"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