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Generations Raising Themselves:

I’m more myself now than I ever was.
When I look in the mirror. I don’t see the sad eyed-girl with low self-esteem. Or the abandonment of my mother. To have a second husband and leave us. That was her choice.

To leave her kids with their grandmother during their teenage years. (Never -mind my dead father).

As I bent down to tie my shoe. I let my mind wander back, to that girl, I used to be. On the floor of grandma’s corner house, faced down into the carpet. Hands over my face. I’m barely breathing. Tears falling out the sides.

My brother and his friends are teasing me for wearing the same winter hat.  Day in, day out I wore that hat. It was starting to be really hot. I still hadn’t put a comb to my hair. Let alone, look at that hot mess sitting on my head. So I did, what I thought most 13-year-olds do when no ones looking. I stuck a wool hat on my head and kept it moving. Until those boys snatched it off.

Then all that shame, all that matted-down nappy-shame ran over me. My younger cousin walked in the middle of my disgrace. In the middle of their full on the enjoyment of sheer bullying. She covered me with her love. Being all grown, at six years old. She wiped my tears. Pulled my body off the floor.

I made it. Past their scrutiny, past their foul words. Past the reget of not knowing how to take care of myself.

We’d become best friends that day. She too needed a mother. I cooked her meals, walked her to school. She introduced me to an old school beautician in our neighborhood. The rest is history
God is good like that.~your kindness sister Krissy Mosley

Something God made while laughing:

Thought I’d slink back into the 3rd grade without a hitch of having to look over my shoulder at Christopher Jones. Or Kwanna Brown. You see I’m not your typical wanna-be, 3rd grader with all her ducks in a row. Art is was my thing and still is my thing. Accept I can’t draw or paint or doddle. That didn’t matter much, seeing I’m an artist, with all the heart and soul of an artist. All the making of what an artist should be.

Drafted somewhere in the pain of 3rd grade staring me down on the blue and white lines. Blobs and blobs of something and a prick of blood in the middle where I’d once stuck myself with left handed scissors. My pop-up monster didn’t glow. Or have fangs or six strange eyes. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was human or maybe it was me.

I had it etched in my brain that art was supposed to be beautiful. It was supposed to be mysterious on the journey of the greater, unimaginable that God like thing. Maybe becoming apart of the big blue sky, of the dreary clouds so heavy, on the pulse of rage and pollution. Drooping with the possibilities of footsteps.

The kind droplets that etch in deep in the brain,

sounds of God laughing, walking on water. Stepping out of heaven for a quick moment to lift up a little girl or a dying world, to feel wanted like art and accepted like something God made while laughing. ~kindness sister Krissy

Singing Bowls of Me:

singing bowl image pixabay.com

My life is a singing bowl

levitating over the song in my head

sometimes I simmer on repeat

sometimes -nimble, sometimes I catch the light

having conversations with my darkness

sometimes beautiful things, sometimes I just be there

bathing, dripping in the goodness

My life too is a singing bowl ~kindness sister Krissy

Pieces of My Tears

Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

in my private moment of stolen grief

by public views of what appears

to be a happier version of me

what appears in blink of thunder and flash

to protect brokenness as leaky puddles

of someday when change comes

someday when the world is full stupid some-days

we can’t be tired of being sick and tired too long

because too many of us are dying under the burden of grief

head stones that roll away love in private pastures, shouting to the pieces of the soul that fly. Stay a little longer and let me be human with holes in the middle of my flesh and wounds that remember the safety in the someday when we go home where love is~kindness sister Krissy

Drive Through Worship

I attended a drive through service

not like the fried chicken joint on the corner

or the liquor store that’s never

close. This worship, broken, by parked cars in cramp

parked spaces. Horns tutted, as tambourines.

the shocks on our SUV’s are gone. Reverberating

communion, the preacher dressed in gladness

through the madness of a pandemic

we joined car to car to worship

under the sunshine, under the decaying cross

dripping with mortals singing.

Three block away from where I live

in nature we drive away

having received God in our cars.

kindness sister Krissy

Finding Morning

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Hello, Morning its been a while since

you and I sat down -to share a hug or a smile.

these days don’t come easy, there’s been lots of soul-washing -feelings,

feels like latter rain of latter days

cloud gatherings that tell me how God dips my coffee-made soul deep down in honey

then I’m not alone and the bees are there to pollinate my tears into honeycombs

that tells me all my fears have drawn to the surface something that’s always been eroding

and finally when there’s nothing left to save

my soul and I find morning

kindness sister

One Hundred and Twenty Versions Of My Come Back Stance :

Photo by David Bares on Pexels.com

I knew I still had some come back left in me,

I wanna be off the radar doing good

so good for the first time in a long time my socks match

with the those pink and green toes in the morning

doing so good, I’d wake up satisfied in

my own black coffee- they’d be singing folktales to me

hold my smile in the middle of adversity

braid my hair in milk and honey

with a splash of turmeric and cardamom

because there’s nothing better than that

golden life flowing, down on the inside

being the best of me

reaching for the rest of me

…~kindness sister