Monthly Archives: July 2016

Sun in Love

new day Sat 004

At the knee, I often speak.

For the sake of time – I name skies upon my bed.

Aurora, Little Bear-

Drifting my prayers upon highest loft.

Shall I ask for help?

Shall I ask for more?


Tiny lights romancing together. Laying their burdens down-

Laying their burdens down.

Mama weaving, her broom’s made of straw.

Mama bringing in the sheep,

Just to hear another man preach.

She believed the Most-High, ought to be a woman.

Then we might all get a little sleep.




I write the dreams of my elders.

I write the songs of sweepers.

I write the melody of gatekeepers

I write the mothering spirit of branches,

hueing maple sapp with bark and sugar.

I write of the distance traveled long before earth.

I write of wings sown in prayer and navigating me.

I write of the mountains dancing in my belly.

I write rythms of oceans.

Afterall Poetry is treasured earth.




A little Gift


growing Anna Uriah and jUDAH 049

She sat on us – dressing our skins with a bountiful awaiting.

She gave us – aloe’s bitter mist.

Her dew is full and refreshing.

I never saw clouds fall, quite like heavy burdens exploding.

I ‘ve seen the sky carrying her young.

I’ve stepped through teary, boughs rejoicing.

I no longer pray on my knees .

I’ve given them a rest.




One More Day

She heaves  hymns – someday they might sing.

Thine hands have anointed waters, that I might be healed.

Over jagged edges of all the living.

Loving me- preserved by grace.

O’ come now- look upon these feeble knees;

search our hearts lest we agree.

Thine mercy  covers all of me.

Thine hands have anointed waters, that I might be healed.

Over murky tears,

Over murky stains,

Sweet communion – preserved by grace.

Poet Krissy Mosley- VisionarieKindness©2016

I’ll be back


It’s opening my wild nostrils.

It’s taking in the sun.

She showers us –

that I might hear,

that I might see-

Seven thousand cords,

shaking hands with trees

nourishing the very essence of my being.

Surely, there’s no need for bread.

No need for pens.

Let my heart lend her canvas,

while my spirit supplies the ink.

I’m on the journey-

riding the waves of peace…







over seas

In sleep – wild as meadow’s grass.

Soft as lavender and rosemary.

I turn tablets, one by one-

spellbound and enchanted.

The voices, behooved me read- on

swallowing whole verses

thundering quietly,

Striking, rivers in my belly.

Add to your virtue love

Add to love, kindness

Add to kindness, forgiveness

“for in patience possess ye, your soul.”





When I Look at me.


painting-frank-morrison (21)



If could remember, my hands are webbed for speed

and my spine flexible.

If could press down in the earth and accept all that is me.

Then I would know from whence I came.

Golden emeralds carved my skins.

Love breathe light in.

And -when the morning woke up – I was made.

When night kisses me, I fly.

And when sweet roses tickle my bones- I laugh.

After all- I am something dark and beautiful.

(google image- created by frank Morrison)




On the bridge  at midpoint,

My vibrations are awakening receptors;

I thought I was lost, between the concrete.

I thought I missed my exit.

I thought it was too late.

But all I had to do was,

Give in –

I give into happiness and let it take me.

I give into my childhood wings and fly.

I give into peace.

I give into joy .

Now that we have arrived, midnight has two sons.

I can see the shadows guiding me

through the tombs of sorrow’s past.

And I won’t stop to check the time.

Hurry chile, cut asunder each blistering bone.

Hurry now,  day breaks.

Through thine, eyes might we see,  how to dream,

How to be.






Good Times


I think that a song moves back the waves,

while I comb the rivers of love.

Parted over in the east yester- years and we forgive.

I think that a song, brings me to my lavender -cedar memories and I moan, lon-ng

and I moan lon-ng.

A bridge though  made of energy.

I think that a song, brings me -salted fire and I smoke it

holding my lungs in place.

I think that a song is more than spiritual notes- rather my fluid,

I am the song in the east,

I am the song of a river’s love.

I am the song of songs – time I start singing to me….

In Waters Unknown

Night calls – I am ready,

Weariless feet, seated under me.

Charging mountains, magnetic waterfalls, all

these illusions filtering.

Living in sleep,

paralyzed and praying,

drifting on waves I cannot drink.

Night calls , I become – soul

giving off heat, laying on hands- traveling in bodies

pouring milk into breast, pouring out rivers,

New life-kissing atoms, in utero,

Adding sand to the sea,

And I laying down to rest.