"Black Girl in a Snowstorm," A Poetry Post

Before there were black parties or white parties or
Black or White Parties or
Tea Parties,
there was a Black girl in a
snowstorm and
she was the
All Black Everything.

She was your momma
walking a block over to the
bus stop,
falling off the curb into a
snow drift
on her way to a
minimum wage
long day.

She was your sister
sweating in goose down
with too many heavy books
pulling her center of gravity
into the pavement buried
under waist high powder.

She was covered in snow
before there were crackheads or
cokeheads or
pushers,
snuggling up next to a
warm-blooded
workhorse of a man who
helped her believe that
living under a leaking tin roof could
be okay.

She hacked down the Christmas tree
with a hatchet and
drug it in,
even when there was nothing
to go under.

She made
crock pot chili
for the boys
so they could
bear the cold.

Now, where is your All Black Everything?

She refuses to cook.

She refuses to
get her hands dirty.

She believes that
walking
is beneath her.

She refuses to
pick up a
book
for
any
reason.

She refuses to
stand by a
wilting man
when he
needs her
most.

She don't want to
work
at all.

She don't understand
snow,
that sometimes in life,
things will ice over,
and you will find yourself,
catching the bus,
or walking long blocks,
or sleeping unsteadily,
or living unsatisfactorily.

She don't know what
falling off the curb
can do to a
woman working
minimum wage.

She is
so
saddity.

We snowstorm women
must
remind her of her
hard won heritage and
saturate her in
ice water
before the snows
blow in.

If not,
she will die
in the streets.

-T. D. James-Moss

"A Few Words on Aging," A Poetry Post

Are you kidding?
I don't want to go
back to the
good ole days!

Back to
asking myself a
bunch of questions I
knew the answer to but
had to deny in
order to be my
dumb self?

Back to
wondering if I was
good enough to be
somebody's half in-
stead of one whole?

Back to
standing in mirrors
measuring my
proportions to see if I
am
36-25-36?

I find that I ain't never gone have a
problem being
27-27-37,
and
going back to being
18
ain't gone make me
no wiser,
no brighter,
no happier,
no healthier,
no more peaceful and
no more enlightened.

God, no.
Bring on the 30s.

If time removes the dumbness,
bring on the time.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Orange Juice," A Poetry Post

A soda is a made thing.

It’s body is not grown;

it is forced to exist by the

introduction of a poison.

The carbon dioxide hides itself

until you crack the bottle top and

then: FIZZ!

The liquid swells itself up into

something moderately satisfying.

It takes up more room

in your mouth because of

something artificial,

a pumping in of extra air that has

nothing to do with

quality refreshment or nourishment.

It is the air you cannot breathe,

the C-O-2,

that comes bursting out of your drink

and into your atmosphere,

sounding appealing while

poisoning you inside and out.

It is nothing at all like orange juice.

The orange is a created thing.

We have tried to recreate it by

changing seeds in complicated chemical processes but

it is an orange and it

grows from the stem of an

orange tree,

whose roots must be sprouted from a

divine seed.

You cannot make orange juice better by

adding things.

If you pour in a poison,

the flavor will change.

If you drop in foreign colors,

the very name of the drink becomes

irrelevant.

If you bottle it up and

attempt to stretch it

beyond its natural usefulness,

the juice will still die,

and rot,

and go bitter,

like us Christians do because

we—the Christian and the orange—are created things.

Why have we attempted to

grow ourselves up in the way that

modern science swells a coke?

The poison of pride does nothing

to truly beautify us.

It only provides a

temporary bodied taste that

fizzles out when the covers of our lives are

pulled away.

Why do we engage ourselves in poisonous

places and activities to

feel fuller?

Do we not yet understand that if we

put on pretty outer wrappers and

advertise substance,

that will not change the poisonous

outcome?

Behold! A Christian is not like soda at all!

It is we who have been called to

abide upon His Great Tree!

