Can you see the sway of my hips,
how they speak to the beat of these drums?
Can you hear the rhythm—
the language of our silence,
unspoken words rising like smoke?

I build bridges over rivers of oppression,
each step a prayer,
each twirl a testimony.

With the swing of my skirt,
I sweep away the struggles of women like me—
bold, bruised,
but never broken.

We are complex,
layered like rhythms in the night.
Not just survivors,
but storytellers with sacred fire in our feet.

We arrived in chains,
yet even in bondage,
we birthed grace.
White dresses flow—symbols of peace,
clarity,
and the breaking of curses
tied to spirits lost in new lands.

Oh, when I hear that rhythm,
it stirs my soul.
Something ancient rises,
something wild and free.
We dance ‘til the moon forgets to rest—
laughin’, shoutin’,
spinnin’ rebellion into joy.

This is resistance.
This is remembrance.
This is us.
A dance of rebellion is here.

Dear Unsealed,

What Do I Fear?
I fear the lack of personal contact,
This time of year, we lack
The touch of humanity.
I fear being old.
But that must be.
I am old, bold.
I fear losing social security,
Fear of losing my healthcare,
Literally please be aware.
I fear the things that aid old people who are our elders.
That assist those of advanced age,
Will be hi-jacked and stolen by mean people,
Who plan to take over our living stage at old age
Control us,
Minimize old people,
The disabled, and others,
Shove us off as if we don’t matter to others.
To fear is normal,
Fearing is cool,
Fear is formal.
Fear is me,
Afraid of lying fools.
Being reluctance to talk,
Fear is how to talk,
Fear is being unable to walk
Even a short distance,
For instance.
To fear is true blue,
Fear is tolerating the ultra-conservative fool.
Fear is so many things in 2025.
I am an empath,
A dreamer, psychic.
I do not carry wrath,
But observe others,
Quietly,
Around my psyche.
I fear being homeless,
fearing is being without work,
to fear is being old, bold, and careless.
Fear is losing all benefits.
Fear is being hungry.
A list of fears is so boring and long,
asunder.
One’s a fool to think they care.
The fool,
The leaders plan a dire dismissal
Of whom they dislike.
Spiteful, they cause chaos
In everyone’s life.
So, I will write.
Not out of spite,
But to release feelings of the night,
To spread light through the day.
Faith keeps me strong.
I tackle fear with music and song,
Visual art,
No farts.
I carry on,
Despite my fear of judgment,
By people who do not care.
I fear falling into their snares,
Of lairs rotting in their lion’s dens
Of inequity and warped sin.
I fear nothing but fear itself.
Once a prolific phrase,
It spread fear itself.
Doublespeak is a chaos nightmare.
This fear.
It makes me aware.
The silver screen of life surrounds us all.
I am awake.
I see the lies of mean people.
Make no mistakes.
Their rules are tools
For their brains,
Insane.
I am awake.

100 percent score

Sixty paces—the distance between the wear marks on the porch windowsill
to the stone coping beneath the cherry blossoms.

From cold, wet nose kisses, punctuated by toe taps,
to the pungent pansies that now adorn his earthly bed.

Four feet—forty-eight inches—the space from his head to my lap.

Yet—when I close my eyes, I’m met by his tender gaze.
I feel the weight of his head, the damp jowls,
the velvet of his coat against my skin.

His warmth—lifting the weight of the day.

A kindred spirit, whose friendship I never questioned.

Sixty paces—a heart-rending farewell,
and a heartfelt hope: “I’ll be seeing you.”

Dear Unsealers:

It’s Easter Sunday.

For those that celebrate the day, I hope that it’s an enjoyable day for you. I hope that everyone has a wonderful Sunday, no matter where in the world you are.

Here’s to the hope and possibility after the lenten season has concluded.

With a nod to the Urbi et Orbi message from the Pope in Rome, this is my message from NYC to the world:

After forty days of Lent
Easter Sunday has arrived

A day to celebrate
The rising of the son of God

With euphoric joy in the holiest spirit
We praise all that life brings

With the world blooming all around
Everything’s possible!

From me to you and yours
From NYC to the world…

Happy Easter!
¡Felices Pascuas!

Pazko on!
Bona Pasqua!

Joyeuses Pâques!
Buona Pasqua!
Cásca Shona!

Feliz Páscoa!
Καλό Πάσχα!
Sretan Uskrs!

