While Paul Lawrence Dunbar
self-treated his
tuberculean symptoms
with alcoholism
instead of
bed rest,
the cure for tuberculosis
lurked
right around the corner.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, December 26, 2015
Thursday, December 24, 2015
"A Christmas Poem," A Poetry Post
'Twas the night before Christmas.
I sat down at my place with a
song in my heart and a
smile on my face.
The curry was eaten.
The fried rice was gone.
My husband, the Sickler,
still alive and at home.
My little boy, twelve,
in the front,
by the tree...
In the back, in the recliner,
sat little ole me.
Luke 1 had been read,
and we all understood that
through impossible means
we'd gained impossible good.
And two televisions were a-glowing
with a mixture of tales
featuring trite character struggles
and comical family fails.
A four foot tree sat
atop an end table
all covered in cards and little
gift bags galore.
Little boxes and knick knacks
and notebooks and textbooks
and magazines and Wii remotes
from great days before.
Not a credit card swiped
to increase family debts.
Not a big Christmas dinner
to waste on just three.
Just the lights and the stories,
the peace and rest,
the love and satisfaction
of my family and me.
The elders are gone who
upheld the traditions that
welcomed the neighborhoods
into our home.
And I admit, in the silence
I started to feel that
the loss of festivities
left me bereft and alone.
In the end, I remembered that
seasons had changed,
that my new family needed me
and must be maintained.
So I shored up my insecurities
and decided right then
to begin new traditions and
enjoy Christmas with them.
It's not about pies, and it's not about hams,
and it's not about cute cakes or jellies or jams.
This Christmas, let's remember
that whatever lies behind,
we must be whole, happy and holy
and keep Jesus in mind.
-T. D. James-Moss
I sat down at my place with a
song in my heart and a
smile on my face.
The curry was eaten.
The fried rice was gone.
My husband, the Sickler,
still alive and at home.
My little boy, twelve,
in the front,
by the tree...
In the back, in the recliner,
sat little ole me.
Luke 1 had been read,
and we all understood that
through impossible means
we'd gained impossible good.
And two televisions were a-glowing
with a mixture of tales
featuring trite character struggles
and comical family fails.
A four foot tree sat
atop an end table
all covered in cards and little
gift bags galore.
Little boxes and knick knacks
and notebooks and textbooks
and magazines and Wii remotes
from great days before.
Not a credit card swiped
to increase family debts.
Not a big Christmas dinner
to waste on just three.
Just the lights and the stories,
the peace and rest,
the love and satisfaction
of my family and me.
The elders are gone who
upheld the traditions that
welcomed the neighborhoods
into our home.
And I admit, in the silence
I started to feel that
the loss of festivities
left me bereft and alone.
In the end, I remembered that
seasons had changed,
that my new family needed me
and must be maintained.
So I shored up my insecurities
and decided right then
to begin new traditions and
enjoy Christmas with them.
It's not about pies, and it's not about hams,
and it's not about cute cakes or jellies or jams.
This Christmas, let's remember
that whatever lies behind,
we must be whole, happy and holy
and keep Jesus in mind.
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, December 21, 2015
"The Line," a Poetry Post
As a caretaker,
You're always looking for
The line.
How much good living is
Too much good living
Considering your love's
Circumstances.
How many happy dances
Should be danced,
Considering.
You learn to live with
The absence of certain
Romantic notions.
How many disappointments
Should be discussed,
Considering.
How many dreams
Should be pursued,
Considering.
How much
Should you laugh or
Cry,
Considering the
Direness of your love's
Situation.
How much of a
Break
Should you
Take?
How many
Hours
Should you sleep,
Considering that your
Love's been awake
All night,
Waiting to see your
Smiling face?
How long should you wait
To set new personal goals,
New family goals...
How long should you
Pray
Before accepting God's will
As done.
How long do you
Quietly hold your breath
To avoid upsetting the
Balance of your situation?
The line between
Life and
Death...
Where is the line?
Where is the line?
Where is the line?
Have I crossed it yet?
-T. D. James-Moss
You're always looking for
The line.
How much good living is
Too much good living
Considering your love's
Circumstances.
How many happy dances
Should be danced,
Considering.
You learn to live with
The absence of certain
Romantic notions.
How many disappointments
Should be discussed,
Considering.
How many dreams
Should be pursued,
Considering.
How much
Should you laugh or
Cry,
Considering the
Direness of your love's
Situation.
How much of a
Break
Should you
Take?
How many
Hours
Should you sleep,
Considering that your
Love's been awake
All night,
Waiting to see your
Smiling face?
How long should you wait
To set new personal goals,
New family goals...
How long should you
Pray
Before accepting God's will
As done.
How long do you
Quietly hold your breath
To avoid upsetting the
Balance of your situation?
The line between
Life and
Death...
Where is the line?
Where is the line?
Where is the line?
Have I crossed it yet?
-T. D. James-Moss
Sunday, December 20, 2015
"A Few Words About Girls for My Boy," a Poetry Post
My dear son,
as your body awakes,
every plump breast and
every round behind and
every pretty face will
make your soul ache
for a taste.
Let's talk about some
mistakes.
First, don't feel strange.
Like your dad says,
every man experiences this
awakening and the
early days are a race between
the lust and the maturity required
to choose the wise way.
Every boy your age is
equally assaulted,
equally distracted,
equally imbalanced,
even if he pretends to be
a savant.
I promise you,
he still thinks he wants what
you think you want,
or something similar.
But,
back to the mistakes
one might make
in your place.
Don't be disgraced by that
girl who's so fly that she
carries a compact mirror in her
purse to check her face
every five minutes.
We've been through this,
and we know that this sister feeds
on attention like a weed.
You'll never be able to meet her
gaze needs; it will take
one million men and
all of their eyes to
meet her quota.
Your two will never be enough,
and to her you will be a mixed breed
on a leash.
Let's talk about the pretty girl with her
goodies on display.
If you go after her,
you'll probably get some play,
but she's not looking for you.
She's looking for a dad to check her,
and you'll never be smart enough,
never be fine enough,
never be big enough in her mind to
meet that need.
Only God in time can
reign her in,
and you're likely to fall into sin
trying to win her.
I know that's upsetting.
Let's talk about the bright girl with
self-esteem issues.
You will be tempted to save her from her
depression.
She will divulge to you her
deepest insecurities and
open her World Book
to your sympathies.
But you cannot meet her needs.
You cannot be her psychiatrist
or her therapist;
and your love will never be enough,
never be enough,
never be enough.
When you feel excited by a
girl in whom your flesh delights,
remember your father and my's long nights.
Remember our hospital visits,
our disagreements,
our time with salves and bandages,
our sudden moves and times of peace.
When you're tempted to fall to lust,
think of me.
Since you're gonna be sick,
and you're gonna be broke,
just like you'll be well and
you'll be rich,
you'll need a permanent structure
in time who can
stick around through
all those seasons.
If you mess around and
pop out a few kids with
temporaries,
you'll miss your true rib.
And right now,
as much as your bodies say different,
ya'll are just kids.
There is time for sitting up late nights and
worrying over the telephone.
There is time for
sitting beside hospital beds.
There is time for
wiping tears.
For now,
let God build you up into a
holy house,
one that can withstand the storms of your day.
The storms will come son,
and when they come,
if you've got a female next to you,
you will want her to be
God's woman...
Not a teenage centerfold.
Not a video vixen.
Not a weeping willow.
A warrior.
I promise you child,
a warrior,
an Amazon,
an Esther,
a Deborah,
a woman who can
GET GOD'S ATTENTION
is required
in this life.
-T. D. James-Moss
as your body awakes,
every plump breast and
every round behind and
every pretty face will
make your soul ache
for a taste.
Let's talk about some
mistakes.
First, don't feel strange.
Like your dad says,
every man experiences this
awakening and the
early days are a race between
the lust and the maturity required
to choose the wise way.
Every boy your age is
equally assaulted,
equally distracted,
equally imbalanced,
even if he pretends to be
a savant.
I promise you,
he still thinks he wants what
you think you want,
or something similar.
But,
back to the mistakes
one might make
in your place.
Don't be disgraced by that
girl who's so fly that she
carries a compact mirror in her
purse to check her face
every five minutes.
We've been through this,
and we know that this sister feeds
on attention like a weed.
You'll never be able to meet her
gaze needs; it will take
one million men and
all of their eyes to
meet her quota.
Your two will never be enough,
and to her you will be a mixed breed
on a leash.
Let's talk about the pretty girl with her
goodies on display.
If you go after her,
you'll probably get some play,
but she's not looking for you.
She's looking for a dad to check her,
and you'll never be smart enough,
never be fine enough,
never be big enough in her mind to
meet that need.
Only God in time can
reign her in,
and you're likely to fall into sin
trying to win her.
I know that's upsetting.
Let's talk about the bright girl with
self-esteem issues.
You will be tempted to save her from her
depression.
She will divulge to you her
deepest insecurities and
open her World Book
to your sympathies.
But you cannot meet her needs.
You cannot be her psychiatrist
or her therapist;
and your love will never be enough,
never be enough,
never be enough.
When you feel excited by a
girl in whom your flesh delights,
remember your father and my's long nights.
Remember our hospital visits,
our disagreements,
our time with salves and bandages,
our sudden moves and times of peace.
When you're tempted to fall to lust,
think of me.
Since you're gonna be sick,
and you're gonna be broke,
just like you'll be well and
you'll be rich,
you'll need a permanent structure
in time who can
stick around through
all those seasons.
If you mess around and
pop out a few kids with
temporaries,
you'll miss your true rib.
And right now,
as much as your bodies say different,
ya'll are just kids.
There is time for sitting up late nights and
worrying over the telephone.
There is time for
sitting beside hospital beds.
There is time for
wiping tears.
For now,
let God build you up into a
holy house,
one that can withstand the storms of your day.
The storms will come son,
and when they come,
if you've got a female next to you,
you will want her to be
God's woman...
Not a teenage centerfold.
Not a video vixen.
Not a weeping willow.
A warrior.
I promise you child,
a warrior,
an Amazon,
an Esther,
a Deborah,
a woman who can
GET GOD'S ATTENTION
is required
in this life.
-T. D. James-Moss
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
"Overflow," A Poetry Post
The overflow prayer is a
Do we remember to
musical marvel,
a church-house staple,
a rich man's dream:
Dear God give me,
so much wealth,
so much power that the
banks of my life flow
over, over...
overwhelm me with the
blessing of your attention,
strike me down under
the weight of your outpouring,
sweep me out into the
undertow of your purpose.
Do we remember to
pray for the patience to
master the posture
required to survive it?
God, when you send the wave,
prepare me to ride it;
prepare me to uproot
every few breakers;
prepare me to flow by
lovers I want to keep and
help me to relinquish my
sense of stability.
Help me to be comfortable
surrounded by stormy chaos.
Teach me to tilt my head back and
breathe when I surface.
Help me not to eat my increase and
drown in self-indulgences.
Teach me how to swim in this hurricane.
Teach me peace in uncertainty and
trust for what I cannot know lies ahead.
Let me understand that
I prayed for heavy-handedness.
Let me see that when I am crushed in
cross currents,
that is all a part of my
overflow.
Let me know that when I am sputtering,
suffocating in the responsibility of your
glory,
that is all a part of my
overflow.
Let me feel your grace and your
mercy
enfolding me in my times of deep
ignorance.
Let me not say that I did not know that
overflow meant
lifted, dragged, spun, flung,
drawn, propelled, and
pulled along.
Let us pray that
God gives us the energy to
endure his overflow blessing.
Let us hope to
live long enough
to disburse it.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, October 17, 2015
"Child Support," A Poetry Post
Any time you force a man to
reach into his pocket and
put what he has into a tryst
in which he has no interest,
there will be violent bitterness and
rejection.
If he's declared what he will do,
and that entails him leaving you,
and leaving all with whom he has to do,
then what recourse is there?
He has made peace with the idea.
It does not matter that a year or two ago
there was some piece,
some semblance of a love affair.
It does not matter that
nine months or
ten years or
fifteen years ago there was a
product of his very loin and soul
introduced into our world.
If he has deemed it right to
withdraw himself, wholly,
from the responsibility of
maintaining his family,
you musn't then force
his support.
In love he may have been a breeze;
in hate that man will be a beast.
Do not believe the words of them who
chased and charged and chained their men by
standing in the courts of law
berating them.
The passion lasts only a while and
takes away your very smile.
Not only will it bruise your mind;
it will destroy the jewel,
the child.
If he has made his choice to go,
the process will be rough, I know,
but if you have to lose a limb,
it's best to cut it clean.
You can't go through life hanging on,
attempting to rethread the sinews of this muscle,
bandaging up the broken bone and
treading gingerly to avoid jostling your
detached member.
You musn't give a running wolf
the hand of your infant.
Close in your fences and be mended within.
Forget him and his existence.
Be free.
-T. D. James-Moss
reach into his pocket and
put what he has into a tryst
in which he has no interest,
there will be violent bitterness and
rejection.
If he's declared what he will do,
and that entails him leaving you,
and leaving all with whom he has to do,
then what recourse is there?
He has made peace with the idea.
It does not matter that a year or two ago
there was some piece,
some semblance of a love affair.
It does not matter that
nine months or
ten years or
fifteen years ago there was a
product of his very loin and soul
introduced into our world.
