The purpose of falling wonders under hollow world’s like this one.
Tailoring lightening in our hands, as the world, will breathe on you.
Wisdom gills’ are open.

Then the indescribable knowing,
pain has tied its’ shoes to the knees of suffering.
The calling of our names proved that we belong under the falling lights.

Here in the crowning of mornings’ she takes her rest.
In this knowing, we are more than merely surviving, more than the songs we have feathered. Over the tears that march down streets. Burning strength to go on.

So go on,
Chant with the winds that rush. Spread out and part the waters on both sides. Crossover into this knowing, the purpose of falling wonder,

that you are the miracle in waiting, you are the necessary element, you are bone, you are light, you are befalling, wonder in this knowing.

Falling flat on our faces was never a part of our story.
We knew it now, the more gentle we were strolling down
unpaved roads that only we could pave.

Our hands made in the evening- springs, lurking between the half light and half- nighted skies. Our lips firmly planted, but our feet, would pick up the river and move it, wherever there was turmoil or the weeping for freedom.
We’d picked up the river and lay it down undoing, the doings, as we sought out more of the river, more affection for our bodies.

And we could regenerate change, as the river would move along the coast of our limbs, wellness was always within our reach.

Picking up the river has a call,
has a knowing
has a touch
Has a picking up and laying it down.
Undoing the doings wherever there was bereavement,
wherever the weeds grew even mortar and bricks could not refuse

The river’s urgent run
Could not refuse, the best part of the river,
could not hold the waters too long or else you’d be a part of it.

How goes the dreams
of dreamers on the wheels?
Soaking suffering till it oozes.

Cooling by the streams.
And the slightest fainting,
in the scuffle, masquerading
on the dime.

Priming pumps,
Puncturing steam, on and on
Out of time.

Gnats that will not leave,
So you fit and fight,
winds that are not there.

So you stare, and you worry
over needs over hurried.
Lancing luck, on the dime.
Masquerading, battlefields,
You thought you won but did not last.

Come to yourself
Take a long, long look.

And you will see,
Blessings in the streams.

Our songs are filled with contextual transcripts.
Moving upon algorithms,
Centering, rivers of kindred-night.
Lovers tasting love for the first time.

With such passionate flow
And since love began gushing,
For the first time, we knew
Love sweetened

Where the rivers are young
Fools are too

Where the rivers are calling
Love reached tipping-wells

Where nights of kindred rivers
Gushing with savoring meat

For the first time – our hearts
Walked out to meet to her.

google image- Kurt Jackson

Poetry Krissy Mosley

Somewhere deep inside, I release the invisible me. 
Somewhere deep inside, I start to believe –
Somewhere deep inside my light/ dark soul.
Somewhere past the train tracks.
Somewhere in Mississippi- burning.
Somewhere beyond the great spirits

Somewhere deep inside,
Somewhere around the tables of time
Somewhere underneath the world winds

Somewhere way down in sleep
Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning
Somewhere past gravity’s hold
Somewhere deep inside my frazzled strings
Somewhere, inside me

Poem From my ebook “Seventh Fire ” by Krissy Mosley 2016

free google image

Tell me, has it been so long?
When we knew, we would never die
Brought back by the river’s call.
Bit by bit- bowed high
But never without the sky.

Going on the miles we left behind.
Savoring but for one moment,
Just to open wide, celesta blues

This is, what life is
This is, how we live
By the river’s call

Has it been so long
We are strangers, appearing
Singing the lord’s song

Tell me now, how has it been?
Since my last confession,
Each depth of freedom shears
Living but for one moment

By the river,
Lingering miles, but never without the sky
Surely we would never die

To the girl going on fourteen
They’ll say you can’t
Put on your left shoes
Write with your left hand.

But it was never them, just us
That I should dare to be anything

I’ll use scissors to cut away- pretending
those howling polls

March while they are fasting
Stay awake but watch them sleep
In your veins, don’t push more blood
But fire- thrashing upon the floors

The ocean will come, the mountains will clap its hands
They’ll say you can’t
But it was never them, just us

Sitting alongside the young Journey River,
Our heads cleanly-shaven,
We have given our glory to the waters.
Our tears are old and gray.

Temporarily blinded by this need for eternity.
Their bodily perfume runs along its banks.
Taken away with Rosehips and Hibiscus,

We have come once more to cross.
We come for the elders who desire to go home in the middle of the Journey.
For the babies born in the high tides while we sit.
Grooming prayers made in river-soot,
Laughing with moaning visions
The end is not yet.

Perhaps I’ve told my life dreams for the zillionth time.
Sinking further into something I know nothing about.
The sulfur in my mouth,
The stillness thumping in third shift
The metal particles, I find glimmering,
I scratch deeper in sleep, and it feels like
They have brought the rapture to my bed.
And I do not know who they are

What is left, how tired the train squeals over the tracks
The smell darkness for the first time and it is holy
Yes the elders have come to walk their planks
The dead will minister to us, and we will still fall into hands
Of shepherds in wolves clothing.
Know it not that I am something rare and wonderful.

Poetry Krissy Mosley