There is no way to circumvent the process.

God will plant the seed,

and there will be seasons and seasons and seasons.

Sometimes He will send a grower to cover you about,

to save you from the cold,

before you even know what you are!

Sometimes He will send a minister of His word to

ensure that you are fertile ground,

before you even know the thing that

God is going to grow!

Sometimes God himself will come down

with the pruning shears,

and cut away the outgrowths that you thought would need…

the weeds of insecurity and doubt and

other made, artificial things that we fruits wrongly

boast about.

Even so,

there must be seeding, planting,

sprouting, pruning,

growing, rain,

ice and heat and

preparation,

before the tree can bear the leaves that

will support the orange that is more like you and me.

And even after there’s an orange,

there is a paradigm shift where the orange is detached from the tree,

and graded by quality,

and checked for maturity,

and prepared for the great squeeze!

All of this is so before the refreshment,

before the presence of the pungent and sweet

nectar we meet in a glass of

orange juice.

Sure; soda is easier to make and maintain.

It is cheaper.

It is predictable.

It is uniform.

It is popular.

It costs us almost nothing to

concoct and bottle,

market and buy the

made up stuff.  

But God knows that our prayer is to be

the juice.

Only then will we come into our healing qualities.

Only then will we be nourishing and truly sweet in our

spheres of influence.

Only then can we truly be

accurate expressions of

who God is in the Earth.

Only then

can we be

glorious.

-T. D. James-Moss

"A Few Words for Ukraine," A Poetry Post

I've never seen your ports or airports.
I've never walked your streets.
I've never met your residents and would
never hear you speak if not for
world renowned contests where
sportsmen
represent their home, Ukraine,
so freely.

Yet you've found me!

Who are you, so deft and faithful?
How did you know I exist?
Did you find that we are knit together by
events that
I could
never know we share?

Is it my musings about hair?
Or is it my beliefs on kids,
or things I did that seem
so opposite?

What is the thread that
holds this seam together?

And how is the weather
in Ukraine? Is it
freezing there?

Does the 37 that I cringe in
make you smile?

Surely, we--Ukraine and I--have
somewhat more to say to
one another.

Because you are my reader,
what shall I write
for you?

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Housewife's Dilemma," A Poetry Post

I could get up.
I could get up or
I could sleep late since it's
only 8 a.m.

I took the kid to school and
the husband's gone to work so
I could get up and
wash clothes or
I could sleep a bit.

I could workout some.
I could hit the treadmill and do
thirty on the elliptical or
I can wash my hair so that when
he comes home,
I'll be fresh and pretty but
it's just too early.

I could look for work.
I could look for work but it has
got to fit my childcare schedule.

Childcare schedule.

I have
sort of
let my wardrobe
die.

If someone hires me I
might look dowdy.

I would.

I could look for clothes but
I don't know; the budget's
sort of tight.

Tight.

God I used to feel
so much more taut but
being home has made me
soft and fluffy.

Like the laundry.

When I dress up for outings
I'm a fox! A fox!
How come I don't know that in
the mornings?

I feel like an old frau!
An old frau with a
closet full of burlap
frocks!

What has HAPPENED TO ME?

And why am I so worked up
so early?
It's Monday!

Maybe I should read.
Reading takes the edge off things.
One thing I know is
this chick's life is
way more screwed than mine so,
hmm. A housewife is lucky,
isn't she?

Isn't she?

-T. D. James-Moss

"Straight and Luscious," A Poetry Post

Seems to me
that the
next time I want to
wear my hair
straight and luscious,
I might as well
braid down my
nappy, wooly hair and
fasten it under a
wig cap.

Cause the wig don't perm,
and my scalp
won't burn,
and my ends
won't split
and I get to keep my money.

I can buy the wig
once
and buy a
head to sit it on.

When I roll it,
the rollers won't come
poppin' off on pillows.

When I wrap it,
it might stay in place.

