"Woman," A Poetry Post

Some woman is
gonna give birth to the
mind that holds the
cures to the world's
great ills.

And she will
do what she will.

She could
wash that baby and
feed that baby and
love that baby and
raise that baby and
teach that baby and
chasten that baby and
then that child could
become someone that
could save the life of
some or one.

Or,
she could
birth that baby and
drop that baby and
not even bother to
wash that baby and
take that baby outside
with no wrap and
leave that mind
without consolation.

She could drink while pregnant and
never buy formula and
open her doors to
surrogate infidels and
eat real well
at the baby's expense and
forget about dinner.

She could
never open a book or
never talk about the weather or
never play the day's news.

She could
fill that baby's mind with
only rhythm
or only blues.

She could cry and cuss and
scream and slumber while
the rest of us wonder
why anybody would ever
have a child with
no intention of doing
a single motherly thing
about it.

And then,
that baby could
become some one
that never helps
any one...
not even
his or her
own self.

And we women,
being "the woman,"
would be entirely
responsible
for the
death of a generation
in the life
of the one
that baby
could have saved.

That's why
just
laying down with
anybody
is depraved.

A woman's fall
when she falls
is great.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The One-Child Policy," A Poetry Post

If you got at least one child
who is
tall enough to
stand on a
stepping stool and
reach the
kitchen sink and the
spigot,
you don't really need no
dishwasher since
you done
probably
washed a hundred
dishes in front of that baby
and
demonstrated
efficient
dish cleaning.

If you got at least
one rake and
one child
who is
strong enough to
rake leaves
in the yard,
you probably don't
need no
landscaper since
you done,
probably,
raked a hundred leaves on
three Saturdays and
demonstrated
good leaf raking.

If you got at least
one broom and
one child with
enough sense to see when
dirt in on the floor
in your house,
you probably don't
have to spend
every minute
cleaning up crumbs and
tracked in sand and grass from
outside since
you done,
probably,
swept a hundred dust pans
full of
trash and all that
up in his or her view and
he or she can
sweep
just as good as
you.

And if you got one child
tall enough and
strong enough and
sensible enough that
don't wash up and
don't rake and
don't sweep at all,
you might not have one child.

What you might have
is what the elders called
a problem.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Time," A Poetry Post for My Son

My son,
I am already an
outdated model.

I have already lived an
estimated third of my life
if I live to be 100...

and half of my life
if I live to be 60...

All of my purpose...
all of its fulfillment...
is wrapped up in
time.

Whatever I could do
between 12 and 22
is gone.

Whatever I could do
between 13 and 30
is gone.

The potentials
of those seasons
have been lived or
squandered,
developed like polaroids
or
poured out over the
graves of
great dreams left
unlived.

The urgency of
right now is
a forward pulling
aroma
when you
understand
the time.

You are young, and so,
you do not
understand
aging.

Your brain is
a decade or so
behind the realization
that every minute is a
gift to give
to your world...
given to you
by a great God to
do something
great with.

The true passage
of those minutes to you
right now
feels like a heavy weight of
responsibility.

But in time,
you will see that a minute
is a universe
divinely sat down
before you
like a
Thanksgiving table.

Everything you need
to learn grace,
to learn patience,
to learn relationship,
to learn peace,
to learn productivity
is housed in the seconds...
the minutes...
the hours...

It is all wrapped up
in the time.

I am an outdated model.
I see the time differently
because I have already missed certain
peak seasons.

You child are young.
You don't see the time at all.

Let me lend you my eyes
while they are still awake.

Do not close your windows.

The aroma of future
is near you.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Dream," In Memory of Harold Palmer

Harry Palmer used to say that
holidays were overplayed and
if we hoped to live on after we
had to pare down all the clatter.

"I'm too old to keep this up and
Mama counts on all of us.
If we gone eat and laugh and spend then
we should call a caterer in...

Or we should all meet at some place
where they sit Thanksgiving down
in front of your face,
cause all this shopping and spending and sweat
is done by too few so too many can get."

