"The Well," A Poetry Post

Dear God,
I am a well.

Here the children
used to come and
scoop
at the rim to
drink their cooling fill.

But time has passed.

Many have
dipped in their ladles
to swallow down
the sweetness from
Your deep table.

But time has passed.

Buckets have been
turned down and lifted full
to feed the parched crops,
to cook the house dinners,
to wash the very souls of
the people.

But time has passed.

The water level has
gone, gone, gone,
far down to a
mite shimmer,
just enough to get a
toe wet.

And I am a well,
I know it.

Here with no water,
no cupped hands,
no ladles,
no buckets,
I am a well and
I know it.

So,
I cannot be surprised that
you have decided to
break up the whole structure,
haul out the old bricks,
thrust in a large bit and
tear up the inside,
pierce through the hard floor and
tear through the places
where there used to be glory.

If I am a well,
and there will ever be water again,
You and I know...

You've got to dig the
whole thing
over.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Footsteps," A Poetry Post

The anointed king,
his footsteps are
ordered
by the rule of the
Divine blessing.

He may
confidently
put his foot down into
any situation and
expect
obeisance.

He does not require
iron fist rule but
he has an iron fist and
he can rule
with or without it.

People follow
out of love,
out of respect,
out of patriotism.

His words can be trusted,
his acts can be judged and
he will be found
true and honest.

He may call down realities,
create somethings from nothings
by decree and
reset whole municipalities
with his words.

Where then is the king?
And where are his footsteps?

Behold,
he has girded himself like a peasant.
He is trodden on.
He is confined by
others' realities.
He is constrained by
others' limits...

Where is the king?
He is engulfed
in an illusion.

The world is waiting,
and he is on the corner,
playing in the sandbox,
eating strangers' candy,
like a poorly parented toddler.

Like a poorly parented toddler,
pretending
that it's better to be that
than to rule.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Long Run," A Poetry Post

My beautiful Black brother,
I am designed to
support the long run.

I am here at the gate,
but where are you?

Why are you
not on the track?
The mothers said
that when I got here,
you would be on the track and
I would know you by your
definition.

I am at the gate,
but there is no runner.
There is no runner.

My lord and king,
I am raised up to
support the long run.

I am here on the track.
Hello!
You are there on the bleachers,
but I am not made to
walk before the bleachers and
smile.

We should both be here
on the track,
but there is no runner.
There is no runner.

My love,
I am practiced to
support the long run.

Now,
we are on the track but
where are your shoes?

I was told I would
know you by the
manner in which you were
always ready to go,
but you were not on the track,
and your feet are naked here with
not even socks on.

We should be getting ready to
get down for the shot but
there is no runner.
There is no runner.

Good sir,
our world's great warrior,
the elders' stories have
prepped me to
support the long run.

Now,
we are on the track and
we are both laced and
tied.

But
why are you standing?

I was told I would know you
by the power of your arms,
the bulge of your thighs,
the tightness of your feet
against the starting block
before the starting shot,
but here you are standing and
looking confused.

The shot is about to sound,
but there is no runner.
There is no runner.

Sweetheart,
in the universe,
I am expected to
support the long run.

Now you are down for the start but listen,
the pistol has sounded.
The pistol has sounded.

I was told
that I would know you by the
terrifying speed with which you
strike the ground
when the pistol has sounded.

And yet,
the shot just rang out and
there is no runner.
There is no runner.

Here is the lane,
here is the route,
here is the pistol,
here is the sound.

Did you hear?
I have the towels.
I have the water.
I have the bandages.
I am prepared.

I have the warm-ups that
you were not wearing.
I wear your
jersey.
We are on the
same team,
but
there is no runner.
There is no runner.

The coach is calling.
He says,
someone must run.
Someone must run and
it's supposed to be you.

But you are not ready.
And I have the towels,
and I have the water,
and I have the bandages.

I am prepared.

And I have your jersey since
we're on the same team.

And the shot is
about to sound
again.

I am prepared.

I look different
down on the ground
at the starting block but
I am prepared.

My physique is
fundamentally different but
I am prepared.

My whole focus is
other,
something other,
but I am prepared.

Because I am ready,
I must run.

Will you follow?

Good sir,
will you at least
come second?