When I wash it,
I can really
squeeze out the water.

And then in the summer when the
sun is up high,
I can loose my plaits
and wear my natural waves,
which are more like
tightly screwed naps
than those ones that flow the
straight way.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Staying at Home," A Poetry Post

Staying at home makes you
smile differently when
your man walks through
the door.

Something in you knows that
if he don't work,
you don't eat.

Something in you knows,
that if he don't come home,
ain't no food
in the freezer.

Something in your attitude
changes,
when you know he gets up
every day
to keep the lights on.

You feel inspired
to vacuum.

You feel more excited
about dishes.

You fluff pillows,
and comb your hair
specially
every day.

You spray your perfume
in the air.

Seems like
we should be able to
reproduce that appreciation
out of a work week
of our own.

But we can't love like women
and hustle like men
at once.

We can fake 'em together,
but they naturally
don't grow
together.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Sandy," A Poetry Post

You know how to
break a people's
spirit and
bring out their
basal instincts.

It is not enough for
us to be poor and
cold and
hungry.

We must also be
dark and wet and
inconvenienced.

It is not enough for us to be
robbed and
killed and
unemployed.

We must also be
homeless and
hopeless and
confounded.

It is not enough for us to be
mocked and
restrained and
squeezed into this
broad scale ghetto.

We must also be competitive and
enraged and
corralled.

Sandy,
we had it bad
before you
got here.

How dare you
show up
without
invitation?

-T. D. James-Moss

"A Plan," A Poetry Post

All of us need a plan.

If you wanna be a rapper,
it's gone take more than a few lines on
loose leaf, wide-ruled
dollar store paper.

It's gone take more than a posse of
underprivileged friends.

It's gone take more than
walking a beat and running drugs for
the neighborhood "businessman."

You gone have to learn music and
music software and
music production and
legal requirements
just like everybody else,
because all of us need a plan.

If you wanna be a dancer,
it's gone take more than you
waiting in a line all day in
California
to get picked for a
60-second spot sliding down a
pole.

You need more than a stolen credit card
and a one-way ticket to a
city of dreams.

You gone have to learn dance and
how far to go and how far you
shouldn't go just like everybody else.

It ain't gone be enough to
copy gals that done been to dance school
and dress half naked cause we
all need a plan.

If you wanna be rich,
it's gone take more than waking up
everyday in your momma's house and
waiting for her to fix you breakfast while you
check your Facebook account.

You gone have to think original thoughts and
produce original products and
learn about patent laws just like
the rest of us cause everybody gotta have a plan.

And if your plan is to marry somebody rich and
live your life in the lap of luxury,
you'll soon find out that
ain't no plan
at all.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Ghetto Girls," A Poetry Post

Them girls on Real Housewives of Atlanta ain't no ghetto girls.

Ghetto girls don't run around town in
thousand-dollar shoes
slapping each other upside the head
over some man they
both slept with.

Ghetto girls don't hook up with
celebrities to
get themselves on
television.

Ghetto girls don't
buy hundred-dollar weaves and
accessorize them with
tackily oversized hats and
costume-like
earrings.

Ghetto girls wash they panties in the sink and
hang em up in the bathroom.

Ghetto girls be trying to get they own daddy attention.

Ghetto girls know how to cover up
just enough of the floor so they
don't catch the draft
while they sleep.

Ghetto girls know the days of the store sales,
and they know which Puerto Rican store
got the best candy.

They done stood in front of a
open stove to get
warm.

They done hung clothes on the line.

They'll beat a man before they bow to him.

And best of all,
they don't parade themselves all over the place
claiming to be the baddest,
because they know that acting like that
will get your bag snatched and your
back whacked.

Stop making us look bad in TV shows and
music videos and
talking about us in songs like
we have identity issues.

We start small and get big like
everybody else.

And often times,
we do it quietly.

You wouldn't even know me
if you saw me.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Labels," A Poetry Post

In some schools there are labels.

