And now picking up our knees,
We sing til daylight,
Comes for us…
Dear kindness I kinda get the feeling that,
Mama Earth wanted all the kids to go inside,
don’t come back until we all know how to be kind
and show compassion to one another~ Kindness sister Krissy
Someday we will look back and say, Mama Earth taught us, some things and made us better humans.
Dear God seems like the whole world’s- up and went to the hospital..
and those that are alone, with cellphones and text -still perplexed
“dismayed afraid of the cough “‘
a spiff, or a wrong whistle
You made the flea and the ocean’
the spec of moon dust and the hurricane
paired each sky with its’ own perfected rainbow
and so as we stay in the boat
it might be 40 days and 40 nights
it might be the wilderness or red sea
but God send
back the dove – or the sparrow
with green olive branches
in her beak,
I still believe
you watch over me…
There is a surrender under pain.
It flows gently like water.
From the cusp of shoulders to the bed of ruddy nails.
Things -forgotten. Things we left unsaid.
Made in sparkling white folds and deep dark trimmings.
Its’ grace of the morning.
Grace that comes soflty and calling,
grace that leads me home
kindness sister Krissy
Poetry has become my home and my owning the darkness has shown me the light. ~kindness sister Krissy
Re-imagining myself as a writer, by grace, I am alive. Writing the script of my life -sifting through warm, dark, soil. Tending to the lumps that shape pages, where I’ve been, where I’m headed, how I’m still changing.
On the morning of discover,
I am the afro-haired girl
with friends of freedom,
we are soulmates,
in good company, we are miracles of change,
aggrandized gold, sprouting through the cracks
bountiful seedlings, dancing across the Alantic,
arising, gas-lighting stars bursting with higher thinking
bursting outside, with ladders of forgiveness.
kindness is our resource,
love is, its native power
hope is our brother
wisdom is our Mother
riding on the wings of the Cardinal
IN memory of The Poem, sung By Billie Holiday “Strange Fruit”
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swingin’ in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin’ from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulgin’ eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burnin’ flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop
In the beginning, of the long dark, frosty night. I stood watching the angelic clouds, beautiful angels hold gatherings-surroundings of the same dark city. Deeper and deeper- angels brought us safely across bridges and stoic mountains holding our dark past within its grooves.
We over came the hatred of ourselves. The hatred of our skin’s- bitter fruit. Strange things, “scented Magnolias sweet and fresh” the eyes of the south, the burning of the mouth and “blood at the root.” Hold out your tongue, chile,’ don’t cut it out.
The soul of black bodies, the soul of white folk, marching,
“Jim crow” behind us,
all the while,
the cross before us.
and we made it,
some places, we bore the heat of the chain,
some bore slavery at its shame, and we made it,
somebodies’ son, somebodies daughter, “swinging on the poplar trees”,
the road are swollen, some, no road at all.
Still, we made it
and all the while, there were “splinters, tacks and boards torn-up”.
We never stop, we never sat down.
and now, my dear chile’, with the road before us, we’ll hold on,
we” hold on chile’.
kindness sister Krissy Mosley
In the south, way-way back in the woods stood my old -home-church. A small off-white building. Where I learn to play the drums, direct the youth choir and for the life of me- I don’t know why, I do believe.
I would take off my Sunday shoes and race on that dusty- dirt road. Covered in dirt from the waist down. Felt like, I did, some of my best running back at that ole’ church.
I remember the hot sweaty air, accumulating down into my off white stockings. My off white stockings slipping pass my hips. My long piano fingers -pinching my waistline for dear life. All I wanted to do was win.
Kick my heels back, point my chin to the sky, taste sweet nothings’ in the breeze, close my eyes and feel like I’ve been running for miles, only to go fifteen meters toward the church steps.
Dust off my ruffled black skirt and walk up the stairs like the wind had been knocked out of me. All the while I could hear the joyous music of praise and jubilee.
in the morning, high above the air
clouds touching the endless hopes of glory
ours souls talk,
running out of words,
falling flat on our faces,
tender calling, oh’ to touch
the hem of his garment.
be made whole, in love
be made whole, in laughter,
be made whole, in grace,
be made whole, in wellness
be made whole, in age,
be made whole, in spirit
your kindness sister Krissy Mosley