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I am a writer


I am a writer.  I always have been. I always will be.
The pen and I are connected, my hand moves with it connected to my digits and spreads out the thoughts in my mind, bringing ink in colors of blue, black, pink, and purple on paper of white.  I am a writer.
When I was nine or ten years old, my late father gave me a stack of Big Chief Tablets and a pencil and told me to go write down my stories.  I wish I still had them today because it was one of the purest moments of creativity, my imagination took flight and the words reached paper.  My late father relished in them from my tale of the Irish Potato Famine that took off from me gnawing on a pencil in class to my coming-of-age-story of a young girl in the big city, I wish those stories and my father’s deep baritone was still around to encourage me, all these decades later.
I write poetry, essays, and one day, that long awaited memoir.  I also write professionally as a consultant, marketing professional, and educator.  I earned my Masters of Business Administration from the University of Iowa, the home of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, the place where communication on paper was part of every class. 
These words on paper, this ability to sway an opinion, inform, entertain, and reach out to the heart of someone is the magical power of being able to write, being able to bring what is in my mind to a living document, eternal in the inscription.  I am a writer.
Years long on this earth, not yet fifty, has enabled me to live more stories that are waiting to be put on paper. This is my destiny, my existence. I am a writer.

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The Burden

This isn't mine anymore

What?

This.

She stretched out her hands
the parcel neatly wrapped
brown paper
with a
red bow

What is this?

Take it, it is your's.

But

No, it is not mine to carry
Anymore

What do you mean?

I mean that I am giving it back
it was never mine
anyway

I don't understand

You never did.

I don't want it.

Take it.

No.

So she
dropped
it
right
where
she stood.

And turned
and walked away.

The package was never her's to hold.
So she let it go.


Tayé Foster Bradshaw is the poet's nom de plumme. She resides in a suburb of St. Louis surrounded by her family, her books, her pens, and her lattes.

This poem is inspired by the lives and burdens of many women, particularly women of color, who are forced to carry the cares, thoughts, and expectations of others without regard to their own wants, needs, and health. This poem is a release.




Bridges by Tayé Foster Bradshaw

Walking
across time
Bringing me to you
or
you to me
over a way through-
tears and fears
to bring us to
the other side of possibility
probability
reality
reality
crossing
structures
through
over
under
hold on
don't look down
look down
walk on over
dance on over
wheels on over
over over over
water and roads and
all the modes that
bring
me
to
you
or





you
to
me
collectively
connected
collaborating
across
the great
wide
way


©2016. Tayé Foster Bradshaw Group, Antona Smith. All Rights Reserved.

Bridges used to scare me as a little girl. In the town where I grew up, in order to get from my neighborhood over to the swimming pool or summer activities, we walked. I was always fine until we reached the crest of the hill and that looming structure that connect roads-to-roads, over cars zooming beneath, promising me opportunity on the other side, if I just trusted the weight of my tiny skinny nine-year-old self against the wind blowing or the sun streaming over this manmade steal structure.  My l…

Black Mama Tears

It rained this afternoon

Loud claps of thunder

Almost couldn't see the rain

For my tears falling down

Black Mama Tears

too many

dying

in their sleep

on a run

at a store

too many

stopped

just walking

just working

just breathing

It rained today

And I couldn't see

for all the weeping

of

Black

Mamas.