The students who have special needs are
clearance meats.
They are cheaper to educate due to
government subsidies.
Schooling them is a
profit-loss endeavor,
and it is done
(almost solely)
to avoid department waste.

We place them in the clearance section and
stamp them "reduced value,"
hoping that someone will
take them off our hands if the
dates and notations
precede the point of
"total loss."

During reviews,
we face them red side out,
hiding the decay and gray resulting from
days and days of neglect.

The students who can't read are
endcap specialties.
Their weaknesses are paraded before the public as
bargaining chips to draw in
unwitting investors,
who will later find specialties
just as branded
in the center aisle.

The student-parents and dropouts are daily specials
allowed to replenish themselves in
a never-ending supply to advertise for
sympathy from charitable eyes.

And the bright kids are the bread and butter,
products so esteemed that
any price could be required and the
backers would pay, and pay, and pay:
pay for their preserves, pay for their big cheese,
pay for their concentrates, pay for their cream.

Gangbangers and drug dealers? No longer inventoried,
but moved for disposal, left to ride out their shelf-life in the
back.

Prostitutes and bullies? High carb starches.
Not recommended, but hardly discouraged.

Athletes and artists? Grains.
Served more often.

Teachers?
Trash.

And anybody not labeled?
Well, we'll figure that out
next quarter.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Pretty Girls" a Poetry Post

They don't ask survivors to compete in
beauty contests.

Not the women who were cut and sewn,
raped and beaten,
abused and restrained,
destroyed.

You won't find a
scarred, sun-burned vixen
running for
Ms. America.

There are no trophies for
former prostitutes.

Nobody writes songs for
the collateral damage of war,
those who are
one limb or breast short,
their appendages given
to protect their children.

Vogue doesn't print pics of the
swolle controllers of whole
households, villages.

These pretty girls don't get seen,
and they don't give a damn.

They are too busy praising their gods for
live and breath and
little remnants of wealth.

They do not subscribe to
fashion mags.

They enjoy their rags,
whatever the brand,
with or without the love of a man,
and they do the best they can.

When people judge them in ignorance,
they don't give a damn.

This is what a woman is.
She adjusts to life's curves as she lives.
She shakes, but she endures.
She is beautiful.

Look at her.
She has the audacity to be seen
in public.

-T. D. James-Moss

"A Message to My Son," A Poetry Post

Young son,
for centuries
men would do
anything
to get their children
educated.

Men would sit down in
clay and
draw out sundials to
teach their children
time.

Men would sketch out
logograms and abstract lines for
alphabets to
teach their children
reason.

They would slave in mud and straw to
teach their children
constructs.

They would give their lives to
teach their children
faith.

Innocent men would
stand before judges and
be hanged to
teach their children
dignity
in the face of
inequality.

Wretched men would
give up their freedom to
steal bread in order to
teach their children
responsibility
in the face of
desperation.

Wicked men would
verbally and physically
abuse their working servants to
teach their children
brutality in the
interest of
promoting market success.

And I son am no different,
being a woman.

I must be as hard, as stalwart,
as dignified, as desperate,
as responsible, as restrained,
as wise and as wily
in this life
for both of us.

I must give all that I have
to get you
educated.

And I cannot apologize for that.
Not.
Ever.

-T.D. James-Moss

"The Graduate," A Poetry Post

When you closed my school you told us money was the reason,

but worth became the people’s conversation.

The stigma that you pinned to me went with me when you

rezoned.

The teachers saw my records and

assumed that I would need

remediation.

My favorite teacher’s reputation died.

My friends and I were suspected of gang activity.

My prom date went to school up in the North.

My study group? Split up in three directions.

I had to catch three buses.

My mother had to give me a house key.

And when I graduated,

I wasn’t sure which school to represent,

so I created in my mind the kind of place where we could

coexist and

feel like nobody

lost

anything.

