The unborn feeds on the fear lining her womb

Rocked to  sleep by the rhythm of fists

Angry hands of a father

Who too grew in a fearful womb

And the blood and tears trail in a circle

as the path of torn flesh falls  in a circle

Yanked from the haven into black and blue world

Loud noises, harsh voices  lullaby  through

the cracks of swollen lips

Nursery rhymes of the damned

Curses and slurs  form circles round the room

Spoken pain hurled in a circle

The only quiet in family secrets

Publicly hidden for all to see

Caring stops where numbness begins

burrowing  inside the heart

feeding on the fear within

And the heart  pumps apathy round in  circles

and the heart breaks into a circle

Mel Taylor  copyright 1997

  You taste like hope

My tongue traces  the edge of anticipation

Fingers caught in the soft wet folds of imagination

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;       !

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;     Nuf sed

No need to go into a diatribe about old boyfriends and ex-husband or form my words into a blues lyric, my past intimate relationships, no matter how wonderful or horrific helped me get to this place.  I never could appreciate the peace if I didn't survive the war.  Ironically, the battle was the opposing sides within.- Self esteem versus Self doubt.  While each side lobbed their missiles I was enjoying my finger poppin' daze (youth).  I wore my insecurities like Chanel No.#5 between body hugging clothes and the latest lingua-franca.  The odor wafted in clubs, bars and anywhere I sought refuge from the work it takes to become whole.  The wanting picked up the scent, made their presence known and with red flags waving at each bedpost the "for play" ensued.

Arching like a bendable Barbie I hoped Mr. "Right Now" had a magic wand that would spew a healing.  Sperm is no cardiac elixir. Ain't it amazing how sex feels like a prayer's answer during the act?  Time stops and endorphins  become nectar in your veins.  As you reach the end you want that feeling to stay even if your partner leaves.  If the body truly a temple why did I allow thieves to shoot craps at the altar?  After the last "bumpy" ride, it took a wise woman to help me make sense of it all.

"If you keep giving gifts to the unworthy what will you give yourself?"  Those words were ripe with understanding and I fed off them as I got my stuff together.  Along the way I learned that blaming the exes for my pain was futile.  Whom I allowed in my life and bed reflected how I felt about myself.  Forgiveness began @ home making it possible to forgive them.  Each one bolstered my ability to discern.  Discernment is the portal to wisdom and wisdom is bliss. 

I raise my glass to the past, drink what is, and like future's taste.

One morning to wake up and be more than black

To peer into a mirror and see just a face

Not a race, just a face

To cut my hair close or decided to dread

Without questions or stares

To not be treated like an inanimate object

or feel condescension from

Who have neither the answer or even

know the question

To not feel defensive or made ill at ease

validating my existence

Having just one day where all I am is me

Not a black woman coping in a racist society

Mel Taylor copyright 1991

The FIRST person to answer this question correctly wins 125 tbucks . . . .

What are the names of all of the character's in the scene "Last Mama on the Couch" from the award winning play by George C. Wolfe, "The Colored Museum."

Does your life have value? 

IN THE SHADOW OF THE CAPITOL

The true heads of state

Never ran for office or have ever been invited to the

White House for tea

They hold court in barbershops

back porches and street corners

Discussing everything under the sun

over fried fish or whiskey

They don't posture for the camera

Or babble out sound bites

They tell it like it 'tis at

Point blank range

And don't give a damn how you feel

about it

Ain't got no campaign platforms, bumper stickers

Ain't right wing, left wing

Just . . . chicken wing

 preferably barbecued

And the truth and solutions they concoct

Never seem to go any further than

The checkerboard, bid whist game

Or worst yet....

Get lost in slurred words murmured at the back of a bus

Or die in a smoke filled alley at the edge of a pipe

Their deeds will never make the front page of the

Washington Post unless they commit a crime

Nor would their opinion be respected on the

Senate floor...

I truly doubt if you'll walk pass a statue in a park

Erected in their honor

Or see a nation mourn their loss

Yet the lives they've touched and the people they've

reached will remember them

The real voices that should be heard

won't be heard

And their knowledge will only be a

whisper in the wind

When it falls in the shadow of the Capitol

Mel Taylor copyright 1992

ARRIANE

That long legged gal

on Ashwood Rd..

