"Overflow," A Poetry Post

The overflow prayer is a 

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

"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

"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

"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

"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