"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