Lusted by the old men

and chased by the young

Spent lazy afternoons

on shaded porch

Watching the world move

in the midday sun

Parched mouths thirsting

for her private rain

Some thought her very presence

made the fragrance of flowers

sweeter

Envious others wished her death

As they passed in judgment

Serenely she’d smile

Knowing that no matter

the opinion

They would never see her

true beauty

That was until he

Walked down Ashwood Rd..

Almond eyes

Smooth caramel complexion

Bowlegs and a killer smile

Made her lift that sun hat ever so

to get a good look at

Those long legs

off banister perch

gapped wide

beneath the sheer skirt

veiling her treasure box

Just enough to let him know

where to place his key

He smiles in her direction

opening his mouth just

enough

For her to see that he

appreciated the veiled gleaming jewels

Even from afar

For the longest while

they performed this ritual

Precisely at three

And though the long legged gal

sat on her perch long before

his passing

She saw no one else

but him

And in his walk face forward

down Ashwood Rd..

The only change in eye movement

went in her direction

Like dry wood

to flame

There are those who believe their youth to be a tortuous existence.  They are not popular or if they are, the pressure to remain so is staggering.  Others cry alone in the quiet of the night where the truth does the night shift and denial takes a nap.  Some believe the dark sides of themselves is a refuge from the nightmare they call there life.  The weight of the world burdens their nap sacks as they silently scream down the hall in quiet sorrow.  If you're a teacher navigating these turbluent passages, you can feel the pressure of the roles many think they have to play.  The "jock", the "Goth", the "pretty" girl, the "fat" loner with bad acne. 

 There are things going on behind close doors of homes that are buried in the minds of many.  Some secrets are covered in concealer, others in long sleeves or being the brightest smile.  Some of the stories my kids have shared took all my fortitude to maintain a professional stance.  I've cried with them and prayed with some but the best advice I've ever given was "hold on."

If you've made it thus far you are a survivor.  Seek help.  If the trouble is in your home find a teacher, neighbor, I don't give a damn if it the mailman remove yourself.  Don't take matters into your own hands and think with your emotions.  Allowing your pain to be the only motivation for action could lead to dire circumstances.  If I hear about another kid taking their life or the life of others in an act of desperation I'll go nuts!  It breaks my heart to see such potential  lost to the ages.  The cure for cancer or answer to world peace could be squandered in a fit of rage. It may not seem that way but there is life after tragedy. (Believe me I know) This fall  I'm going to post a large colorful sign in my room which will say "HOLD ON!"

Don't mess with a woman who hasn't had her morning frothy beverage!

Mel Taylor copyright 1996

Cause if I wait for someone else to do it

It may turn out to be a eulogy

And I won't give a damn then

I'll tell myself "I love you"

Cause waiting a lifetime for someone to sincerely say it,

Could be an eternity

I'll write with passionate abandon

A friend deserves to know how much I care about

Won't write no catchy phrases or try to make it

rhyme

No flowery language or dramatic refrain

"No Hallmark" card chosen with me in mine

I'm gonna write myself a love poem

And if you think that sounds crazy

Then why should I write one for you?

 Mel Taylor copyright 1996

Tomorrow I'll be 42 years old.  Society says I'm middle aged sliding the slippery slope to Social Security.  I'm suppose to be eating Zoloft like Pez lamenting by "lost" years and "dying" my hair back to its "natural" color and feverishly squeezing out my youth hoping some morsel of idealism and niavete drops out of the tube.  Truth be told, gravity is pulling body parts one way and my eyes are about to revoke my 20/20 card and I'm not too concerned.  In fact I've never felt more comfortable in my skin than now.

I can bitch and moan about the inevitable change of age or be smelling flowers by their roots.  I'm so DAMN glad to be here.  It's that simple.  In fact, everything has become pure and simple.  Amazing how the road gets easier to navigate when you stop carrying fear on the journey.  Fear is a steamer trunk filled with many items that ultimately serve no purpose.  (Self doubt, envy, arrogance, viloence, etc.)  It took getting older and studying life lessons to get to this place of clarity and peace.  Age taught me to discern, surrender, seek wisdom and silence.  (Amazing what you learn when you SHUT THE HELL UP and listen.)  The kind of listening I'm talking about is more than recieving someone else's mental mastrubations but hearing your inner voice.  That requires a trust that is discovered with time. 

The greatest thing about getting older . . .I'm loving this raw material I've been given.  I have to because there's no spare parts.  It is what it be and I dig it oh so well.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME DAMMIT!