And he would say that,
every year,
that all he wanted was a break.
A chance to eat the fruits of labor
where he had neither to fry nor bake.

I'm sure that he'd be pleased to know that
since he and our mom have gone,
we've all hung up our aprons and we've
simplified the goings on.

There is no turkey thawed or brined,
there are no sweet potato pies,
there are no sheet cakes in the kitchen,
there are no family buffet lines.

There are no beef and pork ribs slathered
with my husband's secret sauce.
There is no macaroni salad.
There is no "mac and cheese" cheese cost.

There is no sausage laden stuffing.
There are no basted turkey wings.
There is no too-tall pot of rice.
There are no trademark collard greens.

When Sissy called the family dinner to
sit us down with heaping plates,
just like you said you wished we'd do,
she had it catered.

Piece of cake.

It's likely that when time has passed and
and everybody's life renewed,
we'll plan another family cook-off;
we'll sweat, fry, bake, and think of you.

But until then, I hope you know that
for some time we let it go.
We turned off the pots, and turned out the lights,
and all sat down and went on strike.

Happy Thanksgiving,
with our love.

-T. James-Moss

"Lean," A Poetry Post

America the Beautiful,
what will you do when the
world begins to
lean against you?

When you are
banned from travel
because of
where you were
born...

When you are
turned back on
makeshift rafts
when you are
running for your life...

When you are
held back from
borders by
barbed wire,
gunfire and
cement walls...

When your passport is
marked
to avoid entry
into others' countries...

When your name is
added to the
no-fly list
because of your
nationality...

When you are
unable to
apply for certain credit...

When everything you have
is determined by
everything you are
by birth...

What will you do
when the leaning away
becomes the
leaning to?

Who will help you?

Who will help you?

-T. D. James-Moss

"Peace," A Poetry Post

Go on and have
peace
about your
situation.

The piece of work
that we all
know
Beethoven for
was written
after his
finest hours
were
done.

He had to put his
ear against the
instrument to
make sense
of the sounds.

I bet he wondered
if we
would ever hear
the beauty
of the symphony
in his head.

I bet he cried
out in
frustration.

I bet he
cussed and
swore.

I bet he
felt
worthless.

Yet
even as a
deaf man,
he
created
music
that has
changed
the sound of
humanity
forever.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Color," A Poetry Post

My sister,
do you still
dream in color?

When we was kids,
you had all these
ideas about
what you wanted to be and do.

One time you
said you was gone
open up your own
beauty shop,
but you aint do much to
get yourself into
beauty school.

One time you said you was gone
get back into
dancin like you used to do,
but you dont play no
music.

Seem like you just doin
whateva it is minimum
you feel you got to
do.

Seem like you just
livin out grayness....

Look like your
shine done became a
muffled glow out here
in these streets.

We all gotta work and work,
my sister,
but God aint just
signed you over
outta the rainbow
like that.

You aint got no right to
die on your feet,
pretending to be breathing.

You is entitled
to your yellows.

You is entitled
to your reds.

You is entitled
to your color.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Things," A Poetry Post

Somewhere
in the back
of a trailer
down a dirt road
is a black girl
crying about
things.

Things she
doesn't
understand.

Things she
cannot
explain.

Things she is
too embarrassed
to express.

Things beyond
her years.

Somewhere she is there,
crying,
waiting for her grandmother,
or her real mother,
or her godmother,
or a foster mother or
some other's mother.

We think
she's
in the back room
wasting hours of her life
on Snapchat
on her cell phone,
but
in reality,
she is just looking at the screen.

It's just a
mask-in-hand that
hides her face.

And she is wondering
why nobody cares enough
to ask her
what she's thinking about.

-T. D. James-Moss

"We All Heard Right," A Poetry Post

This country is
a mess.

Nobody's winning.

I'm going to
make America
great again by
running out
all of the
Mexicans.

I'm going to
make America
great again by
keeping out
Muslim
immigrants.

I'm going to
make America
great again by
abandoning
decades-old
alliances.