If he has deemed it right to
withdraw himself, wholly,
from the responsibility of
maintaining his family,
you musn't then force
his support.
In love he may have been a breeze;
in hate that man will be a beast.
Do not believe the words of them who
chased and charged and chained their men by
standing in the courts of law
berating them.
The passion lasts only a while and
takes away your very smile.
Not only will it bruise your mind;
it will destroy the jewel,
the child.
If he has made his choice to go,
the process will be rough, I know,
but if you have to lose a limb,
it's best to cut it clean.
You can't go through life hanging on,
attempting to rethread the sinews of this muscle,
bandaging up the broken bone and
treading gingerly to avoid jostling your
detached member.
You musn't give a running wolf
the hand of your infant.
Close in your fences and be mended within.
Forget him and his existence.
Be free.
-T. D. James-Moss
Sunday, October 11, 2015
"Rappers," A Poetry Post
My brothers,
you don't have to wear a dress or
stand before the prosecution or
peddle designer drugs to
spread your love of verse throughout the world.
There are messages that
you can write down and
spit through the mic
that will let you maintain your
integrity and identity.
You don't have to kiss your manager on stage.
You don't have to cuss out somebody's mama.
You don't have to let your
contracted producer
bring cameras into your house
and record the dark corners
of your private life.
You don't have to beef with strangers.
You don't have to make any compacts with
devils or demigods or demagogues,
or call yourself god to
rain down fresh manna from heaven.
If you have the gift,
the rhythm of your with-it-ness will
pervade the atmosphere of
every place you enter.
The beat will drop with
every footstep you take.
God will give you audiences and
microphones beyond what you could
ever dream.
It seems like, my sisters,
some certain persons have perpetrated the
untruth that
if you don't be found buying
thousands of dollars in sex toys or
laying down with dope boys or
showing the world all your glory through
body stockings and
schoolgirl uniforms on
primetime television,
then you can't move the people
with your anointed oil.
But you don't have to
become a modern Geisha or
be some fool's trap queen or
wrap yourself up in nylon and
nipple daisies to
shake the universe.
We been shaking the universe since
chicks didn't show their hips or elbows,
since skirts weren't allowed above the
tops of bobby socks,
since shoes on teenagers had to be
concrete flat.
It's about time that rappers
remembered themselves.
The rap game didn't start with a small revolt against
police brutality.
The rap game didn't start with
a people's desire to recreate their own
culture story.
The rap game is as old as the earth and it
can be heard in the rock slides,
can be seen around the fires of
indigenous tribes,
can be found
in the taps of African feet,
can be felt in the thunder.
The sunshine has
got more game,
now that we have allowed ourselves
to
preach falsehoods and
become the world's goods.
Rhythm was made to
lubricate productivity.
Rap was made for growth
and not death.
Where are the
real rappers
now?
-T. D. James-Moss
you don't have to wear a dress or
stand before the prosecution or
peddle designer drugs to
spread your love of verse throughout the world.
There are messages that
you can write down and
spit through the mic
that will let you maintain your
integrity and identity.
You don't have to kiss your manager on stage.
You don't have to cuss out somebody's mama.
You don't have to let your
contracted producer
bring cameras into your house
and record the dark corners
of your private life.
You don't have to beef with strangers.
You don't have to make any compacts with
devils or demigods or demagogues,
or call yourself god to
rain down fresh manna from heaven.
If you have the gift,
the rhythm of your with-it-ness will
pervade the atmosphere of
every place you enter.
The beat will drop with
every footstep you take.
God will give you audiences and
microphones beyond what you could
ever dream.
It seems like, my sisters,
some certain persons have perpetrated the
untruth that
if you don't be found buying
thousands of dollars in sex toys or
laying down with dope boys or
showing the world all your glory through
body stockings and
schoolgirl uniforms on
primetime television,
then you can't move the people
with your anointed oil.
But you don't have to
become a modern Geisha or
be some fool's trap queen or
wrap yourself up in nylon and
nipple daisies to
shake the universe.
We been shaking the universe since
chicks didn't show their hips or elbows,
since skirts weren't allowed above the
tops of bobby socks,
since shoes on teenagers had to be
concrete flat.
It's about time that rappers
remembered themselves.
The rap game didn't start with a small revolt against
police brutality.
The rap game didn't start with
a people's desire to recreate their own
culture story.
The rap game is as old as the earth and it
can be heard in the rock slides,
can be seen around the fires of
indigenous tribes,
can be found
in the taps of African feet,
can be felt in the thunder.
The sunshine has
got more game,
now that we have allowed ourselves
to
preach falsehoods and
become the world's goods.
Rhythm was made to
lubricate productivity.
Rap was made for growth
and not death.
Where are the
real rappers
now?
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, October 9, 2015
"The Waters," A Poetry Post
You would not believe
the waters
God
brought me through.
Murky birthing waters.
Turbulent raising waters.
Violent growing waters.
Dark, disturbing waters.
Red, thick lonely waters.
Entangling, choking waters.
Dead waters.
Living, enrapturing waters.
Drowning and sputtering.
Sad still motionless waters.
Fearful high-crested waters.
Tsunamis of discouragement.
Crushing, constricting waters.
Deep brown swamp waters.
Predators.
Undertows.
A little girl ill-equipped to swim,
ill-equipped to swim and
unprepared to lay back and float.
Tossed out into an ocean of
networks of waters.
Whirlpool waters.
Dehydrating salt waters.
Pruning tepid night waters.
Tanning cool all-day waters.
For teaching me to tread,
God I thank You.
For teaching me to swim,
God I thank You.
For teaching me to breathe,
God I thank You.
For teaching me to wait,
God I thank You.
-T. D. James-Moss
the waters
God
brought me through.
Murky birthing waters.
Turbulent raising waters.
Violent growing waters.
Dark, disturbing waters.
Red, thick lonely waters.
Entangling, choking waters.
Dead waters.
Living, enrapturing waters.
Drowning and sputtering.
Sad still motionless waters.
Fearful high-crested waters.
Tsunamis of discouragement.
Crushing, constricting waters.
Deep brown swamp waters.
Predators.
Undertows.
A little girl ill-equipped to swim,
ill-equipped to swim and
unprepared to lay back and float.
Tossed out into an ocean of
networks of waters.
Whirlpool waters.
Dehydrating salt waters.
Pruning tepid night waters.
Tanning cool all-day waters.
For teaching me to tread,
God I thank You.
For teaching me to swim,
God I thank You.
For teaching me to breathe,
God I thank You.
For teaching me to wait,
God I thank You.
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, October 5, 2015
"High End," A Poetry Post
Hello.
Hello.
I'd like to get a
hair wash.
I'm looking for a
price list.
Oh
we don't have a
price list yet.
I see you're
pretty new.
So,
how much is a
hair wash here?
Normally it's
thirty-five, a
wash and style.
Ah, thirty-five.
What kind of style
can you do here?
Do you do
roller sets?
Oh
we don't have the
resources to
do roller sets.
How might you
style me then?
How do YOU
style you?
I'm natural so I
wash and towel dry.
Do you put anything on it?
A leave-in.
Oh,
very much like
our
Moroccan oil.
Ok.
How much then?
I suppose it's
stylist discretion.
Maybe
twenty dollars.
Okay.
Twenty dollars.
Would you like to
make an appointment?
Oh,
is there no one available
today?
Oh no,
we're booked today.
Okay then.
This was just a
spontaneous stop.
Maybe another time.
Have a good day.
You too.
--Exeunt--
-T. D. James-Moss
Hello.
I'd like to get a
hair wash.
I'm looking for a
price list.
Oh
we don't have a
price list yet.
I see you're
pretty new.
So,
how much is a
hair wash here?
Normally it's
thirty-five, a
wash and style.
Ah, thirty-five.
What kind of style
can you do here?
Do you do
roller sets?
Oh
we don't have the
resources to
do roller sets.
How might you
style me then?
How do YOU
style you?
I'm natural so I
wash and towel dry.
Do you put anything on it?
A leave-in.
Oh,
very much like
our
Moroccan oil.
Ok.
How much then?
I suppose it's
stylist discretion.
Maybe
twenty dollars.
Okay.
Twenty dollars.
Would you like to
make an appointment?
Oh,
is there no one available
today?
Oh no,
we're booked today.
Okay then.
This was just a
spontaneous stop.
Maybe another time.
Have a good day.
You too.
--Exeunt--
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, September 28, 2015
"Trip," A Poetry Post
It seems like only yesterday
a trip and fall was just a thing.
I'd miss a step and tumble down and
give my wounded pride a kiss.
But falling down today was less a
brief distress and more a trial.
Though mature enough to laugh it off,
too mature to spring up,
I needed a lift.
I sat there laughing for a moment,
dangling in my great surprise.
My mind was done with falling down,
but I felt bruising in my thighs.
For those who watched it was a minute;
for late observers maybe two.
But I hadn't fallen in so long,
I did not remember what to do.
My little boy, he did remember.
He didn't miss a single beat.
He saw me fall, reached down his hand,
and lifted me up on my feet.
He picked up his bag, and picked up his coat,
and asked me if I was okay.
He picked up the books that I had dropped,
and carried my additional weight away.
I admit, in me I see a change in
how I fall and how I rise,
but I thank God that
for a moment,
my boy was a man
in his momma's eyes.
-T. D. James-Moss
a trip and fall was just a thing.
I'd miss a step and tumble down and
give my wounded pride a kiss.
But falling down today was less a
brief distress and more a trial.
Though mature enough to laugh it off,
too mature to spring up,
I needed a lift.
I sat there laughing for a moment,
dangling in my great surprise.
My mind was done with falling down,
but I felt bruising in my thighs.
For those who watched it was a minute;
for late observers maybe two.
But I hadn't fallen in so long,
I did not remember what to do.
My little boy, he did remember.
He didn't miss a single beat.
He saw me fall, reached down his hand,
and lifted me up on my feet.
He picked up his bag, and picked up his coat,
and asked me if I was okay.
He picked up the books that I had dropped,
and carried my additional weight away.
I admit, in me I see a change in
how I fall and how I rise,
but I thank God that
for a moment,
my boy was a man
in his momma's eyes.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, September 19, 2015
"Victories," A Poetry Post
Not all victories look like
Sister Maybelle
running cross the church
on Sunday mornings.
Some victory is as
deep and thorough
as a slow heartbeat.
Some victory looks like
a body slumped down
and sprawled out on a carpet
taking "finally I can breathe"
deep breaths.
Some victory looks
beaten, battered and bandaged,
bleeding and limping
but wincing in a smile.
Some victory looks like death,
set faced, silent and stiff,
just hanging in there.
Some victory sits
staring off into space
sorting out the foolishness
and choosing wisdom.
Don't mind you looking and seeing
sprawling bodies or
bleeding bodies or
silent bodies or
stark bodies
walking around you in a
time of trouble.
Out here,
you just see the
physical aftermath
of the
struggle.
On the inside of some folks,
Sister Maybelle is
gearing up
for her second lap praise run,
and she is already
coming out of her shoes.
-T. D. James-Moss
Sister Maybelle
running cross the church
on Sunday mornings.
Some victory is as
deep and thorough
as a slow heartbeat.
Some victory looks like
a body slumped down
and sprawled out on a carpet
taking "finally I can breathe"
deep breaths.
Some victory looks
beaten, battered and bandaged,
bleeding and limping
but wincing in a smile.
Some victory looks like death,
set faced, silent and stiff,
just hanging in there.
Some victory sits
staring off into space
sorting out the foolishness
and choosing wisdom.
Don't mind you looking and seeing
sprawling bodies or
bleeding bodies or
silent bodies or
stark bodies
walking around you in a
time of trouble.
Out here,
you just see the
physical aftermath
of the
struggle.
On the inside of some folks,
Sister Maybelle is
gearing up
for her second lap praise run,
and she is already
coming out of her shoes.
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, September 14, 2015
"Identity," A Poetry Post
I'm BLACK black.
I'm even if you check
way back in my lineage
you gone find more
dark chocolate Black than
light brown Black black
in the past. I'm
dry peas in the crock pot
with ham hock and
salt pork in the greens
Black. I'm
Grandmama could
cook and eat them
chitterlings
Black. I'm
press if you want but
no curl result Black.
Had your back
before you asked
Black. Thick hipped,
full-lipped Black.
Ain't gone holler gone
make that face Black.
Done told you once and
ain't gone tell you twice
Black. Deep down
key of G on an
August night in Jersey
with no A/C Black.
Kool-aid when it was
ten cents Black.
Puerto Rican icees and
Swedish fish from the
corner store Black.
Sit up and read by the
street light Black.
Get down when you hear
gunshots Black.
Ain't no need in me
trying to pretend that
three degrees or a
pay increase or a
brand new lease on a
Mercedes or a
new wardrobe and
high end pantyhose or a
brand new nose could
propose to make me
anything less than
been broke Black and
been cold Black and
been shame Black.
Nothing gone get me
out of all that.
Nothing gonna drive the
obsidian
out of this clod of dirt
on God's earth.
Nothing gonna make me
less Black
under any circumstances.
Nothing gonna take away
that part
of my
identity.
-T. D. James-Moss
I'm even if you check
way back in my lineage
you gone find more
dark chocolate Black than
light brown Black black
in the past. I'm
dry peas in the crock pot
with ham hock and
salt pork in the greens
Black. I'm
Grandmama could
cook and eat them
chitterlings
Black. I'm
press if you want but
no curl result Black.
