Tag Archives: prose

Day 5 #Writing Myself Whole: aka How To Take A Reset

I guess I have this inner longing for a less complex lifestyle. One where I imagine a tiny-wood cabin, with a cozy fireplace. Surrounded by a beautiful green forest. And there, I share my company with the tiny forest animals whose humble abodes are God’s green earth.

Photo by TomTookIt on Pexels.com

As I open the doors of the tiny cabin, I can smell freshly chopped wood. A taste of sunshine in the air. Grounding myself in the crevices of contentment. I hear the songbirds playing their morning tunes. Tweaking, and geek-ing, in the ears of God. Lending my ear to their melody. I can feel a reset happening.

Listening to the symphony of nature all around me. East winds are gentle. Trees rustling, swaying softly. Relinquishing the need to buy the latest this or have the latest that. Putting the world far behind me.Un-wrapping timeless woes and cares over this and over that. I believe this is the place where freedom, does not draw blood from stone. Nor require anything of me.

Breathing in, I step inside God’s love
Breathing out, this is where I reset
Breathing in, my divine appointment is here
Breathing out, I am nourished I am restored

Poet Krissy 2022

Off the Shelf: Aka: Sometimes I Roam & Wonder:

Photo by Wendy van Zyl on Pexels.com

It feels as if I am a cork bottle, on the blue wide open sea. Good things floating all around me. Why is it? Am I not floating? I have no control on which way the wind blows or the course my life seems to be…

but I do appreciate calming tidal waves, bouncing, boisterous spiced aromas drifting.

There’s a longing, to never be alone, another to one to be found hiding. In arms of something called home, something called -ones’ own.

Virtuous finding,

kindness sister Krissy

Dear Writers’ Burnout:

Photo by Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels.com

Dear writers’ burnout, I’ve stepped lightly under your thumb. Ghastly, recording -jet-lag, blistered-sketched. Riding on fumes alone

alarming ping, the hum, the blow-

singed by the leak of my own.

Habitual crawling towards more white-paper,

the rugged red/table-legs of fire,

I no longer sit down- while oceans are bleeding

I no longer stroke black and white keys,

I no longer dig my heels into my wounds- so I let them…

I no longer key-up the engine

I can’t feel the motor-less hum

In that way, I play the frolicking multi colored peacock

feathering a pretentious prance.

In that way, I am a fool, foolishly

chewing up words/undigested at the red table

Come dine,

sit with me, til the smoke has cleared

and there will be words to write/mountains to climb

and there will be more…

I pray, that my hour of darkness does not cast her shadow

I pray, that you and I find a simple answer

I pray, your stay is not prolonged

In this note you’ll find your bags,

P.S. I’ve kept my pen.

kindness sister, Krissy

Personal Journey:


Hello, world, where the sun rises and falls against the backs of those in detention camps, where the mothers’ run to collect their children, catching tears, wrecking traps/wrecking balls of thunderous multitudes

oh the dream, the crashing and burned American Dream…

echoing, thirsty prayers to our people. prayers that run amuck, prayers that I thought, got to be stuck, at the bottom of “all God’s Children need shoes” Need : To be home, need to be wanted, need to be held by the tired arms’ of those who’ bleed on repetitive cycles – women, without the gag- women who would gladly bleed for their children,

women who’ve tasted grief, by the kiss of morning, swallowed by the beautiful dirt of the afternoon, where I met a South African’ woman she’d come to work with me but she’d had not a smile to wear. Said she didn’t remember how to properly put it on across the slash she’d call lips.

Said it wouldn’t be right after all the murderous-screams’ and still she couldn’t press out the stain of devastation in the hems and it seems- that kind of hatred. Dwarfs countries, I know this because in capitalism- I’ve heard my great grandfather’s stories about our own…

Old man Jack was a slave sent over on a Nigerian slave ship-  he too, endure the great and terrible passage, Old Man Jack was a man – the meanest of those who refuse to be broken, Said he was a man,  before the Americas’- and that his master could beat him all he wants, but after the great sun went down, Old Man Jack still refused to work.

And when his master died, Old man, Jack became free. He settled down in the mountains he married a Native  American(Blackfoot) woman, started drinking real-heavy like and froze to death in the snow. We’d soon move to El Paso, Del Rio, then on to Liberty and then onto San Antonio where my grandmother’s father, would orally pass down the story of Old Man Jack -the meanest man we know.

kindness sis. Krissy (original family photo ) 



Kindness Cafe:

I smiled at the cashier, she gave me Kombucha, Blueberry tea, it bubbles my on tongue. I’m sure I’ll have time to taste goodness. I picked the stool by the window, watching the train going by. The little cafe was so close to the tracks. I could feel the engine, rumbling, rolling along, in front of me.

In that second, I closed my eyes. To the aromas of the mid-day, vegan pea soup, crispy baked banana-bread. I could be on that train. The aim of landing nowhere. I’d be riding for days, counting Evergreens, counting little people. Counting baby birds. Counting eleven blue-moons on the horizon.

As I opened my eyes to the miniature squared- window. Once more, on the left side of the tiny cafe. A baby poodle marking his territory. People shaking hands, laughter spiraling. Fermented green-tea storming the air.

kindness has its worlds’ of flow.

Peeled honeycombs,

lairs and layers

zones, and quivers, cubic dimensions of honeycombs

the wax oozes into sweetness

free hugs for all, adventures in kindness

a craft of humility, mastered by humanity.

Meeting places, undefined

kindness sis Krissy