-T. D. James-Moss

"Woman," A Poetry Post

In the jungles of Brazil's struggling economy,
in the small villages of the Congo,
in the rice paddies of Thailand,
in the Indian ghettoes,
there is a woman.

She is in the background,
putting her foot down,
dancing the Samba to the drum in her heart,
breaking it down to the Boloba,
flicking her wrist in Apsara,
reliving this year's Holi.

Where there is poverty,
a woman is stomping,
still hanging clothes on the line,
still reading bedtime stories,
still consoling her struggling husband.

She is humming a survivor's song,
turning herself about and
looking up into the heavens,
in the middle of a war,
in the middle of a storm,
in the middle of a dark fatwa.

She is still reaching up her arms to the sky and
pressing her fingertips
through the suffering and
into the next dimension.

While the men are killing or
defending and
sweating or
snickering and
providing or
pilfering,
there is a woman in place,
pop-locking and dropping it in the
New Orleans bowl,
throwing back a glass of wine
while singing her song of memories
over ashes in Santa Barbara,
keeping time to a
seasonal group dance
in the undeveloped forest.

She is moving the earth
with her rhythm.

She is in position
to dismantle the universe.

T. D. James-Moss

"Grief," A Poetry Post

When the monitors were turned off,

and the autopsy documents were signed,

and the drive home was done,

and the family was away,

I sat down under the old cruise picture

to wait for

grief's chariot to

carry me away from

this world.

Instead,

the humidity of God's love

rushed in upon my skin and

rested on the dry places.

It forced me to breathe,

to gasp,

to respond.

It forced me to live.

-T. D. James-Moss

"A Memory," a Poetry Post

When Lawrence and I got married
there were no jitters.

We had
laid out our
personal histories
like a buffet of
tragedies and
worn our
worst faces
proudly in
honest conversation.

We each knew the
monster
we were
dealing with.

We had secretly planned
an
elaborate
red and white
wedding
with
steak and lobster
at the head table.

He had already
selected
the ring.

But seasons changed.

I got a job offer in
Nassau with
no sure thing
in Freeport,
and that meant I was
going, going, going
somewhere else
somewhere else.

It was an
early Monday morning and
I had a ticket
to
catch the Discovery
in the
afternoon.

We were sitting in
Dad's TV room at
420-22,
lamenting that
we hadn't found a solution.

And that is when
he'd pulled out that
beautiful first ring,
an upgrade since
the situation
called for something
bigger.

And he said that
I should stay,
but we didn't have any thing
that I believed
that we should have
to make any thing,
and he agreed.

And I didn't have a
thing
to offer,
a foreign girl
on an island
with no prospects.

But it was a proposal,
and it was live,
a live proposal with
room for rebuttal,
for argument,
and we did argue
for a time.

Eight years later,
the Discovery is gone,
the first ring is gone,
and Lawrence is gone,
but I've got a memory
better than
any engagement story
ever told to me.

A pretty brown girl
went to an island
for a break,
and met a
great man
who meant and lived
what he said.

That was how that went.

We went to the
justice of the peace
after he'd spent
every cent
buying the ring and
getting registrations.

And we stood there
with last-minute witnesses,
and we smiled.

And we smiled,
and we smiled,
and we smiled.

-T. D. James-Moss

“Selfie,” A Poetry Post

I wish you could see me:
Flat twists rowed back,
Stocking cap in black,
Sipping apple juice
Through a striped straw
From a Styrofoam cup,
Grooving to Sizzla Kalonji,
Wearing my big square frames and a
Tank-top-sweat-pant combo.

Cause just like that,
I'm fly.

Just like that,
I’m fly.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Warrior," A Poetry Post

I married a 

great warrior.

When the front lines

got hot,

and the smoke

didn't clear,

and the sun

had set,

and the noise

was unbearable,

and shells and shots

flew,

and shouts

went up,

he 

stood firm beside me

with his hands

hooked into the

solid oak 

battering ram.

And if every man fell,

to the right and to the left,

behind us and in the flanks,

I knew 

I could 

look to the left,

and a sharp battleaxe

would be ready,

would be ready,

would be ready.

An endless onslaught 

of offenses came on,

came on,

came on,

but in between attacks,

we would look at each other

and run a quick check.

We have to go again?