Had your back
before you asked
Black. Thick hipped,
full-lipped Black.
Ain't gone holler gone
make that face Black.
Done told you once and
ain't gone tell you twice
Black. Deep down
key of G on an
August night in Jersey
with no A/C Black.
Kool-aid when it was
ten cents Black.
Puerto Rican icees and
Swedish fish from the
corner store Black.
Sit up and read by the
street light Black.
Get down when you hear
gunshots Black.
Ain't no need in me
trying to pretend that
three degrees or a
pay increase or a
brand new lease on a
Mercedes or a
new wardrobe and
high end pantyhose or a
brand new nose could
propose to make me
anything less than
been broke Black and
been cold Black and
been shame Black.
Nothing gone get me
out of all that.
Nothing gonna drive the
obsidian
out of this clod of dirt
on God's earth.
Nothing gonna make me
less Black
under any circumstances.
Nothing gonna take away
that part
of my
identity.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, September 12, 2015
"Weddings," A Poetry Post
You can have a wedding
standing behind a harvester's pickup truck
with the tailgate down in a pair of
dirty overalls
sweating in the July sun.
You can have a wedding in the
hallway of a trauma unit
wearing a hospital gown
being introduced as "Mr. and Mrs."
to the sound of heart monitors and
oxygen masks.
You can have a wedding in a
tiny chapel in the back of the base
with a Sergeant officiating
just before you ship out to the desert to
save the wives and husbands and lovers of others.
But you can't have a marriage under
just any circumstances.
There ain't no binding together without
shared bruisings under life's merciless whippings.
There ain't no bliss without
sacrificing bits of
individual happiness.
There ain't no excitement without
standing commitment to the
energy of one-ness.
You can have a wedding
jumping out of a plane
in Vegas
in a bathing suit with
only one chute.
But once you land and
put your feet flat on the ground with
this woman or
this man,
you gone have to cultivate
an atmosphere of
marriage.
Marriages are
not so resilient
without structure.
-T. D. James-Moss
standing behind a harvester's pickup truck
with the tailgate down in a pair of
dirty overalls
sweating in the July sun.
You can have a wedding in the
hallway of a trauma unit
wearing a hospital gown
being introduced as "Mr. and Mrs."
to the sound of heart monitors and
oxygen masks.
You can have a wedding in a
tiny chapel in the back of the base
with a Sergeant officiating
just before you ship out to the desert to
save the wives and husbands and lovers of others.
But you can't have a marriage under
just any circumstances.
There ain't no binding together without
shared bruisings under life's merciless whippings.
There ain't no bliss without
sacrificing bits of
individual happiness.
There ain't no excitement without
standing commitment to the
energy of one-ness.
You can have a wedding
jumping out of a plane
in Vegas
in a bathing suit with
only one chute.
But once you land and
put your feet flat on the ground with
this woman or
this man,
you gone have to cultivate
an atmosphere of
marriage.
Marriages are
not so resilient
without structure.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, July 17, 2015
"Surviving a Meltdown," A Poetry Post
Get you a mouthguard from the
local pharmacy,
the one that you
sit down in boiling hot water
until it softens enough to
conform to your
bite patterns
so you don't
grind your teeth
in your sleep.
Track your
blood pressure on a
home monitor and
monitor your pulse
for irregularity.
Tell your doctor the
whole truth if you
have to make an
appointment.
Find one thing you can watch that will
always make you laugh until you
cry.
Don't answer the phone for
negative people.
And pray.
When you pray,
tell God the whole truth like
He knows it
since he does.
Whisper
when your mood swings
tell you to
scream your head off.
No coffee, no caffeine, no alcohol, no drugs.
Love as much as you can handle,
and receive love.
Forgive yourself.
Forgive yourself.
Forgive yourself and
repent of your foolish and
wicked ways.
Apologize.
You know when you should.
And pray,
since God is the only one
who knows
the whole truth.
Cry, cry, cry if you must and
shut out those who
rebuke your tears.
Cry, cry, cry and sleep,
sleep when you feel weary.
Take a day
if you
need a day and
lie there.
Just lay.
Be as angry as you like and
spit your vitriol
out into the universe where
there is enough space
for it to dissipate.
Do not poison your own wells.
Drink water, water, water and
eat well, mmhmm, stay alive.
Pay your bills on time,
exercise and pray since
God is the only one who can
really set you free from your
dismay.
And wait.
A few days.
A few months.
A few years.
Wait, watch and pray.
One day you will wake up
restored.
-T. D. James-Moss
local pharmacy,
the one that you
sit down in boiling hot water
until it softens enough to
conform to your
bite patterns
so you don't
grind your teeth
in your sleep.
Track your
blood pressure on a
home monitor and
monitor your pulse
for irregularity.
Tell your doctor the
whole truth if you
have to make an
appointment.
Find one thing you can watch that will
always make you laugh until you
cry.
Don't answer the phone for
negative people.
And pray.
When you pray,
tell God the whole truth like
He knows it
since he does.
Whisper
when your mood swings
tell you to
scream your head off.
No coffee, no caffeine, no alcohol, no drugs.
Love as much as you can handle,
and receive love.
Forgive yourself.
Forgive yourself.
Forgive yourself and
repent of your foolish and
wicked ways.
Apologize.
You know when you should.
And pray,
since God is the only one
who knows
the whole truth.
Cry, cry, cry if you must and
shut out those who
rebuke your tears.
Cry, cry, cry and sleep,
sleep when you feel weary.
Take a day
if you
need a day and
lie there.
Just lay.
Be as angry as you like and
spit your vitriol
out into the universe where
there is enough space
for it to dissipate.
Do not poison your own wells.
Drink water, water, water and
eat well, mmhmm, stay alive.
Pay your bills on time,
exercise and pray since
God is the only one who can
really set you free from your
dismay.
And wait.
A few days.
A few months.
A few years.
Wait, watch and pray.
One day you will wake up
restored.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, June 19, 2015
"Confinement," A Poetry Post
There are a million ways to confine a man.
You can start early and
birth him into a world where there's
not enough milk,
not enough stimulus,
not enough time for an
early morning cuddle,
not enough lullabies,
not enough limits,
not enough anything and
lock him up into a
mentality of poverty
before he can say the
first of his very few
words.
You can wait until he understands and
tell him his father is a
no count hooligan that you
showed some mercy at a
weak point in your life and
teach him that men are a
terrible inconvenience.
That will create for him a
crisis of identity that will
bind him into a pseudo state of
remorse for being
born male.
You can wait until he runs and
tell him there is no place safe for a
boy to run full speed and fall down and
get up again.
Bandage him and pamper him and
shelter him from what it means to be the
alpha male in this great world,
and he will humble himself like a
lion raised in captivity on
beef jerky,
only feeding from handouts and
never reaching out for the greatness he
truly craves.
You can wait until he rebels and
strike him with meaningless consequences like an
unyielding tyrant.
Cover him in whelps without explanations like a
slave master.
Wrap him in punishments
like a poacher who does not speak his language and
does not care to acknowledge his divinity.
Then he will cower under all authorities,
held in a fear-laden silence,
unable to rise up and defend when
offenses are clearly committed against him.
You can wait until he loves and
crush him with the awareness of
all of his imperfections.
Belittle his every accomplishment and
minimize every bit of his learning.
Deny him conversation about great ideas.
He will then be a lone flower on a mountaintop,
unable to engage with a populace of daisies because of his
deep feelings of weed-dom,
unable to chase after the romances for which his heart
aches.
You don't have to cuff a man.
You don't have to cage a man.
You don't have to bind a man.
You don't have to kill a man.
Defang him.
Starve him.
Shame him.
Bruise him.
Silence him.
Isolate him.
Under
educate
him.
His humanity will forever be confined,
and he will become an animal.
-T. D. James-Moss
You can start early and
birth him into a world where there's
not enough milk,
not enough stimulus,
not enough time for an
early morning cuddle,
not enough lullabies,
not enough limits,
not enough anything and
lock him up into a
mentality of poverty
before he can say the
first of his very few
words.
You can wait until he understands and
tell him his father is a
no count hooligan that you
showed some mercy at a
weak point in your life and
teach him that men are a
terrible inconvenience.
That will create for him a
crisis of identity that will
bind him into a pseudo state of
remorse for being
born male.
You can wait until he runs and
tell him there is no place safe for a
boy to run full speed and fall down and
get up again.
Bandage him and pamper him and
shelter him from what it means to be the
alpha male in this great world,
and he will humble himself like a
lion raised in captivity on
beef jerky,
only feeding from handouts and
never reaching out for the greatness he
truly craves.
You can wait until he rebels and
strike him with meaningless consequences like an
unyielding tyrant.
Cover him in whelps without explanations like a
slave master.
Wrap him in punishments
like a poacher who does not speak his language and
does not care to acknowledge his divinity.
Then he will cower under all authorities,
held in a fear-laden silence,
unable to rise up and defend when
offenses are clearly committed against him.
You can wait until he loves and
crush him with the awareness of
all of his imperfections.
Belittle his every accomplishment and
minimize every bit of his learning.
Deny him conversation about great ideas.
He will then be a lone flower on a mountaintop,
unable to engage with a populace of daisies because of his
deep feelings of weed-dom,
unable to chase after the romances for which his heart
aches.
You don't have to cuff a man.
You don't have to cage a man.
You don't have to bind a man.
You don't have to kill a man.
Defang him.
Starve him.
Shame him.
Bruise him.
Silence him.
Isolate him.
Under
educate
him.
His humanity will forever be confined,
and he will become an animal.
-T. D. James-Moss
"The Rumbling," A Poetry Post for Sen. Clementa Pinckney
There is a great rumbling in the universe,
a pulsating, a shifting, a
a radiating, echoing,
unsettling in the frequency in our
earth space.
Because a resonating voice, a
room-filling blue and red atmosphere has been
suddenly removed, the
music of our reality is
infiltrated with some dissonance
on the second and fourth notes in this
4/4.
Because a great footstep has
suddenly stopped striking the ground,
there is a percussive silence
in the symphony.
Because a key lyricist is taken,
the feeling of the whole song has gone
grey, grey, grey and surprisingly
pianissimo grave.
The remaining words are
fluidly wafting into every crevice,
finding their way into minds and homes
across the great expanse,
unlimited by the absence of the speaker.
The great music of your life is
playing without respect to
life or death; it is
being transcribed for posterity and
being learned by new players.
Thousands of performers are
picking up your tempo and
repeating your great strains.
Some of us are crying,
which is right,
but some of us are
singing your songs:
songs for equality,
songs for fairness,
songs for justice,
songs for progress,
songs for faith.
Some of us are remembering the sound,
the feel, the rhythm of your work,
and watching in awe as it
manifests itself on
every connected screen in this great world.
We are watching you expand and
reach your hands into souls that were previously
inaccessible.
For a time there will be grief,
and the whole piece will play una corda
in remembrance of the original composer.
But in a short while,
now that the mantle has fallen,
another great voice will
lead sing
what you sang
with renewed passion,
with a fresh turn,
and you and all of the angels in heaven will dance!
Because the work must continue,
as you expected,
there will be,
there must be,
another player.
-T. D. James-Moss
a pulsating, a shifting, a
a radiating, echoing,
unsettling in the frequency in our
earth space.
Because a resonating voice, a
room-filling blue and red atmosphere has been
suddenly removed, the
music of our reality is
infiltrated with some dissonance
on the second and fourth notes in this
4/4.
Because a great footstep has
suddenly stopped striking the ground,
there is a percussive silence
in the symphony.
Because a key lyricist is taken,
the feeling of the whole song has gone
grey, grey, grey and surprisingly
pianissimo grave.
The remaining words are
fluidly wafting into every crevice,
finding their way into minds and homes
across the great expanse,
unlimited by the absence of the speaker.
The great music of your life is
playing without respect to
life or death; it is
being transcribed for posterity and
being learned by new players.
Thousands of performers are
picking up your tempo and
repeating your great strains.
Some of us are crying,
which is right,
but some of us are
singing your songs:
songs for equality,
songs for fairness,
songs for justice,
songs for progress,
songs for faith.
Some of us are remembering the sound,
the feel, the rhythm of your work,
and watching in awe as it
manifests itself on
every connected screen in this great world.
We are watching you expand and
reach your hands into souls that were previously
inaccessible.
For a time there will be grief,
and the whole piece will play una corda
in remembrance of the original composer.
But in a short while,
now that the mantle has fallen,
another great voice will
lead sing
what you sang
with renewed passion,
with a fresh turn,
and you and all of the angels in heaven will dance!
Because the work must continue,
as you expected,
there will be,
there must be,
another player.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, June 13, 2015
"The Crazy," A Poetry Post
When we got married,
everybody thought we were crazy,
including us.
Neither of us had anything significant except
uncertainty in our careers,
uncertainty in our futures,
uncertainty in our nows.
And I would not advise anyone,
at any time,
to take vows
under those circumstances.
However,
this is how it went down,
and we still got married
before a justice of the peace
on a small island
in what was seemingly an
unimportant ceremony.
And two strangers spent two years
figuring out that they were--
in fact--
apparently crazy,
which was to be expected.
Some days I would wonder if
one of us would just wake up and
walk away, walk away, walk away and say
FORGET YOU KNEW ME BABY!
ENOUGH ENOUGH ENOUGH!
That was me.
But we still stayed.
