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When Tomorrow Comes

 I've been losing parts of myself and finding others during the months of silence at the end of thought. It is a funny thing, as a writer, to put down one's pen or lift one's hands from the keyboard to just consider the ways of presence. I've asked myself if what I have to say is enough of enough to put into the world. If the thoughts are incomplete, unfinished, and inconsequential.  My oldest son, my muse, has been telling me for years to write. He keeps telling me that my story, my experiences, the ways that I have overcome challenges and climbed mountains, would be helpful to a newer generation pining for elders.   Age has creeped up on me in unexpected ways. My husband says we are not the elderly, or even seniors, even if the medical world wants to place that moniker on our charts. We both eat healthy (even if we sneak a few snacks) and maintain our spiritual, mental, and physical well-being. But age is doing what age does and one of the things it has been doing wit...
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In the Way

 Let me get out the way what I said to survive -  because of the ones who claimed to be more important believing my breathing was distracting from their use of my presence to achieve their goals without regard to  what I  needed
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Inconvenient

 how much of ourselves do we erase while trying to  live in a space where they think our very existence is  in the way?
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hoping.to.be.free.

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 whispers of eternity echo out   sings a song to  soothe the wounded one standing  looking out over tomorrow's tomorrow hoping they would see freedom but the captive and  the innocent snared entwined chained together because of  what would someone say say say about  being what   should never ever be and the  innocent ones perished for the snares of tongues.
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Fear

 The air stills and you can feel it the shifting moves of when darkness decides to descend on a sunny day of possibilities because it is petrified of joy All rights reserved by the poet. @2022 by Taye Foster Bradshaw Group LLC
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Unfolding the Moment of Knowing

In the unseeing  exists these rare moments to just be. Appreciating time always comes in the quiet of the morning. Home is still and the world is awakening. Stillness is appreciation.  For the wonder of life unfolding even in its unknowing. Sit still in this unmoving of the new day  Attention to the sounds of the birds greeting Watching the sun calling forth the earthlings Marveling at all that is listening without sound Waiting for the moving When awakening means being The existing is becoming The still of the morning Bustles into awareness of existing In the unfolding of knowing a new day
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Mourning Questions

 When is an eighteen year old prepared for death? Is it when the threat of it surrounded her from age seven and was spoken at age sixteen? Was it when she was four and her mother whispered her goodbye? Or was it when she was thrown into the deep of it without an anchor? The questions of mourning. Who tells her that the monster who kidnapped her took her son's life? And how does she process the words of the doctors who tried to help? Where is her next breathe that asthma squeezed out? When is an eighteen year old prepared for death? Who holds her hand when family abandoned her for their respectable shame? How is she supposed to overcome what never should have been? Who tells the ones who were supposed to care that they failed? Where can she feel safe? How does one turn back the clock of time to protect her? Why does the world seem to not care about girls who look like her? The questions of mourning. What happens to the boy whose life was not altered? Why didn't anyone hold him r...
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