I will require
payment for my
protection.

I'm going to
make America
great again by
short-paying our
international loans.

I'm going to
make America
great again by
deregulating
the common man's
workplace.

I'm going to
prove that
the abuse of a
rich man's privileges is
smart, not
predatory.

I'm going to
run the bastards--
all the poor people,
all the rich people,
all the locals,
all the foreigners,
all the churches,
all the generals,
all the judges,
all the longstanding politicians--
I'm going to
run the bastards
out.

Only I
know
enough about
abusing the
tax laws
to fix them.

Only I
am rich enough
to grab
whatever
my
hands
desire.

Only I
have the right
to cover up
my past sins
with smiles and
sheepish references to
back room talk and
old boys' locker room chats.

I'm the man you need
to make you great.

If you don't believe me,
you're an idiotic poll fixer,
an ineffective party leader,
a wound-up woman menstruating,
a victim silenced by religion,
a crooked, no good, corrupt politician,
an ugly girl crying wolf,
a retarded man without a memory,
a fat pig without self control,
a government ploy to derail my candidacy,
a biased media hack.

If you don't believe me,
you don't understand
greatness.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Buyer's Remorse," A Poetry Post

Everything you
want in life
comes with
fine print
posted in
some
inconspicuous
place:
hidden
"use
policies" and
maintenance
requirements;
levels of
taxes and
fees
not
printed on the
price tag;
compounding
and
simple
interest;
a limited
warranty;
"hold harmless"
clauses;
recall warnings.

God is the
one CSR
willing to
turn over the
tag and
tell you
all of what
you are
buying into.

But
you
probably
think He is
following you
around the store
and
watching
to make sure
you aren't
trying to
steal
something.

T. D. James-Moss

"Promotion," a Poetry Post

Epsom salt.

Epsom salt and
hot baths at
5 in the evening.

Late nights.
Early mornings.
Threats.
Heartbreak and hard times.
Successes.
Set backs.

Long conversations and
100 phone calls.

Tears.
Sweat.

Progress.

Set backs.
Tasks.

Questions?
Questions,
Questions,
Questions.

Laughs.

Late lunches and
skipped breakfasts.

Really late dinners.

Laughs.

Teamwork and
dream work and
that ain't what that
seems work and
"Oh, that's what that
means" work.

And I mean work.

Aches.
Pains.
Gains.
Losses.
Gains.

Pain.
Pains.
Applause and more
pains.

Change.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Beauty," A Piece for the Brothers

There's nothing more beautiful than a
brown-skinned man with a
large pair of work-scarred hands.

Whether he's wearing a headband, a
hardhat or a tam, he's a TEN
I'm saying.

And you
all know what I'm meaning;

I ain't playin'.

When he walks into a room
parleying (as in parlez-vous)
and swagging in a pressed pant,
black tie matching and
cologned up luscious...

What's a girl to do but be abducted,
get carried away or flustered?

I'm disgusted that the
whole room revolves around his
well-to-do groove, how his
coy smile can grab a gal and
change her whole mood;
so smooth.

Ooh brother...
I am just so sick of you;
and don't you write me no prescription.
I would rather have the blues.

When you see him coming through
a bit of you from old times
comes alive;
I mean a pantomime from
land before time
when everything we did rhymed and was
kissed by the sunshine and
watered by melon rinds and
dried in the moonlight.

Good God,
I want to thank you for his
posture and his pout,
for his culture and his clout,
how he sticks his chest out
when he's proving what he's about,
how he growls instead of shout,
how you know he's working hard when his
tongue hangs out.

It's the most beautiful thing in the world,
in the world to see a brown man
hustling for his girl
in a time of observers and
hurters and silly fools
who couldn't find themselves
if life came with a map
and a full set of marked tools.

I'm just saying,
I wrote something good for you.
You ain't slinging or gang banging.
You buying your babies shoes.
You ain't laying at home complaining.
You working to pay the dues.

Hey baby; I'm not confused.
I'm your woman.
I KNOW you.

