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Affectionately calling my soul’s shadow back to me, dearly beloved, the war of love, is not the battle of breads of those who have no crumbs,
but, the war of love is softly singing every note wrong, apologizing when you can’t hear the melody of justice,
the war of love, is softly sitting at the edge of life, showing up for that last ride on the merry go round, even when you know love may never make it home,
you pray love will carry love home, & you pray, that your love, will be enough… ~poet Krissy Mosley©2023
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My sound baths
are made in cherry chyme crystals
steep in the quiet
chapters of new beginnings
~your poet Krissy Mosley
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I’ve struggled to write this for quite a while. It’s probably why, in my dreams, something seems to take the power of my voice. So much so , I find myself, clenching my throat, clawing at the nape of my neck, finding my voice,
To be continued….
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at times i feel invisible an then i recognize the power of things not seen and move through the world in peace and stillness
she wrapped all the poems selected, rejected, neglected, hectic & suspected, neatly tucked them into her grandma’s off brown more tan now, with yellow faded lines, incased somewhere -spotty,
on a greyhound bus, out of time, south bound & somehow grandma’s doubled stuff , double dipped /fried chicken with red kidney gravy & biscuits & to this day no one knows the whole recipe
but my tongue remembers cornflakes, instead of flour, goat milk instead of buttermilk, smoked paprika, no eggs, hot sizzling left- over-grease, sitting a aluminum coffee- can,
grandma’s veins deeply warm, corn rolling-oats, hard like her father but her soul is soft like her mother.
~ your poet Krissy Mosley ©2022
Krissy Mosley Ministries 