Mary Jane got me ohh so high,
Your genetics done changed my life.
I thank God to this very day, for
Another peaceful night, for word play.
You’ve done evolved my DNA.
Oh how I love your,
Potent indica dominant strains.
Sparks the receptors, as I search
To put these words in place.
Oh how I love your vibrant fragrance.
I love how help me through,
The stressful day’s.
Got neurons flooding
My brain. Looking for and
Connecting different things to say,
You spark my imagination.
Opening up a variation of
Ways. When I was hurt
You helped me innovate.
Had to do this for a special occasion.
Was built off some chronic
Mixed in with a Lil pain.
A different meaning
For “chronic pain”.
Might have to get a prescription
Just to keep me sane.
Had to celebrate your holiday.
Happy 4-20 it’s a special day.

This life… is but a vapor… without a second thought you’d capture the moment by taking a pen to your wrist…
And letting your heart bleed out on the paper….
Inspiration, devastation, any other proclamation…
Yet trying to write now just feels like forced dedication…
What happened to that fire? That desire? It’s like our pen has dried up, and the situations dire
What happened to the endless words rattling around that drove us to the brink of insanity?
What happened to the ability to tug at the heartstrings of humanity?
People used to say that what we wrote felt so real…
But it’s because your words expressed our heart unsealed…
All our pain, all our anguish,
Every unfulfilled wish
Even as we traversed from glory to glory,
Your words expressed our story
Yet stressed here I am
Trying to string together words that don’t mean a damn thing
There’s no voice, there’s no heart…
How can I read what I write now, and try to say that it’s art?
Posting poems from the past, but how long can that last?
I am not you, and I fear that our time together is through…
Like how were you able to write an entire poem from being hit by a droplet of dew?
You could put one hundred and ten poems inside of a book
All to tell one story, simply from its tones alone;
All our highs and our lows
Our joys, and our woes…
But I’m sitting here now like, “is this as far as it goes?”
Have I nothing more than this?
Here I stand at my precipice
Grasping at the wind beyond my reach
With eyes like an ocean, til they burn red
Rivers of dread flow, as I shake and I quiver
Each drop crashes like a tsunami atop this wilted rose I hold in my hand
The petals have been washed away… no beauty remains
Only the thorns buried beneath my flesh, tearing at my very soul
I never would’ve thought writing so much could take such a toll
To break through, I know not what I need
My heart… has run out of blood to bleed…
There’s no path ahead…
Nothing to say that I haven’t already said…
Here I stand at the ledge… ready to lunge…
Ready to take that fateful plunge…
Embracing the free fall…
As I give up on writing anything at all…

But yet in this moment the wind gives its gust
With a gentle whisper it tells me, “trust”
“Walk by faith and not by sight.
There’s no reason for you to be filled with fright.
Take the step and be full of delight.
Harken unto Me, and what I declare.
For together we will dance across the air.
The words that have been shrouded in the clouds will again shine their light.
The voice you seek will soon echo aloud.
Sending ripples, causing waves,
Causing dead bones to rattle in their graves.
Testifying of the One by whom mankind shall be saved.
This isn’t the end of your story.
For I have chosen you to write of Our coming glory.”

Lo! That mercy would look upon my tired eyes
That the winds of heaven would hear my frustrated cries
With no blood left to bleed…
No might, nor power left within myself to carry me through this hour
But by Thy Spirit, I will continue to fight
By Thy Spirit I will continue to write for any who shall hear it
For Thy testimony is my delight
Lo! This shall not be my end
I’m trusting that higher yet I shall ascend
So let ye joyful trumpets sound in celebration
For the shackles and chains of this writer’s block I refuse to succumb
Yay! I say I shall be unbound
I’ll let this Spirit fueled heart beat like a drum of liberation
Pounding with a “bum-bum-de-bum”
This burning sensation shut-up deep in my bones;
Words yet without form… groaning’s waiting to be born
As the tumultuous storm clouds clear… their image draws near…
I can see them…
At last…
I am free…
This weightlessness…
Unburdened by stress…
Yes… I can feel it deep in my core…
If I take this step… I know I shall soar
I shall waltz on the wind, as a sparrow in the daytime
As a spider with its web, I’ll weave these words into rhymes
I’ll mold them into the most lustrous silk
And their taste shall be sweeter than honey and more nutritious than milk
No longer shall I live in fear that I’ll never be the writer you were again
The rose petals of this pen will bloom once more
And now I sit in anticipation to see what creations are in store…
Indeed… this blocks been broken through
For my passions been born anew

Dear Unsealers,
I wanted to share with you a poem I wrote about Time and how we spend our time. At the end of time, what will others remember? I originally started this piece in 2021 & finished in 2023, Taylor Vance.