I think you're beautiful.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Micah," A Poetry Post

Micah was a soldier
in a time of war
that nobody officially declared.
Trained to do battle,
penned in a corner,
taught to be daring,
he dared.

Like his superiors demanded him,
he did not parse the facts or the ends.
He ID'd a common target,
named him the enemy,
and relentlessly attacked
to defend.

For Micah,
one bloodshed
required another,
regardless of innocence or
place.

He sounds like the country
from which he was bred,
and behaves like the
soldiers we all
celebrate.

How fitting that he
spread his plumage so close
to the fireworks of our
freedom day.

Since in the name of freedom,
have we not slaughtered?
Have we not slandered?
Have we not--worldwide--
done the same?

Like Micah, we've launched
our offensives against
whole nations for the
sins of few.

Like Micah, we've mowed down
whole fields and families,
and justified what we
"had to do."

Like Micah,
we perceived certain insults,
and we assigned them to
leaders and groups.

Like Micah,
we responded with
violence and vitriol,
with hatred,
with imprecision,
without ruth.

Now you hide your hand,
Great America?
The land of the free
and the brave?

You have taught us that
if we should ever feel fear,
that the fearsome should
go to their graves.

You raised up your excellent Micah to fight,
to at all costs protect what was his.

You can't be surprised, then,
that in Micah's eyes,
it was right to do what he did.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Return of the Klan," A Poetry Post

The Klan has returned,
and I will tell my son,
that the people that dragged us
by the ankle,
the people that
hanged us from the tree,
the people that
beat us upon the brow,
the people that
emasculated our sons and
harassed our daughters and
burned our businesses and
bombed our churches are
trying to buy an election through
fear and
sound bytes and
video clips.

This is the same Klan,
son,
that you read about
in your middle school
history class.

And it will take
more than
raising a fist,
or standing in formation,
or rapping a few fancy bars
to face them down
this time.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Morning Rounds," A Poetry Post

Good morning, uh, Mr. ---.

Good morning.

So you're still having pain in that leg?

Yeah. It's a hot pain. I don't know.

Well I'd better order a scan.

What about the pain? Can I have something for the pain?

I'll see about that. Maybe that's the problem.

Yeah... it's a lot of pain. 

I mean the pills, Mr. ---. You may be addicted to the pills.

Say what?

I don't think there is a pain, I'm saying, but I'll run a scan and talk to the nurse.

...

The doctor says I'm addicted to oxycodone. 

He doesn't believe me.

He's treating me like

I came in with

tracks in my arms.

He's running a test.

...

So, it turns out your leg is broken.

It's broken? How is it broken?

Well, we're not sure exactly.

Is it necrotic?

I can't say yet. We'll have a deeper scan.

...

So, it's a fracture on the ---.

It's not broken?

No, it's just a fracture. Wear the immobilizer and complete rehab.

How long is the rehab?

I'll send in a consultant.

...

Hello Mr. ---. My name is ---.

We just need to complete this

questionnaire for

pre-approval with

your insurance company.

...

How long is it?

Seven days.

In a facility?

It's seven to ten days.

To do what now?

To heal the leg and practice walking on it.

Outpatient?

No. Inside for a week, direct from the hospital.

It's already been seven days.

The doctor is sending over PT. They want me to prove I can handle myself at home.

...

I'm coming home tomorrow.

You should.

We have always rehabbed at home.

I know. 

At home, I am treated better, I can rest, and I can heal. 
I need to be home.

I know. 


-T. D. James-Moss

"Pride," A Poetry Post

If you are proud
about your
beautiful breasts,
your perfect skin,
your perfect white teeth,
your perfect cheekbones,
then you should tell a brother
if the
perfect chocolate truffle
sitting with him
at the bar
used to be a
strapping
black man.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Perspective," A Poetry Post

I wonder if
in twenty years
kids will know that
flags
used to fly
all the way
up to the top
of the mast and
flow freely in the
sky's winds.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Permission," A Poetry Post

They say a man needs
permission
to leave his family.

