Tag Archives: ancestor

Healing Sisters:

My sisters write healings’ til there is only sacred breath, she heals as writes, she heals as she plays, she heals as she prays, she heals as she chants, she heals as she sings, she heals as she dances through the words she speaks, of former wounds and making of these wounds “beauty for mapping”.

 Sifting and shifting higher worthiness, all the ways of her own. In worthiness, she is worthy to be blessed, and worthy to bless others. 

She is worthy of love. Worthy of loving herself, worthy of her own imperfections. Worthy of holding the high watch of her own peace. Worthy of sacred space & sacred ritual. Worthy to be forgiven & worthy to forgive.


 In that of what we are healing-art transformed, for some of us, the most brutal and teeth cutting existence through the fluidity of colorless liquid of miracles, flowing out of our bodies, blood like water, to watch our souls pounding in cadence, “oh’ how, we must sing the Lord’s song in a strange land”~ your poet Krissy Mosley ©2022

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Poem: My Life, My Love , My All

Poet Krissy Mosley

She is a black gypsy
her law is love
it is the fruit of her lips
and when she gives
she gives out of her belly
ancient waters – running(s)
of wisdom from purgatory
of lost soul- she loves to find
binding the ashes together
binding the smoke and flame
shadows of all shades
shadows of days – in lonely
shadows of nights – in longing
shadows of scratching and surviving
and when she gives the trees bow at her offerings
the sky breathe(s) – fresh winds in her direction
seedlings jump into germination
conjuring up the power of connection
the power of affection
the power – a simple touch
to heal lost souls like mine

~ Krissy Mosley

Painting the Sky with Poets: #NaPoWriMo Day 24

Photo by Devon Rockola on Pexels.com

In April I become as soft as rain 

trusting the distance in landing 

if every day was Sunday then I’d

paint the sky with the poets 

awaken, Amiri Baraka, and give us your chisel edge stroke “Who blew up America” 

awake, Gil Scott Heron, sideleaf brush as common folk “Living in the Bottle”

awaken, Phillis Wheatley, a fine stroke of transparency 

 “remember christan, Negroes Black as Cain

 May be refin’d and join th’angelic train”

awake, awake, get up  Mary Oliver “tell me what it is, 

you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

oh I could go on & live in sky-meetings  as words themselves,

 where the dead poets paint my world brand 



my sky would run -red with love 

as love is.. 

Poet Krissy Mosley

Rise up My Soul :

The heart of a book, is something whispered over and over again until you can’t help but to  pen-to-heart . I believe the mystical -magic is in the wonder. Will the words come? How the pages fly? 

Unfold like the bones of old shaken souls. Ignite the power, the soul of my pen.  Maybe for the next generation. Maybe comfort for the moment.

Empty out this soulish cry. In tears, in hope, in gratitude. These are the words that chose me.  Whispers that creep..

Followed by: moan-full prayers drifting. Salt-full beginnings, 

watch the darkness flee,~ Kindness sister Krissy