And sometimes we held our breath together,
like when the doctors told us your hip had
disintegrated,
and we were like,
"That's crazy!"
But I suppose
that was to be expected.
Or when we tag-teamed stitch removal
after the hip replacement
by taking instructions
over the telephone and
getting examples from a
Youtube video.
That was crazy!
But,
I suppose,
that was to be expected.
Or when I did that biopsy
with a local anesthetic,
and we watched the doctor
slice open a lump on my breast
in broad daylight and
stitch it back.
We were both like,
"That was crazy!"
But,
considering the situation,
and the people involved,
that was to be expected.
Every time we woke up together,
it was surprising.
"God, we're still here.
How unexpected."
Sometimes we struck the world together
like a freight train.
WHAM!
Like that year they almost
placed our son in
special education,
and we went to war for a
Black boy's right to
grow up and be awkward
without being
medicated.
That's when we figured out that
two crazy people
united
could still
make things be
sane.
GIVE US OUR SON!
GIVE US OUR SON!
WE WILL EDUCATE HIM!
I swear to you,
in those moments,
the whole earth stood
still.
And that was crazy,
but to be expected.
Our son learned to respect the madness
of high expectations.
Every bit of craziness has
cost us a bit of time, a bit of
energy, a bit of youth and been
surprising.
And finally,
it seems like things are
stilling.
Now that we are weather worn and
whipped almost senseless in
whirlwinds of doctor visits and
unimaginable crises and
family interventions and
personal challenges,
again the world has stopped spinning
to allow us to choose a direction.
And neither of us is crazy enough
to choose first,
because time has taught us to
stand still and see
the salvation of the Lord,
to look for his hand on the horizon,
even a small fist.
For once in many years,
we're both just standing in the
center of a large room,
amazed by a panorama of options
for which
neither of us seem to have the energy.
That's crazy.
You know,
it is highly unlikely that
we will enjoy this time of stillness for long.
However,
I suppose,
that is to be expected,
considering.
For now we will watch and wait,
watch and wait as we have learned to do together,
together in a highly unlikely kind of synthesis.
And then,
when we know the direction in which we should go,
again,
we will be storms.
-T. D. James-Moss
everybody thought we were crazy,
including us.
Neither of us had anything significant except
uncertainty in our careers,
uncertainty in our futures,
uncertainty in our nows.
And I would not advise anyone,
at any time,
to take vows
under those circumstances.
However,
this is how it went down,
and we still got married
before a justice of the peace
on a small island
in what was seemingly an
unimportant ceremony.
And two strangers spent two years
figuring out that they were--
in fact--
apparently crazy,
which was to be expected.
Some days I would wonder if
one of us would just wake up and
walk away, walk away, walk away and say
FORGET YOU KNEW ME BABY!
ENOUGH ENOUGH ENOUGH!
That was me.
But we still stayed.
And sometimes we held our breath together,
like when the doctors told us your hip had
disintegrated,
and we were like,
"That's crazy!"
But I suppose
that was to be expected.
Or when we tag-teamed stitch removal
after the hip replacement
by taking instructions
over the telephone and
getting examples from a
Youtube video.
That was crazy!
But,
I suppose,
that was to be expected.
Or when I did that biopsy
with a local anesthetic,
and we watched the doctor
slice open a lump on my breast
in broad daylight and
stitch it back.
We were both like,
"That was crazy!"
But,
considering the situation,
and the people involved,
that was to be expected.
Every time we woke up together,
it was surprising.
"God, we're still here.
How unexpected."
Sometimes we struck the world together
like a freight train.
WHAM!
Like that year they almost
placed our son in
special education,
and we went to war for a
Black boy's right to
grow up and be awkward
without being
medicated.
That's when we figured out that
two crazy people
united
could still
make things be
sane.
GIVE US OUR SON!
GIVE US OUR SON!
WE WILL EDUCATE HIM!
I swear to you,
in those moments,
the whole earth stood
still.
And that was crazy,
but to be expected.
Our son learned to respect the madness
of high expectations.
Every bit of craziness has
cost us a bit of time, a bit of
energy, a bit of youth and been
surprising.
And finally,
it seems like things are
stilling.
Now that we are weather worn and
whipped almost senseless in
whirlwinds of doctor visits and
unimaginable crises and
family interventions and
personal challenges,
again the world has stopped spinning
to allow us to choose a direction.
And neither of us is crazy enough
to choose first,
because time has taught us to
stand still and see
the salvation of the Lord,
to look for his hand on the horizon,
even a small fist.
For once in many years,
we're both just standing in the
center of a large room,
amazed by a panorama of options
for which
neither of us seem to have the energy.
That's crazy.
You know,
it is highly unlikely that
we will enjoy this time of stillness for long.
However,
I suppose,
that is to be expected,
considering.
For now we will watch and wait,
watch and wait as we have learned to do together,
together in a highly unlikely kind of synthesis.
And then,
when we know the direction in which we should go,
again,
we will be storms.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, June 12, 2015
"Luxury: A Word Lesson for Black Youth," A Poetry Post
Luxury does not mean
purchasing a surround sound system
and a 50-inch television and
setting up an entertainment area
in the living room of your
apartment for your friends to
come over and watch the Super Bowl
once a year.
Luxury does not mean
driving a fifty-thousand-dollar car
for which you have to sacrifice eating
fresh meats and vegetables
in order to make your
monthly car note and insurance and your
annual tax payments.
Luxury does not mean
taking your tax refund every year and
going to a store of any kind,
online or off line,
to buy yourself a collection of new things
to show off to the people.
Luxury means to have extra without a cost.
Luxury means to have access without a purchase.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to drive a nice car
and enjoy it,
because you don't have to make
payments.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to host a Super Bowl party
and enjoy it,
because you have planned a portion of your
entertainment budget
to cover the event.
In a life of luxury,
you buy what you must have for business
and you have what you must have for pleasure
without hurting an ounce in your finances.
Luxury is the absence of debt.
It means nobody is calling your phone
two and three times a day
asking you to make a payment
on an account that is
about to go into
collections.
It means nobody put out an APB
to arrest you for
selling stolen or illicit goods.
It means
you can say
"I got it honest,"
and you know where your money is and
how to manage it in such a way that it
remains and grows.
Anybody that tells you
that luxury is anything else
don't know words.
Because luxury means excess,
and excess means extra,
and you can't have extra
when you owe people.
-T. D. James-Moss
purchasing a surround sound system
and a 50-inch television and
setting up an entertainment area
in the living room of your
apartment for your friends to
come over and watch the Super Bowl
once a year.
Luxury does not mean
driving a fifty-thousand-dollar car
for which you have to sacrifice eating
fresh meats and vegetables
in order to make your
monthly car note and insurance and your
annual tax payments.
Luxury does not mean
taking your tax refund every year and
going to a store of any kind,
online or off line,
to buy yourself a collection of new things
to show off to the people.
Luxury means to have extra without a cost.
Luxury means to have access without a purchase.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to drive a nice car
and enjoy it,
because you don't have to make
payments.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to host a Super Bowl party
and enjoy it,
because you have planned a portion of your
entertainment budget
to cover the event.
In a life of luxury,
you buy what you must have for business
and you have what you must have for pleasure
without hurting an ounce in your finances.
Luxury is the absence of debt.
It means nobody is calling your phone
two and three times a day
asking you to make a payment
on an account that is
about to go into
collections.
It means nobody put out an APB
to arrest you for
selling stolen or illicit goods.
It means
you can say
"I got it honest,"
and you know where your money is and
how to manage it in such a way that it
remains and grows.
Anybody that tells you
that luxury is anything else
don't know words.
Because luxury means excess,
and excess means extra,
and you can't have extra
when you owe people.
-T. D. James-Moss
"The Imprint," A Poetry Post
The whole world is waiting for you to put your foot down.
Your mother and father and
your sisters and brothers and
cousins and neighbors and
girl friends and guy friends and
spectators are
hovering about to
find out what will happen when you
find that mite spark of purpose
in your soul and
press a bit of your weight
into it.
All of your teachers and preachers and supporters are
holding their breaths and
taking large gasps in between near suffocations,
waiting for you to find your groove
in this dance.
All of the angels are
fixated in observation,
waiting for you to
put on the full jacket of your
electric potential.
There are stars in the sky that
will not die
before your light is
dispatched upon the earth.
There are homes that will not grow and
seeds that will not be planted.
There are hearts that will not heal and
minds that will not open.
There are lives that
will not be spared until
the shield of God's wisdom comes
pouring out of your mouth.
Everything is in stasis,
holding.
And yet,
everything is in motion,
and you could miss your moment.
You could miss your moment
to make the imprint
that will change the world instantly.
-T. D. James-Moss
Your mother and father and
your sisters and brothers and
cousins and neighbors and
girl friends and guy friends and
spectators are
hovering about to
find out what will happen when you
find that mite spark of purpose
in your soul and
press a bit of your weight
into it.
All of your teachers and preachers and supporters are
holding their breaths and
taking large gasps in between near suffocations,
waiting for you to find your groove
in this dance.
All of the angels are
fixated in observation,
waiting for you to
put on the full jacket of your
electric potential.
There are stars in the sky that
will not die
before your light is
dispatched upon the earth.
There are homes that will not grow and
seeds that will not be planted.
There are hearts that will not heal and
minds that will not open.
There are lives that
will not be spared until
the shield of God's wisdom comes
pouring out of your mouth.
Everything is in stasis,
holding.
And yet,
everything is in motion,
and you could miss your moment.
You could miss your moment
to make the imprint
that will change the world instantly.
-T. D. James-Moss
Sunday, May 31, 2015
"The Resurrected," A Post for My Growing Son
Most of us were born in jungles
in environments surrounded by bounty but
devoid of some fundamental material needed to gather
all that we needed.
Our guardians gave us
what they had and
learned to use to
keep us from
falling
into ravines or
lunging
over certain cliffs
respectively.
Their experiences
taught them to build
certain homes in
certain kinds of ways
in order to teach us
certain kinds of lessons.
Their achievements and failures
were used to inspire us to
venture into new places in a
vast arena of dangers, uncertainty and
dark places.
Our guardians, the mothers and fathers and
aunts and uncles and
grandmothers and grandfathers and
church mothers and pastors,
neighbors and family friends,
whoever they were and
wherever we met them they
showed us life and life and life in
different ways.
But the greatest of our legacy lies in
our capacity to mistakenly or ridiculously
launch ourselves over unknown precipices and
live. Well,
die but live again
in a sense.
Your people,
we are not restrained by fears
as some might be.
We do not hunker down behind the rocks
at the first sound of danger;
we do not
run for shelter at the
very first signs of rain.
We are led by our instinct to
achieve certain goals, to
complete certain assignments, to
acquire certain rewards for
one reason or another.
We run according to our
purposes.
We are not easily manipulated,
and we are not threatened
out of the paths of life
we know we must run.
As a result,
we are sometimes scarred lethally
in the process of making great gains.
We have all seen death in our own ways.
Some of us have lost whole families and
seen our connections to humanity
die and revive
in the presence of
other like-minded runners.
Some of us have
pursued dreams we thought were
worth late nights,
only to find those dreams
far off the path,
and we have seen our hopes then
die and revive
upon finding our footing again.
Some of us have
found our physical health waning,
appearing reliable at some intervals and
showing itself fickle at others,
and we have watched our strengths
die and revive
surprisingly.
And some of us have literally
died and revived
as you know.
Nevertheless,
the take away here is that
you are a descendant of the
resurrected,
and there are certain inheritances
that come with that birthright.
There are some things I can
plant directly into your hands like an
heirloom,
but there are some things you must
watch and assimilate.
The heirlooms are easy.
What you must learn is the
layout of the land and the
identities of your enemies and the
characteristics of the right paths and the
temptations that lead to the wrong ones.
What you must practice is the
pace of this race and the
ability to recoil quickly and the
ability to go on under pressure and the
ability to stand against adversity.
You need the confidence to
face down devils and
look down the throats of lions
even when you feel fear.
You need to know how to
separate truths from perceptions and
realities from emotions,
and you must never let someone convince you
to make true and eternal
what is only true in one man's eyes.
We are a people under one God with a name,
Yahweh,
and we do not do
what will not lead to
improvement in ourselves,
improvement in our families,
improvement in our communities,
improvement in our world.
We are not limited by time and space,
and we are not defined by our ages,
or our seasons of life,
or our roles,
which are all temporary.
We live to find our God-given niches,
and we take up our designs like
life jackets in a great sea of confusion.
We are great swimmers in times when
others expect drowning because of the
blessing, because of the blessing, because of the
blessing of our Lord, a Lord for which
many have been slain,
as you well know.
It is difficult to explain to you
in a sitting
the fullness of this family
into which you have been born.
It takes so many lifetimes to understand
that we have ventured to write it all down
one life after another in
journals and poems and short stories and
oral traditions passed from runner to runner
to runner.
You are finally old enough to read and
understand some of these memoirs,
so it is right that you hear it from me first,
as you have seen it in your father,
the head of our home.
You are a part of a resurrected community.
We have been very poor, and we have been rich.
We have been happy, and we have been miserable.
We have been strong, and we have been weak.
We have been young, and we have been old,
but we have never seen ourselves forsaken and our
children have eaten well in famines.
We wear our faith proudly,
and we are not deterred from right
despite others' aggressions and depressions.
Some people will call you crazy.
