But, then she decided to

discover the thing she had hiding away,

From the world’s ridicule,

Tarnished,wrapped in memories hands,

It was her spirit,

It was her time,

To let herself out

Poetry Krissy Mosley) Free google image)

Love pulls on light; two eyes are made one,
Her temporal lobes sounding

To remember heaven’s fragrance
The colors of her people in jasper,
Such delicate handmade frost

Moving reams,
Light pulls on love, upon this dance
And she listens to the microscopic quivering prayers,
And she listens to salt savoring oceans
Inside empty cupboards, the dead are there

Anticipating her second-coming,
The waters’ of heaven, must roar
The waters’ of heaven, must stoke fires ajar

She must love me,
Listening

Let the universe lend her ears to my knees,
Let not my crooked streets be in vain,
Let our song carry us in the heat.

Carry rock.
Carry on.
Carry children.

Carry our wilderness.
Carry Wasteland.
Carry me.

So if you ask me why I pray.
What more shall I do
But carry it, on my knees.
By a thousand marigolds that do not toil.
Tread lightly,
Overwhelmed , Over-coiled

Burned in my right palm
A sensuous bleeding

To be born
To weep
To groom
To love

Let the universe lend her ears to my knees
Let not my crooked streets be in vain

I am overjoyed for this review; thank you Claudia Moss

I am this river,

The thing I cannot see.

She holds my hand

She corrects my posture

“Sit up chile,” her lips swayed but didn’t speak

Walked round past hurtful things- open wounds

We’d shared our prayers, prostrated our worth

Tenaciously watering down myths bout my kind

She made her tonics bustling hope

Tell her why my skin does fly,

Lifted above rims of pain.

Jolted, and squeezed,

thus wrangled glass,

I’d sing beating my cow drums with my thumbs.

Heaving low and high,

The cicadas on Cicero,

Blackbirds,

Caged birds,

Little birds like me

Scanting,

Let the dew catch her blade of grass.

Watch the wind whirls her summer’s haze

Tell my sister,

She knows why I sing.

Down on my knees,

I’d get in my spirit,

tending to my wounds.

Touching quarry -deep.

Tapping rain excavating debris,

Down on my knees, there is a word

that speaks beyond what I can see,

There is a faith in me,

There is a gentle resting place,

It has always been,

As I take time,

Down on my knees again….

image by: http://www.lovethispic.com/image/49752/morning-coffee

I’ve touched mechanical parts of my soul.

I’ve touched rock watching these waters leap over me,

I’ve touched joy knowing,

I’m stronger than I realize

Bout time

I pray with water in my hands

just in case-

Bout time I see

a future designed

congruent with me.

So you can have my father’s plantation

you can have watch night,

my house coat and every measure of  fabricated cotton.

Bout time, I’d be moving on