We have GOOD times
We have BAD times
We have SAD times
We have MAD times
We have GLAD times
We have HARD times & we have felt like time wasn’t on our side.
We have had times of JOY & we have wished that we could avoid a certain time.
We have FOUGHT at times & CRIED at times
We have HIDDEN at times & SHINED at times
There has been times I wish we never had
There has been times we can never take back
There has been times we will never get back
There has been times we talked shit & times we have been up shits creek. And GOD knows we have never been on TIME!!! But I would never rewind time, for it’s only been a short time we have had together, & it’s only going to get better in due time.
For all the hard times we weathered past, present, or future, as we expected.
For the rest of our time, we will make the best of our time to love one another until we have NO more time, while we wait, our story will continue, so in the end, we know we didn’t make a complete mess of our time.
Now I ask you to take a little time to remember how you use your time. Because all you get in this life is TIME & CHOICES, my advice to you is to be wise with both. At the end of time, we are to have No regrets, No second chances, for there will be No time to look back. Because at that time, when our hourglass has finally run out of sand, we can’t flip it over and start again. So what will the ones we leave behind remember of OUR TIME?
Written by: Taylor Vance 2-2023

I’m exhausted but not that lack of 8 hrs of sleep exhausted.
I’m exhausted from putting peoples needs first.
I’m exhausted from checking in with people that don’t check in with me.
I’m exhausted from putting in the work and everyone else just goes on with life.
I’m exhausted from feeling their emotions and suppressing my own.
I’m exhausted and it’s not from the lack of sleep exhausted.
I want to feel alive.
I want to feel refreshed.
I want to feel my own emotions.
Care for my own needs.
I want to escape the burnt stage of life and capture the awareness of the day.
I’m exhausted from being exhausted!
When will I breathe again?
That is the question!

Do you not see how strong you are?
How worthy you are?
How loved you are?

All those sleepless nights prepared you for the best sleeps of your life.
Those uncomfortable mirror talks set you up for those beautiful reflection affirmations.
Those in and out acquaintances part of your life were just props to what led you to today.

The most strongest, worthiest, and lovable woman the Universe could have!

September 2019, I was walking to the bus stop to go to work at the church as the administrative assistant. The day was rough. My body was hurting and I didn’t understand or know why, yet refusing to take the opiates the doctors offered me to mask the pain. Walking with my heavy backpack, my spirit was low and my head was down as I braved the even heavier traffic of Lafayette Road. Walking with my head down, something that growing up in my family and in my neighborhood, was taught not to ever do.
“You don’t ever walk with your head down. It’s a sign of weakness, insecurity or pain. Always walk with your head held high, no matter what or who, you don’t look down unless you are picking up something.” I heard my grandmother’s words with every step I took, chuckling a bit to myself about how crazy I often drove her.
I’d joke and say “But Gaga, I’ve found some good stuff with my head down. Remember that $100 bill I found on our way from the ticket house? I found my favorite stone, a lottery ticket and that sack of weed…”
“Hush!” she’d scream and I’d giggled but straighten my face sure enough out of respect and the fact that I knew that my grandmother was, as always, “speaking the truth.”
Yet that day in September 2019 with Chronic pain, depression, grief and mourning so much loss – my head was down. I was in the midst of several storms and my backpack probably weighed a ton. Midway in the middle of the street, as the cars raced by on every side, on the ground lay a butterfly on its side. Its wings flapped weakly, barely moving and as the cars passed by us both on every side, I walked past it and thought, “how sad, it’s going to die.”
I had got to the bus stop but couldn’t take my mind off that butterfly, so I walked back to the middle of the street, noticed it had stopped moving and picked up the butterfly by its wings. Here I was hurting, going through, in the middle of heavy traffic and afraid of bugs – picking up this butterfly by its wings to take it back to the bus stop, for what, I didn’t know. I placed it among some flowers and weeds, and as I waited on my bus to arrive, the butterfly’s wings began to flap as it moved up higher on the flowers and finally the light pole. As my bus came, I took a picture of the butterfly without understanding how significant that moment truly was or what the purpose of this simple encounter with another of Yah’s wounded creatures, on this particular day, was for. I can tell you that when I got on the bus that day, my spirit was much lighter and my head was held high.
I will never know what happened to the butterfly. It could have dropped dead the minute I was gone, fallen victim to a bird, went back into the streets to be run over or it could have flown to lands unknown. I can’t tell you what happened to that butterfly because that part of its journey was not my assignment. My assignment was a mere simple thing and gesture, to pick up that butterfly and put it in a better position.
In ancient culture the butterfly is a symbol or personification of the soul and rebirth. In fact the Greek word for “butterfly” means “soul” or “mind”
“The butterfly at the bus stop” became my testimony on how we should never be content on walking past something or someone who is afflicted, who needs help, and not do anything. This encounter reminds me that we are all Yah’s butterflies and at some point, we have all been that butterfly in the middle of some road or storm in our lives, where we were or felt weak and The Most High sent someone to pick us up by our wings and put us in a better position in life. Be it physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, financially or professionally.
So when we talk about mental health and spiritual health, we have to talk about how 50% of mental health illness is hereditary and 50% environmental. We can not control what we are as far as our heredity but we can control how we help ourselves or others who are afflicted. For those who are commissioned to serve by ministering to others also note that you can’t pick a butterfly up safely by the wings if you are too busy stepping on the body by being judgmental, self absorbed and/or holier than thou attitude. How can you both judge and labor with someone at the same time? Sometimes we call ourselves picking somebody up but because we are either too broken ourselves, ill equipped or too distracted that we end up causing further damage by pulling their wings off.
And if you are the butterfly at any point in your life, it’s ok to have faith and get help too. It’s ok to have therapy and theology, to allow yourself to be picked up and placed in a better position. Don’t let anyone tell you that therapy is a waste of time, especially when they don’t have the time, because it’s not. When we have been all traumatized by a violent American history, an impatient, unemphatic, unjust and harsh world that results in the lives of our children being taken, them taking each other lives and taking their own lives – it’s’ evident that it feels as if there are more butterflies in the middle of the road than they are up flying. Do we truly see each other? Do we not recognize that how we treat or don’t treat our fellow brothers and sisters has such a ‘butterfly effect’ in the world?
We need to seek to always be obedient, use our discernment and be bold in our assignments. That each of us are butterflies, a soul, that as long as we are living may be seen at any given time, in the middle of the road or in mid-flight on this journey called life. The next time you see someone in need of being picked up by their wings, may you not walk by content on that it’s not your assignment or so caught up in your own world that you fail to see the beauty and purpose in another. So as we continue to pick each other up, may we pick up our own wings by doing so and fly to destinations unknown but always felt.