Some people will call you worthless,
and you will find yourself sometimes lonely and
sometimes in great company.
You must remember the legacy of your lineage and the
connection to our Maker.
It will be difficult and you will suffer much,
but you will suffer well,
and you will make great gains because
that is what we do.
You will live and live and live,
because that is what we do.
-T. D. James-Moss
in environments surrounded by bounty but
devoid of some fundamental material needed to gather
all that we needed.
Our guardians gave us
what they had and
learned to use to
keep us from
falling
into ravines or
lunging
over certain cliffs
respectively.
Their experiences
taught them to build
certain homes in
certain kinds of ways
in order to teach us
certain kinds of lessons.
Their achievements and failures
were used to inspire us to
venture into new places in a
vast arena of dangers, uncertainty and
dark places.
Our guardians, the mothers and fathers and
aunts and uncles and
grandmothers and grandfathers and
church mothers and pastors,
neighbors and family friends,
whoever they were and
wherever we met them they
showed us life and life and life in
different ways.
But the greatest of our legacy lies in
our capacity to mistakenly or ridiculously
launch ourselves over unknown precipices and
live. Well,
die but live again
in a sense.
Your people,
we are not restrained by fears
as some might be.
We do not hunker down behind the rocks
at the first sound of danger;
we do not
run for shelter at the
very first signs of rain.
We are led by our instinct to
achieve certain goals, to
complete certain assignments, to
acquire certain rewards for
one reason or another.
We run according to our
purposes.
We are not easily manipulated,
and we are not threatened
out of the paths of life
we know we must run.
As a result,
we are sometimes scarred lethally
in the process of making great gains.
We have all seen death in our own ways.
Some of us have lost whole families and
seen our connections to humanity
die and revive
in the presence of
other like-minded runners.
Some of us have
pursued dreams we thought were
worth late nights,
only to find those dreams
far off the path,
and we have seen our hopes then
die and revive
upon finding our footing again.
Some of us have
found our physical health waning,
appearing reliable at some intervals and
showing itself fickle at others,
and we have watched our strengths
die and revive
surprisingly.
And some of us have literally
died and revived
as you know.
Nevertheless,
the take away here is that
you are a descendant of the
resurrected,
and there are certain inheritances
that come with that birthright.
There are some things I can
plant directly into your hands like an
heirloom,
but there are some things you must
watch and assimilate.
The heirlooms are easy.
What you must learn is the
layout of the land and the
identities of your enemies and the
characteristics of the right paths and the
temptations that lead to the wrong ones.
What you must practice is the
pace of this race and the
ability to recoil quickly and the
ability to go on under pressure and the
ability to stand against adversity.
You need the confidence to
face down devils and
look down the throats of lions
even when you feel fear.
You need to know how to
separate truths from perceptions and
realities from emotions,
and you must never let someone convince you
to make true and eternal
what is only true in one man's eyes.
We are a people under one God with a name,
Yahweh,
and we do not do
what will not lead to
improvement in ourselves,
improvement in our families,
improvement in our communities,
improvement in our world.
We are not limited by time and space,
and we are not defined by our ages,
or our seasons of life,
or our roles,
which are all temporary.
We live to find our God-given niches,
and we take up our designs like
life jackets in a great sea of confusion.
We are great swimmers in times when
others expect drowning because of the
blessing, because of the blessing, because of the
blessing of our Lord, a Lord for which
many have been slain,
as you well know.
It is difficult to explain to you
in a sitting
the fullness of this family
into which you have been born.
It takes so many lifetimes to understand
that we have ventured to write it all down
one life after another in
journals and poems and short stories and
oral traditions passed from runner to runner
to runner.
You are finally old enough to read and
understand some of these memoirs,
so it is right that you hear it from me first,
as you have seen it in your father,
the head of our home.
You are a part of a resurrected community.
We have been very poor, and we have been rich.
We have been happy, and we have been miserable.
We have been strong, and we have been weak.
We have been young, and we have been old,
but we have never seen ourselves forsaken and our
children have eaten well in famines.
We wear our faith proudly,
and we are not deterred from right
despite others' aggressions and depressions.
Some people will call you crazy.
Some people will call you worthless,
and you will find yourself sometimes lonely and
sometimes in great company.
You must remember the legacy of your lineage and the
connection to our Maker.
It will be difficult and you will suffer much,
but you will suffer well,
and you will make great gains because
that is what we do.
You will live and live and live,
because that is what we do.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, May 23, 2015
"The Rocks," A Poetry Post
I am amazed by this witch hunt for
every man's darkness,
by the willful turning over of
stones to find wickedness,
by the crowd-sourced, crowd-funded
judgment of men whose
sins are in print.
If we will throw stones at the glass homes of some,
then we must raise the edges of the stones in our homes and
gather the witnesses to our own indiscretions for the
shattering of our own frail empires.
We must judge rightly and not lightly
every person's "sealed records."
Unseal them and unseat your idols.
Your trusted friends have been criminals:
thieves, rapists and drug dealers,
traffickers and addicts.
They have extorted money from the
elderly.
Winked.
They have served tainted food
at their family parties.
Winked.
They have stolen money
from their children's college funds
to purchase
new cars.
Winked.
If we will throw rocks for the stoning of some,
we must not only stone one but
expect to be hit mercilessly by our
own punishing crowds.
If we will anchor and drown one heretic
for working dark magic on the populace,
we must also tie cement blocks
around the necks of those who
broadcast pornography
to their toddlers
at primetime.
We must bind the mothers
who give their little girls' bodies
freely to the world by
handing over smartphones and
access to private chat rooms without
supervision.
Every strange overnight guest
that has given a man's daughter
a bath
should be
thrashed.
For leaving our offspring with
aunties and uncles to
catch the club bus to
Vegas for the weekend.
For selling our foodstamps
to purchase trendy clothes
at the expense of our
babies' bellies.
For teaching our little boys
how to guzzle alcohol
until they can't remember.
For showing our daughters
how short a
short skirt can be before
all of a woman can be
seen.
For ruining marriages
by drawing away husbands and wives
in their moments of weakness.
For ruining fathers' reputations
by never taking an ounce of responsibility
for building a broken family.
For intentionally lying, lying and lying
to generation after generation and
bringing about the TOTAL DESTRUCTION
of hundreds and hundreds of our descendants,
we must pick up all of the rocks,
all of the stones,
all of the slung insults and
rain them down upon ourselves.
If we will judge rightly and honestly,
all of the rocks we now throw
belong right where they come from...
in the hands--tied down--
to the flingers,
to be worn like bloody jewelry.
But we do not judge so.
We forgive some and not all and
take great pleasure in watching a
sinful man fall and
fall and fall.
We take pleasure in seeing one fall
until our time comes.
-T. D. James-Moss
every man's darkness,
by the willful turning over of
stones to find wickedness,
by the crowd-sourced, crowd-funded
judgment of men whose
sins are in print.
If we will throw stones at the glass homes of some,
then we must raise the edges of the stones in our homes and
gather the witnesses to our own indiscretions for the
shattering of our own frail empires.
We must judge rightly and not lightly
every person's "sealed records."
Unseal them and unseat your idols.
Your trusted friends have been criminals:
thieves, rapists and drug dealers,
traffickers and addicts.
They have extorted money from the
elderly.
Winked.
They have served tainted food
at their family parties.
Winked.
They have stolen money
from their children's college funds
to purchase
new cars.
Winked.
If we will throw rocks for the stoning of some,
we must not only stone one but
expect to be hit mercilessly by our
own punishing crowds.
If we will anchor and drown one heretic
for working dark magic on the populace,
we must also tie cement blocks
around the necks of those who
broadcast pornography
to their toddlers
at primetime.
We must bind the mothers
who give their little girls' bodies
freely to the world by
handing over smartphones and
access to private chat rooms without
supervision.
Every strange overnight guest
that has given a man's daughter
a bath
should be
thrashed.
For leaving our offspring with
aunties and uncles to
catch the club bus to
Vegas for the weekend.
For selling our foodstamps
to purchase trendy clothes
at the expense of our
babies' bellies.
For teaching our little boys
how to guzzle alcohol
until they can't remember.
For showing our daughters
how short a
short skirt can be before
all of a woman can be
seen.
For ruining marriages
by drawing away husbands and wives
in their moments of weakness.
For ruining fathers' reputations
by never taking an ounce of responsibility
for building a broken family.
For intentionally lying, lying and lying
to generation after generation and
bringing about the TOTAL DESTRUCTION
of hundreds and hundreds of our descendants,
we must pick up all of the rocks,
all of the stones,
all of the slung insults and
rain them down upon ourselves.
If we will judge rightly and honestly,
all of the rocks we now throw
belong right where they come from...
in the hands--tied down--
to the flingers,
to be worn like bloody jewelry.
But we do not judge so.
We forgive some and not all and
take great pleasure in watching a
sinful man fall and
fall and fall.
We take pleasure in seeing one fall
until our time comes.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, May 22, 2015
"Common," A Poetry Post
Our world is expert at
deflowering its virgins.
At breaking through
ancient, pristine ice caps
in pursuit of
crude oils.
At leveling mountains
to establish bastard cities.
At stripping away forests
for traveling convenience.
At pouring poisons into the
purest oceans in our universe.
We are so good at
turning the perfect
common
that we will soon have no
perfections
in common
at all.
-T. D. James-Moss
deflowering its virgins.
At breaking through
ancient, pristine ice caps
in pursuit of
crude oils.
At leveling mountains
to establish bastard cities.
At stripping away forests
for traveling convenience.
At pouring poisons into the
purest oceans in our universe.
We are so good at
turning the perfect
common
that we will soon have no
perfections
in common
at all.
-T. D. James-Moss
Sunday, May 10, 2015
"What One Mother Gave," A Poetry Post
Some mother-daughter stories
aren't Hallmark quality sweet or
photo album ready.
Some mother-daughter stories
resemble dramatic paperbacks
and dystopias.
Some mothers take
annual pictures with their daughters and
give them
cotton candy pink wardrobes and
manicuring kits and
pictures of themselves in
golden lockets.
Some mothers pass down
trinkets from their mothers.
Some mothers give their daughters
fluffy house slippers and
cookie dough recipes.
But one mother raised
a nation with the
gifts she gave.
To one she gave all of her empathy
so she could be rightfully hard.
To another all of her wanderlust
so she could stand being at home.
To another all of her passion
so she could stand the darkness.
To another all of her love for the church
so she could withstand isolation.
To another all of her ability to recall the good
so she could manage the bad.
To another all of her yearning to teach
to prevent her from mothering all.
To another all of her sciences
to keep her eyes in one direction.
To another all of her drive to fight
to endure the world's coldness in peace.
And all the gifts did pollinate like
wildflowers in the world,
sometimes creating beautiful fields,
sometimes creating teams of freedom fighters,
sometimes creating centers of mercy,
sometimes creating perfect chaos,
sometimes creating sadness and suffering,
sometimes creating massive destruction,
sometimes redefining classrooms,
sometimes redefining prisons,
sometimes redefining households,
sometimes redefining cities.
Out we went to be heartbreakers and healers,
deceivers and truthtellers,
fearful and beautiful,
raging and repentant,
familial but private,
sensual but separated,
all all all of those things connected like
a network of dandelion flowers and
blown out with
one woman's wish to
expand and expand and expand.
All blown out from one hand with
a single breath of hope from
one woman willing to
let them all go and go and go.
And here she stands uncelebrated.
There are no movies made about mothers who
give all of their gifts away to
disappear into obscurity.
They don't write cards that say,
"Thanks mom for letting us dream for things that
you could not provide."
There are no popular books about lives
that writhe and shrivel under the weight
of motherhood.
Nobody's broadcasting specials about
mothers who give up their very minds
in their efforts to tell their children to
go and go and go.
But this is what one mother gave
regardless of the ending.
She gave all
so we could all
have some.
-T. D. James-Moss
aren't Hallmark quality sweet or
photo album ready.
Some mother-daughter stories
resemble dramatic paperbacks
and dystopias.
Some mothers take
annual pictures with their daughters and
give them
cotton candy pink wardrobes and
manicuring kits and
pictures of themselves in
golden lockets.
Some mothers pass down
trinkets from their mothers.
Some mothers give their daughters
fluffy house slippers and
cookie dough recipes.
But one mother raised
a nation with the
gifts she gave.
To one she gave all of her empathy
so she could be rightfully hard.
To another all of her wanderlust
so she could stand being at home.
To another all of her passion
so she could stand the darkness.
To another all of her love for the church
so she could withstand isolation.
To another all of her ability to recall the good
so she could manage the bad.
To another all of her yearning to teach
to prevent her from mothering all.
To another all of her sciences
to keep her eyes in one direction.
To another all of her drive to fight
to endure the world's coldness in peace.
And all the gifts did pollinate like
wildflowers in the world,
sometimes creating beautiful fields,
sometimes creating teams of freedom fighters,
sometimes creating centers of mercy,
sometimes creating perfect chaos,
sometimes creating sadness and suffering,
sometimes creating massive destruction,
sometimes redefining classrooms,
sometimes redefining prisons,
sometimes redefining households,
sometimes redefining cities.
Out we went to be heartbreakers and healers,
deceivers and truthtellers,
fearful and beautiful,
raging and repentant,
familial but private,
sensual but separated,
all all all of those things connected like
a network of dandelion flowers and
blown out with
one woman's wish to
expand and expand and expand.
