Featured post

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 regret 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


Ode To The Negro Girl In My Soul: Happy Women’s Month

Ode to the negro girl in my soul , I find it odd to say, you think,  too mightily of what we have become, if you thought lunch counters, and sit ins were a problem, imagine walking down universal generalizations, in grocery stores where A, still can’t point to B, and not feel  swallowed between, cookie cutter hopes, and aisles where residential change is daunting,

there are no Langston Hughes, of my day, who dare to write of bodies stolen from the Motherland, bodies that sing of Freedom, bodies buried before daylight, bodies that can’t hold -free, and when they do , it must be in the key of silent, just another altered variable of Y ,  dark girls, Y-copper sands, Y- dark- black holes and gravity, 

everyday I chant, everyday I speak in verse, make my Jesus a negro girl, like prayers as dreams of steel in my soul, make my song , smothered ancestors of conception, yearning seas of glass, break heavy with sorrow, break full bowls like red-tents, womb-embraced, no weightier thing, birthing, night, consolations of my own darkness, stars of darkened-golden-holy, full-to- overflowing, Ode to the Negro girl in my soul. your poet Krissy Mosley all rights reserved

💙THANKS TO ALL: who write, make art, & live….💙

To the blogs on WordPress that always inspire me , make laugh, give me virtual- hugs, 💙💙💙🤘🏾✨

Maren @ https://giftsinopenhands.wordpress.com/

Kym @ https://frombehindthepen.wordpress.com/

Michele Lee @ https://myinspiredlife.org/

Ellie @ https://elliethompson.uk/

TrE @ https://acorneredgurl.com/

Lori @ https://praypower4today.wordpress.com/

Stephanie @ https://serendippity.home.blog/

K.E. Garland @ https://kwoted.wordpress.com/

Grace @ https://graceofthesun.com/

Smile, Love & Give ( taking in the moments with laughter )

What would you do if you won the lottery?

I would love to travel. Create safe houses for women. I would love put my kids in better schools. Giving them the opportunities I didn’t have. Most of all, I’d give to grassroot organizations , reopen the library that is shut down in my neighborhood. I can see myself giving because, that’s what I do now.

I would love to think money is the answer. I know it can solve a lot of problems. However, on the real, what would I do? Winning the Lottery for me is much deeper one that is spiritual, i.e. enlightenment, long life, with good health, watch the children grow up with no #childhoodtrauma…. funny enough, I was in a playful mood this weekend. So I played the lotto, and won 4 dollars, ha! 🤣Winning the lottery is about living life. Having fun. I plan to do every bit of that! 😊🙌🏾🌻🤘🏾💙 (that’s me as a little girl)

P.S. everything I said, I’m working on. I don’t have to wait, I’m winning right now…. 💙

Sunday Nourishing Love: #Prayers, #Prayersforlove My heart goes out to the Family Tyre Nichols

the wellsprings of nourishing souls

their dwellings of inner sacredicity 

holy journeys, pieces of the one/ whole- 

being , where we began 

beginnings of the heart as grains of glass & sand 

collapsing into everything

everything and nothing is as it seems 

so much so, somethings good-bad

like chaos echoes  kindness in  humanity 

how can we live without harming ?

what does wisdom do now? 

how do i stop the screaming faces, so jarring?

o’ holy souls /verses in crowded interceding

praying for me to remember, 

don’t you remember lapping up the sun in your sleep, 

don’t you remember tracking the sound of the deep, 

the face of God, the breath of grace, breathing me in the morning, 

the alleluia chorus, 

and finally a place, 

where I belong. ~your Poet Krissy Mosley ©2022

by the author of A Poet’s Vision

Healing Sisters:

My sisters write healings’ til there is only sacred breath, she heals as writes, she heals as she plays, she heals as she prays, she heals as she chants, she heals as she sings, she heals as she dances through the words she speaks, of former wounds and making of these wounds “beauty for mapping”.

 Sifting and shifting higher worthiness, all the ways of her own. In worthiness, she is worthy to be blessed, and worthy to bless others. 

She is worthy of love. Worthy of loving herself, worthy of her own imperfections. Worthy of holding the high watch of her own peace. Worthy of sacred space & sacred ritual. Worthy to be forgiven & worthy to forgive.


 In that of what we are healing-art transformed, for some of us, the most brutal and teeth cutting existence through the fluidity of colorless liquid of miracles, flowing out of our bodies, blood like water, to watch our souls pounding in cadence, “oh’ how, we must sing the Lord’s song in a strange land”~ your poet Krissy Mosley ©2022

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Morning Practice: Prayer & Meditation

I pray one day,

 you wake to find you are person you dreamed of,

with a life fulfilled,

& a smile upon your face

~your poet Krissy Mosley

by the author of A Poet’s Vision
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

My Dream Home:

i give my dreams a home: a place, my dreams can feel loved, where my dreams can take off their shoes, at the end of a long day’s journey, 

i believe, my dreams love out loud, they love outside of me, my dreams have fireplaces all of their own, cozy up to their own kitchen tables, make themselves chamomile tea, in teacups of wooden carved-makings,

my dreams need lots of space to move around in, to be welcome, to feel safe in, to explore the world within me. 

i welcome my dreams/ my dreams live here, there’s a welcome mat at the front door, there’s chicken soup for those weary nights, you have to keep the lights burning, a warm bath to rest those old spines, 

 a bit of jazz and soft splashes of rain, and wind to nourish the shadow- soul, hints of cinnamon, and winter spices tiptoe lightly, beside the dreamer and her dreams,

across the window sill there are dream-pods,

with names of things she’s planting, 

each one, a new love, 

each one, a starry-night, 

blooming rainbows in their own timing, 

gently she says, 

carry fire, and let it be magnified, 

honestly/ unearth/ dreaming-sorrow, 

the ones she let die without watering, plucking and pruning. 

pour libation, give your dreams a song, 

a witnessed potential, feather -spirits, 

call the ancestors, give me remembrance.  all rights reserved Krissy Mosley©2022