"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