We have to go again.

Okay; we go again.

And God was with us,

through many waves of battle:

whites of the eyes strikes,

long distance missile strikes,

intimate hand to hand strikes,

friendly fire and sabotage.

When life came at us

HARD,

the ram was always even.

I can go again.

Can you go again?

I can go again.

We go again.

It is certainly odd,

to look to the left

and not see him there

facing down the enemy

with his "Don't cross this line" grimace. 

It is 

HARD

to hold the ram

alone,

to hold the center,

to defend the front,

to anticipate at the back,

to go on without a check-in.

And yet,

a promise being made,

to the warrior and the King,

I will. 

I will look to the hills,

from whence my first help came,

and will remain suited and armed,

and trust that if the left slot is empty,

I am now equipped

if only for a time

to hold the line,

hold the line,

hold the line.

To lock both arms in 

and get behind the Oak

and PRESS

whatever occurs around me,

whoever falls,

whenever necessary.

My husband, 

he married a great warrior.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Elders and Widows," A Poetry Post

How you doin baby?

I'm doing well ma'am.

Are you holdin' to His hand?

Yes ma'am.

You prayin' and
Readin' that word
Day and night?

Yes ma'am.

Well you a
Widow indeed
Baby.
You just
Keep on
Keepin' on.

Yes ma'am.

You ain't got mens
In yo' house now?

NO MA'AM!

Yes baby cause
You can't be no
Widow indeed with
Mens comin'
In and
Outta yo' house.

No ma'am.

That's right.
Yo' granma
raised you
Right.

Yes she did.

Shonuff she did.
Yes Lord.
That's the
Ole time way.
That's how WE
Told folks
In the day.

Yes ma'am.

You ain't
Caught up
With no
Liquors and things
In ya
Lonesome?

NO MA'AM!

Praise God.
You know
We have to
Ask that cause
Sometimes in lonesome
Things is like that.
So you ain't
Like that?

No ma'am.

Well praise God baby.
Many of us done
Been through that
You know.
Ain't
NO PEACE
In the bottle.

Yes ma'am,
I know.

Only peace is
In GOD!

Yes ma'am! 
That is so!

Yes it is so!

Yes it is so.

So you ain't gone be
Creepin'
To them clubs and things
Like that?

No ma'am.

Praise God cause
You can't be no
Widow indeed
Out in the night air
Being wild
In the darkness.

No ma'am,
I can't be.

That's
RIGHT
Baby.
You knows it.
Praise God.

Praise God Mother.

Well...
I'll be praying
God keep His hand
On you and
Keep you stayed
In your right mind and
Whole
While you is sufferin.

Thank you ma'am.

And you just hold on now.
God is with you!

Yes ma'am I will!

You be a widow indeed
Until God call you
Something else.

Yes ma'am.

Alright then.

-T. James-Moss

"A Conversation About Heaven," A Poetry Post

When I get to Heaven
I'mma get me 
one of those
large white horses
with the
swinging hair,
and I'mma be 
FIT
riding high with
long blonde hair 
swinging from
side to side.

Oh, blonde hair is it?
A big fit Black man with
long blonde hair?

Yeah!
Long blonde hair
swinging like this---
swish, swish---
and I'm gone have 
one of those
big, long swords: 
Shiny!

Oh really? A sword then?

Yeah yeah!
That big bright silver one!

And when we ride out 
to slay demons,
I'mma be out front,
cutting 'em down!

And I'll be at your
right corner
with a bow and arrows
picking them off like
shewn, shewn!

---Laughter---

Mom,
what do you want to do
when you
get to Heaven?

I'm gone 
ask God to
give me
about a year's long nap
without an alarm clock.

Then,
we'll discuss it.

---Laughter---

T. D. James-Moss

"The Round Loom," A Poetry Post

When you're the watcher-woman
and death is near,
get the round loom.
Look up. Smile.

Look down close to
set the slip knot.

Measure the yarn
just so
to wrap.

Wrap the pegs
to set the round loom.

Not too tense!
Not too slack!

Wrap and hold.
Look up and smile.

Grab your knitting needle.
Hold on.

Look up. Smile.
Look up. Smile.

Wrap and hold.
Anchor the yarn.
Hold your knitting needle so.

Grab the
bottom loop
and pull...