Permission to
close his eyes and
rest from his
life of labors.

Permission to
stop suffering.

A man needs permission and
won't let go
unless you
say so.

Even when he's given
all he has and
has no resources,
he will keep pulling
at an empty chest,
scratching the bottom,
looking for a
ram
in the bush.

Even when he's used up
every ounce of his breathing on
struggle
he will keep
straining
against his lungs' request for
rest.

Even when he's
worked his
hands and knees and feet
to the bone
he will
keep going to work,
keep building,
keep destroying and
dragging away
the old timbers.

Even when he's old
and worn,
he won't let go.

He's a man.
He's a miracle.
He's a mountain.

And his woman,
his wife,
his sister,
his mother,
his aunt,
his daughter,
had better understand
his truth.

It may be you,
after all,
that is required
to shake his hand,
and call him inside
out of the rain,
and change his clothes,
and lay him down and tell him:

"Sleep now.
There is no more work
to do today
for you.
Your part is done,
and I can do mine
just fine.
Don't even worry.

I can take it
from here."

-T. D. James-Moss

"How to Survive Sickle Cell," A Poetry Post

The first thing is to know,
know,
if it's Thalas Beta Zero or
Thalas Beta Plus or
whether you carry a trait or
the whole shebang.

The whole shebang
could be the end of your
lineage, your
livelihood, your
life.

But if you got it,
the shebang,
you best get the
Hydrea--
Hydroxy-U-rea,
to stabilize your
blood count and
limit your need for
transfusions

which lead to
iron poisoning over
time

and if you have iron poisoning,
it could be the end of your
lineage, your
livelihood,
your
life.

But if you got it,
iron poisoning,
you might have to get the Ferriprox,
Defer-I-Prone,
to get the iron out and
save your liver

because losing your liver
could be the end of your
lineage, your
livelihood,
your
life.

But back to surviving,
which might include
Hydrea to avoid
transfusions to avoid
liver failure which does not stop
crisis.

Oxycodone is supposed to stop
crisis,
but it only does for
six hours or
four hours or
not at all if you're at pain level
eight.

If you're at pain level eight
you have to
ease your way
down the stairwell
to the nearest transport
to the nearest hospital
where they can give you
intravenous saline to
move the clot of puzzle pieces
in your blood stream

and it's got to drip
slowly
to move the whole grouping
of sickled cells
out of the path of your
blood flow and
allow you
two minutes of peace
while they inject you with
a narcotic

like a Morphine
which was used to
mercifully kill soldiers
in days without antibiotics or
Hydromorphone,
Di-Laud-id,
which can quietly carry you
into your last sleep
at the wrong dosage.

But back to surviving,
which might include
Hydrea to avoid
transfusions to avoid
liver failure which does not stop
crisis which requires
Oxycodone and
saline and
Morphine or
Hydromorphone.

Over time
crisis may hinder bloodflow
to key extremities and
organs and joints which
can result in
death in the
tissues...
or which can cause issues with the
hips and knees and shoulders,
which might require replacements
because of Vasc-U-Lar
Ne-Cros-Is,
which are fancy words for
crumbling bones attached to
low-flow veins

which can lead to
pain which leads to
pain, since Sickle Cell is
trigger-a-ble.

So then you need a specialist that
can replace your joint(s)
perfectly to
save you from
paralysis and
infection that
can result from botched
joint operations.

And when they save you from
paralysis, you feel alive!

But back to surviving,
which might include
Hydrea to avoid
transfusions to avoid
liver failure which does not stop
crisis which requires
Oxycodone and
saline and
Morphine or
Hydromorphone which
can result in premature
death and cannot keep
your veins from
failing and leaving your
joint bones to crumble
which will require
specialized surgery from
blessed hands.  

This piece
is not
permission to
wallow in
pity,
since in this country,
there is access to
Hydrea and
Oxcodone and
Morphine and
Saline and
Specialists.