But I did,

and we did,

and you did.

We all lost something.

"The Teacher," A Poetry Post

I wanted to teach your kid to read, but I had a benchmark test to give.
I knew he couldn't pass the test because he couldn't read it.
I wanted to teach your kid to read, but I had test prep. reqs to meet.
I knew he wouldn't use the skills; his mind could not conceive them since I
couldn't teach your kid to read.

The school is gauged by test scores. 
And if he doesn't minimally pass we all might
lose our jobs so
we are slaves to primitive needs.

If I take the time to make him better,
I'll be scored poorly on my assessment,
and I'll never be able to teach
again.

"No Offense Intended," A Poetry Post

I mean you no offense.
I just don't like you.

I don't like how you
spew your negativity into my
holy space.

I don't like how you
carve out pieces of
discontent in
every golden moment.

I hate the way you kill off
every bit of joy a group can
experience.

When you call me I don't
answer the phone.

I know it's you.

I smile when I see you to
avoid animosity,
because I like peace.

I pray that my brightness isn't
snuffed out by your
burning bitterness.

I used to paint love on your
embers.

I remember lathering you in grace.

And now,
I cannot be a ladle for you.

Look and see.
My pot is empty.

I am smiling now
because there was a time
I had no pot.

I don't need you around
reminding me that
my pot is old and rusted.

No offense intended.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Night Shift," A Poetry Post

My husband works the night shift.

Sometimes when I come in we
pass each other and
smile.

Sometimes we don't.

Last week I
left the car running,
so
when he came bursting from the apartment
he could jump in and
pull away.

We barely said hello or
goodbye.

My husband works the night shift.
Our son is eight.

When he goes to bed his
father is gone. When he wakes up his
father has just gotten home.

He hears his daddy snore in the afternoons.

He watches me scramble to get breakfast
done
at
6:30 in the morning.

He asks me,
"Mommy? Are you done already"
because he's into cooking.

He wonders if
his father will wake up and
take him to the mall before
8.

After 8,
daddy goes nowhere,
but to work.

And me,
I'm just asleep
most of the time.

And that's what it means to be
an American.

"Love," A Poetry Post

A bag of Little Debbie's mini donuts.
Purchased.

A single serving removed.

Consumption.
Time.

A single donut more.
Another.
Time.

A third single donut.
Milk.
Consumption.
Time.

A second serving.
Last bite.
Consumption.
Time.

Milk.
Time.
Reflection.

Consumption.
Consumption.
Consumption.

Weight.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Dese Kids," A Poetry Post

Dese kids ain interested in yo fairytales.

You ain gone tell dese kids dat
college gone make dim
any betta off dan
goin home an
helpin raise dey
momma's kids.

Ain nobody gone
tell dem dat
time heals
all wouns.

Ain nobody got
enough time to
make dese kids believe dat
books an frienships gone
make some kina difference
in dey lives.

If you want dey attention,
you tell dese kids dat
dey can truss you,
dat dey can truss you wit the worl
dey carry on dey shouldas.

Let dem put dey
burden down on yo
mahogoney des.

Show em how to
shift dat weight.

Demonstrate,
cuz dese kids ain tryin to hear
NOTHIN
from NOBODY
who AIN HAT TA CARRY
SOMETHING HEAVIER
DAN DEMSELVES!

-T.D. James-Moss

"Deep Things," A Poetry Post

Don't write me deep things about
love and loss and
disappointments.

Give it to me straight.

Say that you spent long nights
crying about
things that
didn't matter
two nights
later.

Say that you almost got a
divorce.

Say that you spent all of
your money on
race horses.

Say that you drove your mother
insane with your
constant dissembling.

Say that you were a louse of all lice,
that you stole,
that you broke hearts,
that you hated,
that you loved the wrong way,
that you were a mess.

Say that.

Say that I can screw up all those things and still
be
somebody.

Remind me that I am human.

-T.D. James-Moss