All blown out from one hand with
a single breath of hope from
one woman willing to
let them all go and go and go.
And here she stands uncelebrated.
There are no movies made about mothers who
give all of their gifts away to
disappear into obscurity.
They don't write cards that say,
"Thanks mom for letting us dream for things that
you could not provide."
There are no popular books about lives
that writhe and shrivel under the weight
of motherhood.
Nobody's broadcasting specials about
mothers who give up their very minds
in their efforts to tell their children to
go and go and go.
But this is what one mother gave
regardless of the ending.
She gave all
so we could all
have some.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, May 9, 2015
"A Lazarus' Wife," A Poetry Post
The first time it was told to me that
wives received their dead to life,
my eyes shot open in surprise,
a sudden, skeptical surprise.
Now that I've seen the work at play I
cannot fathom what to say to those who
cannot understand the
ease with which God can grant life.
Quite frankly, I'm a sickler's wife.
I've seen the sleep that erases the line between
the living and the dead and
watched a man wake up instead.
I've cried the tears that widows cry and
had the bad news calls in mind and
thought ahead to all the acts required
when a husband's died.
I've slept the brief unsettled rests and
smiled the smile of "done my best" and
yet,
as much as I've seen death,
I've seen death come and
seen death left.
I have drawn the long and hot sad baths and
laughed the "Those were good times" laughs and
grieved for wasted times gone past like
many almost widows have.
And yet,
when I have cried and cried and
blown my nose and wiped my eyes and
drained the bath and toweled dry I've found
a dead man
still alive.
I have seen the run come quicks and
thought to myself "This is it" and
hung suspended between faith and
fear that God won't heal the sick.
I have laid my dryness bare and
rubbed Moringa oil in my hair and
dressed myself to see the grave of
men that God did choose to save.
I have thus concluded, thus,
that life is bigger than all of us.
It is God's will that lets some live and
lets some go on into Heaven.
But I can say I'm not surprised by
when a man lives when he should die since
I have dressed for many deaths and
instead have seen resurrections.
-T. D. James-Moss
wives received their dead to life,
my eyes shot open in surprise,
a sudden, skeptical surprise.
Now that I've seen the work at play I
cannot fathom what to say to those who
cannot understand the
ease with which God can grant life.
Quite frankly, I'm a sickler's wife.
I've seen the sleep that erases the line between
the living and the dead and
watched a man wake up instead.
I've cried the tears that widows cry and
had the bad news calls in mind and
thought ahead to all the acts required
when a husband's died.
I've slept the brief unsettled rests and
smiled the smile of "done my best" and
yet,
as much as I've seen death,
I've seen death come and
seen death left.
I have drawn the long and hot sad baths and
laughed the "Those were good times" laughs and
grieved for wasted times gone past like
many almost widows have.
And yet,
when I have cried and cried and
blown my nose and wiped my eyes and
drained the bath and toweled dry I've found
a dead man
still alive.
I have seen the run come quicks and
thought to myself "This is it" and
hung suspended between faith and
fear that God won't heal the sick.
I have laid my dryness bare and
rubbed Moringa oil in my hair and
dressed myself to see the grave of
men that God did choose to save.
I have thus concluded, thus,
that life is bigger than all of us.
It is God's will that lets some live and
lets some go on into Heaven.
But I can say I'm not surprised by
when a man lives when he should die since
I have dressed for many deaths and
instead have seen resurrections.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, May 1, 2015
"The Secret of Womanhood," A Poetry Post
You spend your whole young life
trying to be attractive
to the opposite sex
only to find out
you were made to be
a terrifying force
in the universe.
-T. D. James-Moss
trying to be attractive
to the opposite sex
only to find out
you were made to be
a terrifying force
in the universe.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, April 25, 2015
"You Know He Loves You," A Poetry Post
You know he loves you when he
washes out the bathtub
after a shower because
he knows you like to
sit down in the bath.
You know he loves you when
he puts down the toilet seat
even though you don't
ask.
You know he loves you when
he goes to work with a limp
to put food on the table and
put money in on the rent.
You know he loves you when
he handles that trying child and
let's you have a midday sleep.
You know he loves you when
he brings home a zero calorie soda or a
100 calorie snack to
support your eating habits.
He loves you when he
takes the time to
know your eating habits.
You know he loves you when
he backs the car into the
parking space on the night before you
have to carry down
armfuls of materials for
the big presentation.
He loves you when he
lets you cover his
car seat with
crap for your busy
work days.
He loves you when he
is willing to stock the trunk
with your crap and
hand you your
briefcase.
Love sometimes ain't about
boxes of sugary candies or
big trips to big cities or
bundles of money spent on jewelry.
Love can be giving you
more than your share of the bed
because you
sleep wild
when you feel stressed.
Love can be
fixing you chamomile and
honey tea when you have
sinus infections.
Love can be silence
on your side of the house
during the night
of the big game.
Love can be found more in some nothings
than it might be found in big somethings.
You know he loves you when
and only when he
shows you.
-T. D. James-Moss
washes out the bathtub
after a shower because
he knows you like to
sit down in the bath.
You know he loves you when
he puts down the toilet seat
even though you don't
ask.
You know he loves you when
he goes to work with a limp
to put food on the table and
put money in on the rent.
You know he loves you when
he handles that trying child and
let's you have a midday sleep.
You know he loves you when
he brings home a zero calorie soda or a
100 calorie snack to
support your eating habits.
He loves you when he
takes the time to
know your eating habits.
You know he loves you when
he backs the car into the
parking space on the night before you
have to carry down
armfuls of materials for
the big presentation.
He loves you when he
lets you cover his
car seat with
crap for your busy
work days.
He loves you when he
is willing to stock the trunk
with your crap and
hand you your
briefcase.
Love sometimes ain't about
boxes of sugary candies or
big trips to big cities or
bundles of money spent on jewelry.
Love can be giving you
more than your share of the bed
because you
sleep wild
when you feel stressed.
Love can be
fixing you chamomile and
honey tea when you have
sinus infections.
Love can be silence
on your side of the house
during the night
of the big game.
Love can be found more in some nothings
than it might be found in big somethings.
You know he loves you when
and only when he
shows you.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, April 18, 2015
"The Great Deception," A Poetry Post
If you run fast,
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is run,
every day,
and watch the time,
watch the time,
watch the time,
and one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You're fast!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
If you got the look,
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is work it,
keep it fit and tight and toned,
paint your face in the perfectest hues,
dress yourself in the most relevant,
and one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You're beautiful!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
If you got ups,
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is take a hundred
free throw shots a day and
a hundred shots from the outside and
play street ball and school ball
every free moment you have and
one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You got skills!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
If you got lyrics,
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is cut a mix tape
with the hottest rhythms the world has
ever heard and string together a
number of choice words over a
catchy beat and
one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You the king of these streets!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
You won't need anything but the
ability to manage a checkbook and
the ability to read and understand a
legal contract and
the ability to maintain
healthy relationships and
the ability to communicate clearly
your true expectations.
You won't need anything but
the ability to check yourself when you
go too far and
the ability to express strongly in print your
objections when necessary and
the ability to make the right phone call
to the right person and
say the right things at the
right time to
hopefully save yourself from the flames of
destruction.
You won't need anything except
the ability to delay gratification and
the ability to withstand temptation and
the ability to be intellectually and
economically flexible.
You won't need anything but a
miracle to make up for
all the time you wasted
not getting all the things you
needed because you thought
all it took was a single novelty skill to
make it in this world.
The new and beautiful are new and beautiful
for a moment.
The great deception is that if you
live your new and beautiful out loud,
you will never become old and
outmoded.
And the truth is
you need a whole lot more of everything else
if you want even a
little chance of
enjoying your exceptionality
in a big way.
-T. D. James-Moss
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is run,
every day,
and watch the time,
watch the time,
watch the time,
and one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You're fast!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
If you got the look,
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is work it,
keep it fit and tight and toned,
paint your face in the perfectest hues,
dress yourself in the most relevant,
and one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You're beautiful!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
If you got ups,
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is take a hundred
free throw shots a day and
a hundred shots from the outside and
play street ball and school ball
every free moment you have and
one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You got skills!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
If you got lyrics,
you don't need anything.
All you gotta do is cut a mix tape
with the hottest rhythms the world has
ever heard and string together a
number of choice words over a
catchy beat and
one day somebody gone come along and say,
"My God! You the king of these streets!"
Then,
you won't need anything.
You won't need anything but the
ability to manage a checkbook and
the ability to read and understand a
legal contract and
the ability to maintain
healthy relationships and
the ability to communicate clearly
your true expectations.
You won't need anything but
the ability to check yourself when you
go too far and
the ability to express strongly in print your
objections when necessary and
the ability to make the right phone call
to the right person and
say the right things at the
right time to
hopefully save yourself from the flames of
destruction.
You won't need anything except
the ability to delay gratification and
the ability to withstand temptation and
the ability to be intellectually and
economically flexible.
You won't need anything but a
miracle to make up for
all the time you wasted
not getting all the things you
needed because you thought
all it took was a single novelty skill to
make it in this world.
The new and beautiful are new and beautiful
for a moment.
The great deception is that if you
live your new and beautiful out loud,
you will never become old and
outmoded.
And the truth is
you need a whole lot more of everything else
if you want even a
little chance of
enjoying your exceptionality
in a big way.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, April 10, 2015
"Heavy Chested," A Poetry Post
When grandma and them used to say
a gal was heavy chested
they suggested it like
"heavy" was a state of width or girth,
like the "heavy" was the bounce
or the jiggle,
like the "heavy" was a
part of the overall body weight.
What they didn't say was
heavy chested is like
having a hard time
finding a bra to
hold all the parts in place that
heavy chested is
going out of the way to
find the right cup size on the
right band that
heavy chested is
rearranging
the way you sleep on your
pillow
so you don't get your
breasts all
twisted up under your
forearms and
shoved up in your
face that
heavy chested is
having to lock them thangs down
when you have to move any faster than a
brisk walk that
heavy chested is like a
perpetual state of caution
when you walk into a crowd
where there is a remote possibility
for rubbing up your
fluffy stuff against somebody's
upper arm by mistake.
This is what they did not say,
but we understand that.
How could they have said it and
still be muted?
Didn't they say,
"Don't let yourself jiggle all over the place.
Get you a girdle and
hold it all in?"
-T. D. James-Moss
a gal was heavy chested
they suggested it like
"heavy" was a state of width or girth,
like the "heavy" was the bounce
or the jiggle,
like the "heavy" was a
part of the overall body weight.
What they didn't say was
heavy chested is like
having a hard time
finding a bra to
hold all the parts in place that
heavy chested is
going out of the way to
find the right cup size on the
right band that
heavy chested is
rearranging
the way you sleep on your
pillow
so you don't get your
breasts all
twisted up under your
forearms and
shoved up in your
face that
heavy chested is
having to lock them thangs down
when you have to move any faster than a
brisk walk that
heavy chested is like a
perpetual state of caution
when you walk into a crowd
where there is a remote possibility
for rubbing up your
fluffy stuff against somebody's
upper arm by mistake.
This is what they did not say,
but we understand that.
How could they have said it and
still be muted?
Didn't they say,
"Don't let yourself jiggle all over the place.
Get you a girdle and
hold it all in?"
-T. D. James-Moss
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
"For Karyn Washington and All Black Superwomen," A Poetry Post
To all you who are marvelous and
to be marveled at,
please remember that
every man or woman in the
superhuman state,
every wearer of the "save the world"
cape or no cape,
had a team.
In Superman's loneliness he made a
mess
until he discovered his
connection to
Krypton and
found himself surrounded by
The Family.
But that's fiction.
Even historical badasses
had their armies,
their homies,
their brothers,
their lovers,
their friends.
But that's history.
Even our current president,
who yes--is a man--
has his posse and
his security and his
cabinet and his
VP.
But that's a man.
Even Michelle Obama has her
mother and her daughters and
her supporters and her advisors
and her stylists and her
campaign managers.
But that's the president's wife.
Even the Kardashians have their
sisters and their mother and their
followers and their friends and their
lovers and their television cameras
to keep them company.
But they famous.
Even your mother,
in her strongest or weakest moments,
had at least one connection--
had her auntie or her sister or her
mother or her girl down the street
or her long-distance friend or the
first lady at the church--
to remind her of her humanity!
To say to her,
when you fall down
it hurts!
When you get cut,
you bleed!
You got weaknesses!
To remind her that her mind
could be hacked,
that her friends
could become enemies,
that her strength could be
a weakness!
Ladies!!!
All of you lifters of heavy weights,
upon the loss of one of the greats
(Ms. Karyn Washington--who perhaps--
became the Atlas type who was intended
only for fiction and circumspection),
let us remember remember remember the
truth about the Black superwoman.
She has always been one of a crew.
She has always lifted up her voice in a chorus.
She has always poured out her power into her children.
She has always linked arms with other marvels,
extended her strength to the falling and found arms to
catch her when she fell.
She is not some singular voice in the wilderness
mounted up like an undead Phoenix.
She is a part of a Parthenon of passionate princesses
that strike fear into the hearts of all traveling packs
worldwide.
It is time to remember, remember, remember
the key to your superhuman strength.
Remember your God,
remember your mother and
remember your self.
No where on earth
has anything great been done
without a true and open connection
to another superhuman strength.