This piece is a
clarion designed to
SHOUT OUT to the
MILLIONS OF PEOPLE
in the world with a disease that
nobody knows about
nobody cares about
nobody advertises.

If, in your country,
nobody has found out
what to do with you,
hook up with someone who
has lived through enough
suffering to say
what to eat and
where to go and
what to take and
how to live and
if there is help to get,
where to get it.

This is not permission to give up!
After all,
this is a piece about
SURVIVING a
TERRIBLE ONSLAUGHT
of dying and
LIVING to tell the story.

Look at how much is
stacked against you.

And yet,
here you are.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The State of Education in Modern America," A Poetry Post

A man
who
cannot
unite
his
party
is
trusted
to
unite
the
world.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Create Change," A Poetry Post

My son,
today ain't
nothing but a
day.

A day can be
shook out like a
duster or
beat clear like a
line rug or
stretched tight like a
runner.

A day can be
laundered like
a white t-shirt or
scrubbed clean like a
charcoal grill.

A day can be
clipped short like a
toenail; extended like
the crochet.

A day can be changed if
you can perceive its
creative flexibility.

A day can be brightened
through your own eyes and
seasoned with your
words,
transformed by your actions.

A day can be purified with your truth or
defiled through your lies;
wisely fulfilled when you
choose to be wise.

A day could die,
suddenly,
and then be revived
if you could but learn to
redeem your time.

Today ain't nothing but a day,
son,
and here you are,
alive,
walking in it.

What will you do now?

Will you thrive or survive?

-T. D. James-Moss

"Hardness," A Poetry Post

Endure hardness
like a good soldier.

If you are struck,
rebound;
stretched?
recoil.

If you are slapped,
turn your cheek and be
slapped,
turn your cheek and be
vigilant.

If you are socked in the gut,
get up and expect your
protective reflex.

If you are pummeled
close-fisted,
shift, shift, shift,
and defend.

If this is not the end,
you must endure!

If you are knocked down,
buckled,
unwind and climb.
Adjust.

If you are squeezed breathless,
keep your lips pursed and
suck in tight with
all your might!

Restrained?
Never stop bucking and
looking for loose places,
weak spots,
little bits of give.

Pressed to the ground from
head to foot?
Wiggle your pinky finger and toe to
keep your blood
flowing.

If you have breath,
you live! and
if you have blood,
you live!

If you must be alive,
and you must,
and you must make progress,
and you must,
then you must suffer and
suffer well.

Wear your stripes like a brand.
Woman or a man, be a man.
Stand up when you fall.
Take a stand.

Be hard.
And perspire.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Brackish," A Poetry Post

It's all mixed in.

Lead in Flint's water.
Bodies in New Orleans' streets.
Drugs in Irvington,
Drugs and guns
everywhere.

Bodies filing out into
Chicago's streets in
human chains and
violent clashes.

Brackish, isn't it?
Bitter and bloodied,
salty and polluted,
murky,
dark and
flush with political
garbage.

Garbage in the well.
Garbage in the company room.
Garbage in the public space.
Trash.

The whole world's watching,
watching us
dipping in a cup and
drinking,
drinking from the sewage.

Drinking what we would not offer
to others...

Drinking what we would not allow
in other countries...

Up rises fresh water,
gushing from a spring
deep down in the ground from a
source we all remember.

"Flush out your hatred."
"Flush out your foolishness."
"Flush out your division."

Overcome the pollution.

Up from what we know.
We know to assemble.
We know to command respect.
We know our humanity.

Run down here now,
into the sludge you've dropped here.

Wade up to your waist and chest.

Let's work out the filtering in the
way we all remember.

We will take your trash and
throw it back
throw it back
throw it back.

We will take your trash and
throw it back.

We will regain our
freshwater.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Snuggle," A Poetry Post for Lovers

When you snuggle
up against your man
on a hot summer night,
the humidity of the
experience clings to your
skin and
wets down your sexy lingerie
so that it
sticks to you
like toilet paper
that you pick up
on the way
out of the bathroom
when you are
rushing off to work on
a
Monday.

