Monthly Archives: April 2013

A Mother’s Ego

I bought the victim home,

then began cooking abuse on the stove.


chopped up pieces of ignorance and defeat;

mixed heavily in a pot and feed it to me.

Full of self hatred  and pride,

it would take more ingredients for me to die.

Brewing in the her belly was evil and chide

 topped off and steamed with suicide .

Debating whether or not I could kill the ego

roasting in the oven.

Apologies spewed onto the floor ;

my children fully grown now,

to greet me.

Fear,low self esteem, self doubt

seated at the table awaited a feast.

The beast, I had prepared.

My shadows of the past showed up as dinner guest;

dark skinned, negro; poor class, short, single -parent home,

religious mother praying, bike riding in the rain.

This is my past ,haunting and scolding,

my inner enemy.


Poet Krissy Mosley


Judah’s Birth

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.


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.

God be praised we made it…   

Poet Krissy Mosley

A Motherhood’s Terrorism

A  Motherhood’s Terrorism

completely annihilated from all children,

screaming with disappointment, and fear.

Threats from men, shocked many wombs,

religious thoughts of vengeance and justice.

Smashed together like bread and cheese.

The young woman strapped her back  loaded homemade bombs.

The preacher she became overnight.

Freeing the minds of women alike dancing and praying to Allah

Her resistance grew from servant-hood;

lacking the qualities of her ancestors.

She boldly stood overlooking her future of all woman-kind.

The blood cycle,

the battle of nurturer flipped onto its’ head,

going to work instead!

Becoming Susie homemaker !

A cake baker ,

husband’s personal crap taker!

She quietly said, I quit.

Poet Krissy Mosley

Mother on the Ledge

She stopped to tie her shoe while cleaning up the broken home.

Bent up with rage and exhaustion.

The young mother still in her nightgown.

Her three children all fast asleep

thoughts gathered like a “New England storm”.

There was no turning back .

Silent with tears streaming the end was near ,

all she had to do was jump.

Throw yourself into your purpose,

leap into your destiny!

Let go of all the dead passion.

Drive hard

swim underwater ,

run fast,

lift up your saggy breast.

Put on your best fashion.

Move out of the dark

pack up all the hatred,

its time for peace!!!

Poet Krissy Mosley


Dear failure, of the past and future,

I thank you now.

There would be no success without you.

I commend you failure.

The darkness has challenge the essence of my soul

the makeup of what is to really live free.

The timely-ness and awkward sweats of dis-ease

buds once again the motive of my creativity .

Questioning what it means to just be me.

Sickness that can stick to the bones and kill the weak.

My hat is off and bowing low in humility.

I say to the new and growing me,

stay strong write,

no matter what tell the story

Poet Kristina Mosley