We have not hills, to lay our bodies down.
Where the sweet meadow grass will meet.

We are gridlock into stagnant, narrow city streets
Where the devil’s work in white chalk lines under zip codes of purgatory.

Every hand to hand, proportions to eat.
Catch a bus, catch a case, catch a plea
Should you escape you’ll turn another corner.

Where the red-fern blood runs through and propositions at will…
Will you sell your soul for a dollar a smile?
This devil we know, these corners we know.

They carry bodies
in white chalk lines.

Corners for sale,
Corners that are forgotten
Unless we should capture
This devil and start all over again

Poetry by Krissy Mosley here is the recorded audio version enjoy

 

 

Not everyone likes taking the family photo. There’s usually one or more. However, I’ve learned a great deal with photos they capture moments and moods of many faces. Whether good or bad. Indifferent or sad. We’d come gathering all our emotions on the stage. It may not have been the best of times, yet we’ll remember this one. In love, when some of us are so very young. Some were tired and ready for the day to be done. Some not so sure what to be, even the in-betweens are okay.

image family photo by Margaret Mitchell

It’s a cold October day the temperatures finally cascade into the mid-forties. At 7:25 am in my view the brown leaves scatter along the pavement and the cold wind has found a gentle resting place on our faces.  Maybe my place of residence spills deeply in absence of satisfaction. The cumbering roads and missing lights. Street corners and bodegas are quiet for now.

Yet there is a taste for hope. It would be soft and wise to feel hope once more. Surely Hope is salt in the wounds, where we the wicked have crippled ourselves. Surely Hope would bleed the towers of darkness. Surely hope to shelter the pain in our lives that fall like flesh. And hope sharp as a knife. Cooling safe passage, surely hope will strengthen us.