Even if the
air is turned down
way way low,
so low that you have to
get the winter cover
and
wrap your free leg up
in it to
keep the chill off,
it still gets
too hot
curled up
next to your
good thing.

At some point
you start
praying that he
won't be offended if you
inch back to your
side and
breathe some
cool air
for a
few minutes.

And God forbid he
fall asleep with
one arm
wrapped all the way
around cause then you
have to lift up that arm,
creep off and
change your whole
outfit to get that
puddle of sweat
dried up from
under your arms and
around your rib cage.

You remember
all the movies you saw about
couples falling asleep in
perfect spoons and wonder
whether any woman in her
right mind still believes she can
sleep all night locked up under the
drool and deep snores of her
soul mate without having to
get up and recompose herself.

And after a few years,
maybe,
you are so glad that
with time
you both learn to
stay on your own sides
sometimes.

Staying on your
own side
sometimes.

That's romantic.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Valentine's Day Prayer," a Poetry Post

Dear God,

Thank you for
not letting me
shack up with that
dude
in the city that
promised me
flowers and
candy and
cheap movie tickets.

You know I was
tempted.

You know I was
home
thinking about how
all my friends were
making reservations at
fancy restaurants and
getting flowers at
work.

You know I was
jealous when my
ace boon coons were
invited to new countries
for the weekend.

You know I was
heartbroken over
not being able to
share in others'
heartbreak.

You know I was
almost drawn into
the idea of
what love was to the
masses.

You know.

Now, look at how
things have turned,
turned,
turned.

This Valentine's Day,
love means getting up early and
going to church as a
family.

Take out Chinese and
WWF on the PS3 with the
boy.

Getting to sit at home with a
headband imprint in my afro and
in favorite cotton pants
writing poems about
how glad I am that
I didn't give in to
an image...

a mirage.

I pray that
all my sisters see
love
differently.

See love that
sits beside them
at the hospital when they are down and out.

'Cause a sister is gone get sick.

See love that will
help them
ease down into a bath
when they've
been on their feet all day.

'Cause a sister is gone get tired.

See love that is
looking for them to be
okay,
looking for them to
come home,
looking for them
period.

'Cause a sister is gone be held up
sometimes.

And dear God,
help them to see love in You,
without which
NOBODY
can survive a Valentine
in this life.

'Cause a sister gets tired of
unconditional like the
seasons change on
favorite pairs of shoes.

Dear God,

Help us to be real with each other,
in love,
on this holiday.

Sincerely,

Your daughter,
the difficult one.

-T. D. James-Moss

"My Sisters," A Poetry Post

Every time I feel frustrated by life's situations,
I remember that my sisters
in Africa
have had to wash their
dishes and their
clothes in the river...
and walk for days to get to church...
and walk for hours to get to school...
and had to survive the intrusions of militias...
and the political mismanagement of
various despots.

My sisters,
I can hold up my head
knowing how you have
carried weighed down
baskets and buckets
on your heads with
perfect posture.

My sisters,
I am aware of the lush life
I am afforded
by birth.

And yet,
I am aware of the
rich lineage
from which I come.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Raising Up Boys," A Poetry Post

This is what you do when
a trusted authority
gives you an instruction:
obey, obey, obey.

But,
there is a time to
civilly disobey and
rebel for the
sake of all
involved.

Harness your anger.
Examine it.
Manipulate and
qualify it to
determine its
righteousness.

However,
if it is righteous,
pray for the wisdom to
use it to
destroy strongholds.

Be kind and chivalrous to
humble women,
but respectfully distant from
loose ones.

Sit quietly and observe before
responding,
but respond strongly
when appropriate.

Be a man worthy of
respect and reverence,
love and appreciation,
honor.

And above all,
remember that we,
your momma and your
dad,
believe in your ability
to know
when to rage and
when to simmer;
when to bellow and
when to back down;
when to hold up and
when to cry holy.

We believe that
you and God will know
which super powers to use
and when.

-T. D. James-Moss