-T. D. James-Moss
to be marveled at,
please remember that
every man or woman in the
superhuman state,
every wearer of the "save the world"
cape or no cape,
had a team.
In Superman's loneliness he made a
mess
until he discovered his
connection to
Krypton and
found himself surrounded by
The Family.
But that's fiction.
Even historical badasses
had their armies,
their homies,
their brothers,
their lovers,
their friends.
But that's history.
Even our current president,
who yes--is a man--
has his posse and
his security and his
cabinet and his
VP.
But that's a man.
Even Michelle Obama has her
mother and her daughters and
her supporters and her advisors
and her stylists and her
campaign managers.
But that's the president's wife.
Even the Kardashians have their
sisters and their mother and their
followers and their friends and their
lovers and their television cameras
to keep them company.
But they famous.
Even your mother,
in her strongest or weakest moments,
had at least one connection--
had her auntie or her sister or her
mother or her girl down the street
or her long-distance friend or the
first lady at the church--
to remind her of her humanity!
To say to her,
when you fall down
it hurts!
When you get cut,
you bleed!
You got weaknesses!
To remind her that her mind
could be hacked,
that her friends
could become enemies,
that her strength could be
a weakness!
Ladies!!!
All of you lifters of heavy weights,
upon the loss of one of the greats
(Ms. Karyn Washington--who perhaps--
became the Atlas type who was intended
only for fiction and circumspection),
let us remember remember remember the
truth about the Black superwoman.
She has always been one of a crew.
She has always lifted up her voice in a chorus.
She has always poured out her power into her children.
She has always linked arms with other marvels,
extended her strength to the falling and found arms to
catch her when she fell.
She is not some singular voice in the wilderness
mounted up like an undead Phoenix.
She is a part of a Parthenon of passionate princesses
that strike fear into the hearts of all traveling packs
worldwide.
It is time to remember, remember, remember
the key to your superhuman strength.
Remember your God,
remember your mother and
remember your self.
No where on earth
has anything great been done
without a true and open connection
to another superhuman strength.
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, April 6, 2015
"My Kenyan Sister," A Poetry Post
My Kenyan sister,
I am amazed by your bravery.
Because you hold up under the
threat of violence for
choosing to be strong for
choosing to live out your
divine and rightful purpose,
I can't help but smile at your regality.
Because you go to the market
on foot or by transport
whether or not the latest
zealot is waiting to
wreak havoc
upon your day,
I celebrate you.
Because you still reserve the right to
accept or disallow the
treatment of any one of our
brothers--Kenyan or other--
I thank you.
I thank you for holding the line,
for demanding the right to
live without fear,
shop without fear,
pray without fear,
school without fear,
play without fear,
speak without fear,
wake without fear and
sleep without fear.
My sister.
Every step you take into
perseverance
is a sign to the world.
As long as there is a land named Kenya,
which we expect forever...
As long is there is a continent named Africa,
which we expect forever...
As long as there is a faction riding
for the belittlement and
debasement of the African woman,
which we expect--unfortunately--
forever...
There will be a Kenyan sister
stepping out of the house on a Tuesday
walking down to the market for
fresh fruits and vegetables with
only her day's goals
on her mind.
For we will not be dissuaded.
We will not be laid down into a life of
hiding, of shameful curdling,
of depression or depravity.
My sister,
when the fires die down,
we both know
(you and I)
that there will be a collection of
mothers, daughters, neices, aunts and
grandmothers standing in the midst
of the mess hollering out
"Now WHAT? God help us,
we will not be defeated! We will not be
upended! The Kenyan woman
will BE KENYA
forever!"
-T. D. James-Moss
I am amazed by your bravery.
Because you hold up under the
threat of violence for
choosing to be strong for
choosing to live out your
divine and rightful purpose,
I can't help but smile at your regality.
Because you go to the market
on foot or by transport
whether or not the latest
zealot is waiting to
wreak havoc
upon your day,
I celebrate you.
Because you still reserve the right to
accept or disallow the
treatment of any one of our
brothers--Kenyan or other--
I thank you.
I thank you for holding the line,
for demanding the right to
live without fear,
shop without fear,
pray without fear,
school without fear,
play without fear,
speak without fear,
wake without fear and
sleep without fear.
My sister.
Every step you take into
perseverance
is a sign to the world.
As long as there is a land named Kenya,
which we expect forever...
As long is there is a continent named Africa,
which we expect forever...
As long as there is a faction riding
for the belittlement and
debasement of the African woman,
which we expect--unfortunately--
forever...
There will be a Kenyan sister
stepping out of the house on a Tuesday
walking down to the market for
fresh fruits and vegetables with
only her day's goals
on her mind.
For we will not be dissuaded.
We will not be laid down into a life of
hiding, of shameful curdling,
of depression or depravity.
My sister,
when the fires die down,
we both know
(you and I)
that there will be a collection of
mothers, daughters, neices, aunts and
grandmothers standing in the midst
of the mess hollering out
"Now WHAT? God help us,
we will not be defeated! We will not be
upended! The Kenyan woman
will BE KENYA
forever!"
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, April 4, 2015
"Holy Wars," A Poetry Post
It's remarkable how
people who claim they are
close to God
go out into the world to
force people into
choosing paths of life
apart from
willful decision.
God himself created
willful beings who could
say they believe or
say they don't believe or
say they will go or
say they won't go or
say they will do or
say they won't do but
people who are "close to God"
determine that their right is to
make those who are free agree to
whatever these godlings please.
Whether you are Muslim or Christian,
Black or White or bronzed by the
beautiful sun you live under,
you are free to live apart from the
bondage of these holy wars.
If you want to lie and cheat and steal,
you are free to do so according to your
conscience, as long as you are
willing to accept the consequences
of your actions.
If you want to stand arrogantly
against all logic,
you are free to do so
as long as you can afford to live
cleaning up the messes left after
blunder after blunder.
If you want to close your eyes to
every universal truth and
do whatever you choose
without regard for the lives of
those in your immediate and
global communities,
you may do as you want to.
That there are holy wars is proof that
you are free to choose.
If man could truly be restrained by
ANY OUTSIDER'S INFLUENCE,
without regard for his own decisions,
then we could stop people from
killing each other to
find peace.
-T. D. James-Moss
people who claim they are
close to God
go out into the world to
force people into
choosing paths of life
apart from
willful decision.
God himself created
willful beings who could
say they believe or
say they don't believe or
say they will go or
say they won't go or
say they will do or
say they won't do but
people who are "close to God"
determine that their right is to
make those who are free agree to
whatever these godlings please.
Whether you are Muslim or Christian,
Black or White or bronzed by the
beautiful sun you live under,
you are free to live apart from the
bondage of these holy wars.
If you want to lie and cheat and steal,
you are free to do so according to your
conscience, as long as you are
willing to accept the consequences
of your actions.
If you want to stand arrogantly
against all logic,
you are free to do so
as long as you can afford to live
cleaning up the messes left after
blunder after blunder.
If you want to close your eyes to
every universal truth and
do whatever you choose
without regard for the lives of
those in your immediate and
global communities,
you may do as you want to.
That there are holy wars is proof that
you are free to choose.
If man could truly be restrained by
ANY OUTSIDER'S INFLUENCE,
without regard for his own decisions,
then we could stop people from
killing each other to
find peace.
-T. D. James-Moss
"Poor Girl's Praise," A Poetry Post
I woke up this morning.
Lord I thank you.
When I sat up,
I felt good.
Lord I thank you.
When I reached around my
neck to
rub my shoulders,
I felt no pain
because I
slept on
a pillow that
supports my
shoulder weight.
Lord I thank you.
When I stood I
felt rested because I
sleep in a bed that
holds me like a
queen
when I lay my
body down.
Lord I thank you.
When I walked into my
bathroom,
my feet were warm
because the
carpet greets me when I
put down my first step and my
pink cotton slippers
wrap my feet in
comfort
before I cross over onto the
cold morning tile.
Lord I thank you.
Lord I thank you because I have
slept on bare concrete floors
covered with cheap government tile and
used carpet pads
for my pillow and
slept many nights with
pain and
got up many mornings in the
cold and
had to tiptoe
across the floor in my
bare feet and
now a poor girl remembers that
every little thing
every little thing
every little moment is a moment for
praise
praise
praise.
Lord I thank you.
Lord I thank you.
Lord I thank you.
-T. D. James-Moss
Lord I thank you.
When I sat up,
I felt good.
Lord I thank you.
When I reached around my
neck to
rub my shoulders,
I felt no pain
because I
slept on
a pillow that
supports my
shoulder weight.
Lord I thank you.
When I stood I
felt rested because I
sleep in a bed that
holds me like a
queen
when I lay my
body down.
Lord I thank you.
When I walked into my
bathroom,
my feet were warm
because the
carpet greets me when I
put down my first step and my
pink cotton slippers
wrap my feet in
comfort
before I cross over onto the
cold morning tile.
Lord I thank you.
Lord I thank you because I have
slept on bare concrete floors
covered with cheap government tile and
used carpet pads
for my pillow and
slept many nights with
pain and
got up many mornings in the
cold and
had to tiptoe
across the floor in my
bare feet and
now a poor girl remembers that
every little thing
every little thing
every little moment is a moment for
praise
praise
praise.
Lord I thank you.
Lord I thank you.
Lord I thank you.
-T. D. James-Moss
"The Spots," A Poetry Post
In the end it was the
balding spots that
made me love my
natural hair.
I suppose I could have
preferred the straight look,
but I couldn't find it
anywhere.
I permed and pulled and
pressed and cut and
did all I could to
achieve success.
But as days went by,
in two weeks or less,
the kinky came back and my
hair looked a mess.
So what could I do?
I retouched when it krinkled,
and I hot combed my tresses
as soon as they wrinkled.
In time I would learn that
before forced to fake it,
my head would revolt and
traverse the earth naked.
I decided; I knew truly!
My head holds my greatest treasures!
The least I can do now is
treat my scalp a little better.
So I cut off the damaged hair,
whatever bits were left,
and I grew back my kinky tresses
in the way that they love best.
When my hair asks me for water,
I embrace it in the bath.
And when my hair asks me for sun,
I wash and pick and let it go.
When my hair asks me for moisture,
I massage in the earth's oils.
When my hair asks for a breather,
I fluff it wildly and leave it so.
And that's why my hair is growing.
I believe it and I see.
I can't deny my very nature.
It is my hair.
It's just like me.
-T. D. James-Moss
balding spots that
made me love my
natural hair.
I suppose I could have
preferred the straight look,
but I couldn't find it
anywhere.
I permed and pulled and
pressed and cut and
did all I could to
achieve success.
But as days went by,
in two weeks or less,
the kinky came back and my
hair looked a mess.
So what could I do?
I retouched when it krinkled,
and I hot combed my tresses
as soon as they wrinkled.
In time I would learn that
before forced to fake it,
my head would revolt and
traverse the earth naked.
I decided; I knew truly!
My head holds my greatest treasures!
The least I can do now is
treat my scalp a little better.
So I cut off the damaged hair,
whatever bits were left,
and I grew back my kinky tresses
in the way that they love best.
When my hair asks me for water,
I embrace it in the bath.
And when my hair asks me for sun,
I wash and pick and let it go.
When my hair asks me for moisture,
I massage in the earth's oils.
When my hair asks for a breather,
I fluff it wildly and leave it so.
And that's why my hair is growing.
I believe it and I see.
I can't deny my very nature.
It is my hair.
It's just like me.
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, March 30, 2015
"Value," A Poetry Post
I don't need to
come into your house to
view your priceless
artifacts.
Each bit of your value
can be found in things you've
thrown away.
Things you put aside,
laid down, dismissed or
left behind you.
We can find your truest worth in things you've
entrenched in the earth; in things you've
cast aside as meaningless; in things you've
chosen to bind or break.
That's where we find your courage,
your morals, your character;
we can behold your whole person
in what you didn't and do not want.
Don't believe for a moment that your
wealth or lack thereof is
connected to the
trinkets that you collect.
In retrospect,
you'll find more of your lasting cache
in understanding all the whys of
what you've cast off in your trash.
-T. D. James-Moss
come into your house to
view your priceless
artifacts.
Each bit of your value
can be found in things you've
thrown away.
Things you put aside,
laid down, dismissed or
left behind you.
We can find your truest worth in things you've
entrenched in the earth; in things you've
cast aside as meaningless; in things you've
chosen to bind or break.
That's where we find your courage,
your morals, your character;
we can behold your whole person
in what you didn't and do not want.
Don't believe for a moment that your
wealth or lack thereof is
connected to the
trinkets that you collect.
In retrospect,
you'll find more of your lasting cache
in understanding all the whys of
what you've cast off in your trash.
-T. D. James-Moss
"The Cessation," A Poetry Post
If you don't stop drinking,
your son will find you
standing on a street corner
in a mini skirt, holding a
100s slim cigarette between your
middle and forefinger,
wearing black fishnets and
hooker's heels.
If you don't stop drinking,
every thing you own and can own will
perish in an instant,
lost to your own depravity.
You are bred for commitment and
fulfillment.
If you don't stop drinking,
you will commit to doing it often and
doing it well.
You will complete your destruction
fully in a
drunken
stupor.
Don't listen to them claim that a
decanter's glass a day will keep the
doctor away.
If you don't stop drinking,
you will perish in a cadre of doctor's visits.