Up and over...
Up and over...

Press down the work.
Look up. Smile.
Up and over...
Breathe. Smile.

Wrap the pegs,
not too taut!
Not too taut!

Look up. Smile.

Hold your knitting needle so.

Up and over.
Up and over.

Anchor the yarn.
Press down the work.

Look up. Smile.
Look up. Smile.

Sometimes there's no need for pretense.

Look up. Smile.
Look up. Smile.

Sometimes hands need work for tensions.

Hold your knitting needle so.

Dying men need watching women.

Look up. Smile.
Up and over.

Watching eyes need ways of healing.

Look up. Smile.
Anchor. Hold.

When all words have failed fruition--

Up and over...
Up and over...

When all scriptures have been read--

Look up. Smile.
Look up. Smile.

Dying souls have earned their watching.

Hold your knitting needle so.

Weave the loom.
Incline your head.

Look up. Smile.
Look up. Smile.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Epiphany," A Poetry Post

Last night,
while talking to my son
about future,
he looked at me
with genuinely innocent eyes
of misunderstanding,
and I understood God
differently.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Plan," A Poetry Post

Hey there now!
You SPRY!
What is your plan for the day?

I believe I'm gone sit in this chair.

You mean you ain't
going down to the
morning service to
get breakfast?

No. I'm gone sit here in the chair on the porch.

You mean you ain't
going down to the store
to get you no
Easter Sunday hat?

No. Seem like a cool breeze coming through, so...
I believe I'll sit here in the chair today.

You mean you ain't
made no plan to
be at
Easter Sunday communion?

No. Seem like once midday come round
there's gone be some good sunshine
coming down through them trees, so...
I just put my chair outside here.

You mean you ain't
cooking no
Easter dinner?

No ma'am. I'm just sitting here
looking out on the yard and
thinking about how 
glad I am the weather is
steady today, so...
I ain't made no plan to 
do nothing like that.

You mean
your boy ain't
memorized no
Easter recitation?

No. Seem like we just
barely surviving him
remembering what he 'sposed to do
from sunup to sundown right now,
so I figured I might as well
leave him to figuring out himself and
sit here quietly for a few moments 
til God reach him. 

You mean
you ain't got no family
coming over for the
holidays?

Well... no, I ain't. 
We didn't make no plan for that, really.

Well what DID you plan for?

Got up this morning. Gave God glory.
Planned for that.
Pulled out this here chair.
Planned for that.
Fixed me a coffee.
Planned for that.
Sat down.
Planned for that.

And that's it you gone do today?

That was the plan, ma'am, exactly.
That was the plan.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Foresight," A Poetry Post for My Son

What you see out there?

Nothing.

Say what? Look again.

What you see out there?

Nothing.

That's cause you can't see nothing.

Young folks got

various blinders

in the way of 

seeing destiny.

I can see fine.

You can't see nothing.

You looking for

approval from your

peers and

that don't mean

nothing.

I can see fine.

You can't see nothing.

You looking for

outsiders' love to

replace your fear of

what you 

don't know about 

your own self and

that don't amount to

nothing.

I can see fine.

You can't see nothing.

You looking for

a way to 

get out of 

hard work and 

suffering and

life involves

hard work and

suffering so

that ain't gonna 

get you nothing.

You don't know. You just think you know.

I know I can see.

You wish honey.

All of us thought we saw.

All of us 

thought we knew.

All of us

thought we had

direction.

I can look back now and SEE, see?

I can SEE now what was out there then.

That don't make sense.

That's cause you can't see nothing.

Sometimes

you oughta 

trust my eyes.

My eyes got more practice.

-T. D. James-Moss

"The Birds," A Poetry Post

When you've
flown
for six months
with your
full
wingspan
outstretched
and
contracting;
been buoyed up
by
wind
currents on
myriad
continents;
seen
the
water's color
change
again and
again;
passed
over
the
migrations
of those
departed
before you;
perched
only sporadically
to
eat a
quiet morsel;
worn out your
lungs and chest muscles with
deep breaths and
cold morning air;
endured the
storm surges and
late night flights...

When you've been flying
for a long, long time...

You have to
touch down
somewhere
and rest.

You have to
touch down
somewhere
and rest.

-T. D. James-Moss