~ copyright © 2019 TaMara E’Lan G.

Falling in love ought not be such a terrifying act
Is it as daunting for you as it is for me
I sit in wonder what my life would be
Minus all the heartbreak and perpetual agony
Would I be the type to trust “I love you”
Would I be the type to trust at all
If only I’d been shown
If only the words “I love you” came from those already grown

Eye see you
Do you see me?
Soul to soul
Yet oceans away.

Is it weird
To not only ask
For one more night—
But for you to stay?

They say love lasts for a lifetime,
But every minute apart
Feels like you’re eons away.

Eye see you.
Eye see the star you are.
I see the parts of your soul
You try to hide.

Could it be
That you are my soul tribe?
Or maybe my mate…
Either way it goes,
This union feels divinely great—
Almost as if it was fate.

Bashert.
Eye see you.
Soul to soul.
Fated love so true.
Eye see you.

Bashert, my love,
For you is destined to be.

⸻

My soul searches for you,
But eye cannot find
Where you are hiding…

Some days I am rain.
Other days, I am earth.
Some days I am air.
Other days, I am fire.

I scorch new paths to rebirth.
But will you still love me the same
On days when I can’t flow like water—
When I bring storms, lightning, and rain?

I might blow my fuse and explode,
Blowing like wind…

But the river of my love is ever flowing
Into oceans of understanding,
Deeper than the cosmos—
The great gift of knowing.

That you are my Baz, and eye you.
My soul sees your soul,
As the light of this
Divine union shines through.

Bashert, my love—Bashert.
For the Divine One
Designed me just for you.

The storm, the sun, the people
Gimme shelter

The wars, spiritual or physical
Gimme shelter

Higher Power, Universe, provide it wherever my spirit goes ….. If I seek it, it will show

Just like my glow

These are magical moments we can experience everyday

If we seek we shall find.

Are our bodies the amazing external shelter
Of the fascinating machinery
That makes the true existence of the psyche possible?
Without this body, this “me”
You cannot know or share any of my thoughts
And that would be the tragedy at hand, soon enough;
So thus,
As long as my mind is held in this body
I will love it and feed it
And take it on walks
And give it warm baths
And tuck it to bed cozy
And I hope you can do the same
In your own safe housing of your soul
So I can hear your sacred thoughts as well,
That only you can speak.

Here I thought you were “the one” with what was programmed from within.
Walking life without you seemed so numb at the time.
Breathing different air than you set for sleepless nights.
I’m so glad you were not “the one.”
My programs from within have switched from fantasy to reality.
Walking life without you has defrosted in the most warmest ways.
Breathing different air from you
has given me better nights of sleep.
The weighted blanket type of sleep.
Here I thought you and I would be the forever type.
Boy, was that such hype.
I’m so glad forever was not for this flight.
Here I thought I’d be together with you, the “love of my life.”
Not knowing that love would be with me years after the blue.

Where has my light gone
That used to twinkle in my eyes?
I feel like I don’t belong
In this body I call mine
I don’t know who I am anymore
Not even a single clue
Maybe I don’t know who I was before
It’s hard to know what’s true
Have I lost myself somehow?
Gone without a trace
Or was I never found
A vessel without a face