"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

"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

"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
 

"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