Amen.Amen.Amen
Run.Run.
Run with your Amen
Trying to hold crazy together…
I write to keep my rhythm and string.Sometimes Its all I have, while life abandon’s me.Centering all my ticks and tocks.Cultivating these itchy thoughts. A healthy word a day keep the demons at bay. Regenerating word-cells ; if it were not for writing I would be alone.
Poet:Krissy Mosley
She took her mind out for a short walk.Along the way,the left brain said to the right.
“They divided us and now we must work together!”
The shadows we boxed ,longing for stillness.Fragmented cavities of uncertainty.
Turning onto Cherry street; ant piles shaped the X sign on the sidewalk.
Little dirty children we use to be.Her spirit whistled like the wind.Her body found new land with skin and algae.Under holy waters she bathed daily.
Erupted tides of new beginnings.
Poet Krissy Mosley
This time when I grow up.I do it right.With no hashtags,scratches toward the back.When I grow up,I’ll see the moon souls’.When I grow up in this world,I’ll start over at hundred and four. Smile at little more.Cry a little harder.Scream a little louder,venturing in and out of sleep.
Poet:Krissy Mosley
Walking this path to share a common suffering,
that only the living know.
My feet found the puddles and I did not dance.
My eyes saw the rivers that I had not cross,
and no one can measure the beauty in letting go.
In step and stride, in the swampy holes ,
Out numbered by the trees.
They teach me to stand.
Without the arms that use to hold me
Stand,
Without a signal nor light
stay here
on this path,that you find,
right.
-Krissy Mosley
It was more than a sickness.
It was more than love,
more than,
fear and faith;
it was more than a date.
This thing and I;
more than still-toed shoes
dancing good bye.
God and I,
became lovers,
became joy,
became sweet buttermilk coffee
together without exasperation.
More than a swimmers smile
more than death, more than life,
I am a conqueror,
this God and I.
Poet: Krissy Mosley
Judah’s Birth
Men say, giving birth is a beautiful thing…
I agreed silently until my turn came.
Laying flat on a table.
exposed, vulnerable,
anticipating the cry of a newborn.
Nightfall – raining, pouring, down on the windows.
my body traveling through multiple changes
10 centimeters deep Dilating…
Sounds of medical staff in the distance.
I could hear doctors say to get her prep right away.
What was wrong?
Having my baby too soon.
Underdeveloped lungs, bad prenatal care, transferred from here to there.
Throwing up my bowels.
Eight months three weeks
Bleeding internally.
“Count to ten”, said the doctor,
placing the oxygen mask over my face.
Reflecting,
making peace with the soul maker.
I thought I was eating right; working so hard to keep my status of medical care and salary.
Going to school did I mention working.
The daily stress of being a wife, friend, keeping up w/ the status of my foes.
Pursuing my dreams.
listening to crowds, testify ,suck it up girl, don’t quit,
Legs and arms were swollen from being on my feet, consuming too much salt.
A prizefighter black eyes, white lips
I gave birth on the emergency table,
cutting my baby, out of me…
The nurse leaned, she said, “its all your fault you know”.
Day three up on my side.
Wheeled around to NICU, observing my daughter, fight for her life.
Three pounds 13 ounces tubes everywhere.
Staring at her frail body, watching her bones breathe under the hot light.
Crying and praying asking for forgiveness.
Telling God I didn’t know.
Pumping milk for a baby who couldn’t suck for several days.
I named her Judah.
Poet Krissy Mosley
Krissy Mosley Ministries 