Your wealth will be consumed by
attempt after foolish attempt to stop
one addiction by another,
and you will die unhelped and
unholy.
You can be saved,
but your right to enjoy this
salvation will be halted.
We cannot save your thinking if
you don't stop drinking.
I place before you life and death this day because
it seems to me
that you prefer
when we reason this way.
These are your options.
This is your moment.
Choose.
-T. D. James-Moss
your son will find you
standing on a street corner
in a mini skirt, holding a
100s slim cigarette between your
middle and forefinger,
wearing black fishnets and
hooker's heels.
If you don't stop drinking,
every thing you own and can own will
perish in an instant,
lost to your own depravity.
You are bred for commitment and
fulfillment.
If you don't stop drinking,
you will commit to doing it often and
doing it well.
You will complete your destruction
fully in a
drunken
stupor.
Don't listen to them claim that a
decanter's glass a day will keep the
doctor away.
If you don't stop drinking,
you will perish in a cadre of doctor's visits.
Your wealth will be consumed by
attempt after foolish attempt to stop
one addiction by another,
and you will die unhelped and
unholy.
You can be saved,
but your right to enjoy this
salvation will be halted.
We cannot save your thinking if
you don't stop drinking.
I place before you life and death this day because
it seems to me
that you prefer
when we reason this way.
These are your options.
This is your moment.
Choose.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, March 20, 2015
"Two Postures," A Poetry Post
When I first learned to suffer,
I used to lock my jaws in response,
hold my breath and grit my teeth,
squint my eyes and
force a mechanized smile.
Cheese.
I increased my walking pace and
worked late,
anticipated the pains of
disappointment and disillusionment
so I could
wince early,
sat up watching trilogies and
stretched out lethargically across my
king-sized bed to
worry quietly
at night.
I traded the cathartic for the
arthritic and immobilizing stasis of
denial.
Today I suffered better.
I breathed deeply.
I spoke slowly, and
every facial expression--
though well intentioned--
was honest.
I walked slowly and
planted my feet heavily,
wore my relaxed fit brassiere,
spent the day saying to God,
"I sure feel worried... I sure feel worried...
I sure feel worried, but I know You can see me."
I worked hard but I left early,
came on home and slept,
slept, slept...
Got up again to face that situation.
Hello. I see you there.
Started over.
Breathed deeply.
Planted my feet heavily.
Smiled. Meant it.
Just kept moving,
but in that suffering speed.
That's how you drive around a curve in the dark.
You don't speed up and
hold your breath like a
teenager on a
Saturday night joy ride.
You slow down and
look off to the
right shoulder knowing that
oncoming traffic will be
blinding and uncomfortable
for just a moment.
You don't pull over and cry because you
met with a curve.
You just
adjust
your driving.
-T. D. James-Moss
I used to lock my jaws in response,
hold my breath and grit my teeth,
squint my eyes and
force a mechanized smile.
Cheese.
I increased my walking pace and
worked late,
anticipated the pains of
disappointment and disillusionment
so I could
wince early,
sat up watching trilogies and
stretched out lethargically across my
king-sized bed to
worry quietly
at night.
I traded the cathartic for the
arthritic and immobilizing stasis of
denial.
Today I suffered better.
I breathed deeply.
I spoke slowly, and
every facial expression--
though well intentioned--
was honest.
I walked slowly and
planted my feet heavily,
wore my relaxed fit brassiere,
spent the day saying to God,
"I sure feel worried... I sure feel worried...
I sure feel worried, but I know You can see me."
I worked hard but I left early,
came on home and slept,
slept, slept...
Got up again to face that situation.
Hello. I see you there.
Started over.
Breathed deeply.
Planted my feet heavily.
Smiled. Meant it.
Just kept moving,
but in that suffering speed.
That's how you drive around a curve in the dark.
You don't speed up and
hold your breath like a
teenager on a
Saturday night joy ride.
You slow down and
look off to the
right shoulder knowing that
oncoming traffic will be
blinding and uncomfortable
for just a moment.
You don't pull over and cry because you
met with a curve.
You just
adjust
your driving.
-T. D. James-Moss
"The Schism," A Poetry Post
If you live a life of purpose,
50% of the people who knew you
will say you were brilliant and calculating,
committed to a fault,
engaging and inviting.
Inspiring.
50% of the people who knew you
will say you were
psychotic and fixated,
entirely overzealous,
overwhelming, overly hopeful and
ridiculous.
And since you won't be here to
defend yourself,
neither side will
commit to its theory
100%.
You might as well
be ridiculous
now.
-T. D. James-Moss
50% of the people who knew you
will say you were brilliant and calculating,
committed to a fault,
engaging and inviting.
Inspiring.
50% of the people who knew you
will say you were
psychotic and fixated,
entirely overzealous,
overwhelming, overly hopeful and
ridiculous.
And since you won't be here to
defend yourself,
neither side will
commit to its theory
100%.
You might as well
be ridiculous
now.
-T. D. James-Moss
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
"The Dog's Honor," A Poetry Post
-Inspired by and Dedicated to Ms. Donna Lynah, a Righteous Judge-
When a man decides to own a dog,
he researches to find his
desired pedigree.
He certifies that his
breed is pure or
rightly mixed to
be sure of the right fit.
He goes to the proper officials
to ensure his friend's health and
secures documentation if
the match might bring wealth.
He purchases the foods that will
prolong his friend's life and he
takes his friend for walks and talks
in the cool of the day and in the
middle of the night.
He assumes the role of
provider and defender;
he trains the new relation like it
never lived before.
He gets down on a knee,
or two,
to communicate his wants and needs.
He responds to its cries and whimpers.
When it gets hungry,
he feeds.
He schedules
regular checkups and
takes time to look into its eyes,
its mouth,
to look at its paws for signs of
injury, infection, depression or
other ills.
That empty water bowl?
He fills.
And if his dog gets away,
he feels bereft.
He searches, he searches, he searches
to secure its return.
That's how a man owns his dog.
So how seriously
do you think
a man gets
when he owns
his woman?
-T. D. James-Moss
When a man decides to own a dog,
he researches to find his
desired pedigree.
He certifies that his
breed is pure or
rightly mixed to
be sure of the right fit.
He goes to the proper officials
to ensure his friend's health and
secures documentation if
the match might bring wealth.
He purchases the foods that will
prolong his friend's life and he
takes his friend for walks and talks
in the cool of the day and in the
middle of the night.
He assumes the role of
provider and defender;
he trains the new relation like it
never lived before.
He gets down on a knee,
or two,
to communicate his wants and needs.
He responds to its cries and whimpers.
When it gets hungry,
he feeds.
He schedules
regular checkups and
takes time to look into its eyes,
its mouth,
to look at its paws for signs of
injury, infection, depression or
other ills.
That empty water bowl?
He fills.
And if his dog gets away,
he feels bereft.
He searches, he searches, he searches
to secure its return.
That's how a man owns his dog.
So how seriously
do you think
a man gets
when he owns
his woman?
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, January 26, 2015
"Legalization," A Poetry Post
Once they legalize all the illicit drugs--
the PCPs and the LSDs and the
crack and coke and meth to smoke,
marijuana and every potent plant used to
get men high in our times--
all ya'll drug dealers gone need
something else to do.
Seems like ya'll should get ahead.
We'll need thousands more morticians for
thousands more dead and
addiction specialists for
those who can't cope and
suicide prevention workers for
those who lose hope and
Legitimate psychiatrists for
those who lose their minds and
divorce lawyers and counselors for
those who lose their wives and
Workforce rehab workers for
those who lose their jobs and
social services workers for
those who lose their homes and their
kids and their families to
nights that they get high
We gone need thousands of police men
to pull 'em over when they drive and
a whole force of growers just to
grow they drugs in fields and
a whole mess of scientists to
get them maximum yield and
A whole new crew of tax collectors to
collect the government's due and
a whole new chain of undergrad schools
for drug dealers like you.
If you go legal now,
you'll probably get ahead.
-T. D. James-Moss
the PCPs and the LSDs and the
crack and coke and meth to smoke,
marijuana and every potent plant used to
get men high in our times--
all ya'll drug dealers gone need
something else to do.
Seems like ya'll should get ahead.
We'll need thousands more morticians for
thousands more dead and
addiction specialists for
those who can't cope and
suicide prevention workers for
those who lose hope and
Legitimate psychiatrists for
those who lose their minds and
divorce lawyers and counselors for
those who lose their wives and
Workforce rehab workers for
those who lose their jobs and
social services workers for
those who lose their homes and their
kids and their families to
nights that they get high
We gone need thousands of police men
to pull 'em over when they drive and
a whole force of growers just to
grow they drugs in fields and
a whole mess of scientists to
get them maximum yield and
A whole new crew of tax collectors to
collect the government's due and
a whole new chain of undergrad schools
for drug dealers like you.
If you go legal now,
you'll probably get ahead.
-T. D. James-Moss
Monday, January 19, 2015
"Young Girls and Yeast Rolls," A Poetry Post
Young girls need
yeast roll recipes and
mouths to feed.
Teenage females
bogged down in hormonal
wastelands...
20-somethings
worried about the
possible permanence of
singleness...
30-somethings
stressed about the
hindrance of their
progress...
All you need is a
big red bowl and a
big spoon.
2 packs of active dry yeast
A little salt and sugar
Lard and butter
Water
A big bag of flour and
direction
Muffin pans
For all your worrying,
yeast comes alive
when it's time.
For all your mixing in,
dough comes together
when it's ready.
For all your appetite,
the batch doubles
when it doubles.
And when it rises,
it's got to be beat down again
before it achieves it's
best leavening.
And you still don't have bread.
After swinging that spoon around and around,
and waiting,
and punching,
and waiting,
you still have to grease up your hands,
turn that bread out on a floured surface and
knead... knead... knead...
shape...
knead... knead... knead...
shape...
divide...
prepare the pans and
preheat the stove.
Time the baking just right.
The higher up you go,
the more delicate the process.
Depending on your experience,
sometimes you lose a lot of the benefits by
putting the yeast in too hot water or
mixing the flour in just too fast or
washing some good parts off your hands with the waste or
letting that good work go unmonitored and flow
over the side of the bowl,
all over the countertop and
onto the floor below.
Sometimes it takes you hours to get it
kneaded and
divided and
seated in the muffin pans
and placed into the baker
just so.
Sometimes you mess around and
fall asleep on the best time to
remove the pans.
But sometimes,
you set that yeast perfect.
You mix those dry goods perfect.
You time that doubling best.
That punch down is a pleasure.
That second rise brings a smile.
That knead and shape is simple.
Your preheat comes naturally.
Your baking is magically even...
And the scent of your intended purpose
wafts into the lives of those around you,
interrupting their thinking space and
making their mouths water in
anticipation of what you've got coming
next.
Young girls need yeast roll recipes
to understand their risings and their fallings,
their beat downs and their comeuppances,
their molding and their separation,
their waiting and their emergence.
Big bowls and the
weight of a thick mix in the
crook of a small arm
Measuring cups and spoons requiring
precise attention
Housefuls and housefuls of
hungry mouths to feed to understand the way of
the female nature
Hot kitchens
Frustration and celebrations
Patience
Time
-T. D. James-Moss
yeast roll recipes and
mouths to feed.
Teenage females
bogged down in hormonal
wastelands...
20-somethings
worried about the
possible permanence of
singleness...
30-somethings
stressed about the
hindrance of their
progress...
All you need is a
big red bowl and a
big spoon.
2 packs of active dry yeast
A little salt and sugar
Lard and butter
Water
A big bag of flour and
direction
Muffin pans
For all your worrying,
yeast comes alive
when it's time.
For all your mixing in,
dough comes together
when it's ready.
For all your appetite,
the batch doubles
when it doubles.
And when it rises,
it's got to be beat down again
before it achieves it's
best leavening.
And you still don't have bread.
After swinging that spoon around and around,
and waiting,
and punching,
and waiting,
you still have to grease up your hands,
turn that bread out on a floured surface and
knead... knead... knead...
shape...
knead... knead... knead...
shape...
divide...
prepare the pans and
preheat the stove.
Time the baking just right.
The higher up you go,
the more delicate the process.
Depending on your experience,
sometimes you lose a lot of the benefits by
putting the yeast in too hot water or
mixing the flour in just too fast or
washing some good parts off your hands with the waste or
letting that good work go unmonitored and flow
over the side of the bowl,
all over the countertop and
onto the floor below.
Sometimes it takes you hours to get it
kneaded and
divided and
seated in the muffin pans
and placed into the baker
just so.
Sometimes you mess around and
fall asleep on the best time to
remove the pans.
But sometimes,
you set that yeast perfect.
You mix those dry goods perfect.
You time that doubling best.
That punch down is a pleasure.
That second rise brings a smile.
That knead and shape is simple.
Your preheat comes naturally.
Your baking is magically even...
And the scent of your intended purpose
wafts into the lives of those around you,
interrupting their thinking space and
making their mouths water in
anticipation of what you've got coming
next.
Young girls need yeast roll recipes
to understand their risings and their fallings,
their beat downs and their comeuppances,
their molding and their separation,
their waiting and their emergence.
Big bowls and the
weight of a thick mix in the
crook of a small arm
Measuring cups and spoons requiring
precise attention
Housefuls and housefuls of
hungry mouths to feed to understand the way of
the female nature
Hot kitchens
Frustration and celebrations
Patience
Time
-T. D. James-Moss
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