Monthly Archives: July 2017



I’ll drink from the sun
and in her pavilion
I find sweet liquors.

To be born…
call it, laughter, call it, joy
call it hope, call it healing…~Krissy

image by my personal camera

Cracks In the Ceiling:


The sun was stubborn as a mule,
around-bout evening I’d say go down already
but it’ would lite, tisk, tisk and burn to the bone
then around-about morning the sun feel real good
like a cold drink melting-stubble right off my chin.

Cracks.. rip nine, Skyscrapers rising, fire hydrants, and secret driveways, over policing poverty… somebody’s daughter, somebody’s river, somebody’s mule

some bone, some dish, some -late, some fall prey… round-about summer’s dying…~Krissy Mosley photo image by



On Being Called:


When wisdom crieth into the streets, who should hear the voice of one, the voice of many, and still…. relentless in her call, her voice breaks it will fall beneath the diadem, a royal stain to hark and beckon and roll and plead…. in exchange… rounded broken fields for hearts…who should listen ?

my response to Creative talents unleashed Inspiration Facebook prompt:


Excerpt: Up Coming Novel :Churched Out


There is a door blue with yellow trim. Down in woods, where the tempest rave. The pollen is laden with glimmers of dust. Embedded in the middle of a hush-down, sits a little wooden church. Fervently stamped at the end of a dirt road. The Jasper floors are hearty – vibrating with birdlike arms leading the morning’s song. A small oasis easily replaced the tiresome-few in-jovial spirit. Moved by a higher benevolence to offer what little suffering they’d put aside.

A gentle heap of summer swept clean across Kankakee River. Broadening every heated stroke through stain glass. In the sanctuary, there are stilettos, platforms, sandals, flats and classic pumps.

What would the church be without its shoes? Succumbing to futile service -less creatures straddling between Pharaoh and the Red Sea, If only parting the waters brought Jesus of his cross.

Perhaps such perfection did not blind the sightless, willingly lead foes by the neck, rather it harped a pageantry of weary -doted believers far beyond the altar. A pair of pillar-doves protected the outer cusp of Magnolia Holiness. Deeper-knowing, that life was more about the green olive fruit than the twig itself.

Upon the balcony, the relics appeared unrivaled in view, The monarchy of virtue, methodology, and discipline.“A little slumber, a little sleep, folding of the hands,” tragedy did not destroy resourceful ordinary folks.

A temple born out of watch night.’. Sinners, grandmothers and children alike came for the slightest of affections. To be -well, prayed for, loved, welcomed and at the very least accepted. written by~Krissy Mosley

Excerpt from the upcoming Short Novel: “Churched Out” Photo Image by


I’ve waited… listening to the sky split itself into thunder like the emblem of a mighty nation…
A gentle melting – a thousand journeys’ of hurt- strike something like resurrection -lightning

The wait is not white picketed -waiting rooms or houses of Molden moth.
yet it is wanton through watery blues- prayers… and the song is the soul’s gate

Hand-me-down love in the need holding
Hand-me-down hope in trying
Hand-me-down a father for the sake of running home
Hand-me-down visions in the middle passage
Hand-me- down heavens of heavens -forward… breaking burdens like these~Krissy

Here is the audio version slightly different – many blessings