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Best Poems Written by Taylor Holiday

Below are the all-time best Taylor Holiday poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Taylor Holiday Poem

A Day With Superman

As I make my way down the street
The air is crisp and there's snow at my feet.
Then the crowd's mouths become agape,
And a woman lets out a screech.

A child's trapped with no escape.
Then citizens point at a shape.
It is a bird, not it's a plane.
But wait; it's a man in a cape.

His act is so kind and humane,
The youngster is saved with no complain.
The child's parents' faces glow,
The hero has done it again.

Up, up, and away he goes.
And where he come from, no one knows.
He's just an alien, I suppose.
He's just an alien, I suppose.

Details | Taylor Holiday Poem

A True Beauty

Her features are not eloquent or of

Something to brag. Thighs, hips, arms, face, stomach—

Fat. Makeup and lipstick, can’t do the trick.

She’s homely from her toes to all above,

Because what she offers isn’t good ‘nough .

Unlike a feather, she floats like a brick.

And like a sloth, her wits are not as quick. 

Yet beauty, brains, and all the carnal stuff,

Do no justice to her disposition—

Courage, fervor, a spiritual giant.

Carrying no regard for thoughts of those

Around her, their comments only expose

Their own unseemly, woeful condition.

Morale has won, and she is triumphant.

Details | Taylor Holiday Poem

Remember the Dream

“America is a melting pot”,
at least that’s what we thought.
Now, don’t try to be like, look like
anything that you’re not.

I’m white like Obama and
I’m black like Drake.
Is it really an issue of color?
No people, goodness sake.

It’s not only the hate you give
but it’s the hate you take.

So, can we forgive?
‘Cause this is no way to live.
Blaming a good man
for his ancestors’ sins.
But really now, who is to blame?
You see one glimpse of evil,
then you’re assuming they’re all the same.
I’m talking to both of y’all,
with backs up against the wall,
thinking to stand tall, walk tall,
now watch out before you fall.
‘Cause we’re scared of world war III
But looks like a civil war to me.
So sick of the hate and jealousy,
Especially the supremacy.

I think back to the words of MLK,
we cannot be satisfied.
No, not yet, no, not today.
Anyway,
don’t take your eyes off the goal.
Remember the dream.
Don’t judge the skin, but the soul.

Now what has happened to this nation?
It’s called modern day segregation.
We’ve brought our rage back to the stage;
Prejudice in a new generation.

OK, ok, I know it sounds cliché,
but what happened to peace, love and kind words?
I guess we forgot that after Sunday.

I am so sick of it.
I don’t want to hear anymore.
Let’s leave and forgive it.
Let it storm out and slam the door.

Drown the hate until it’s dead.
Move on and lift up your head.
Pray this poem’s not misread.
But here it is, I said what I said.

Details | Taylor Holiday Poem

I Love Her, I Do

I love her, I do.
I love her, but she is the most fragile human being.
It’s like walking around with a porcelain doll on your shoulders. 
The fall and break and shatter are inevitable 
but I don’t think I’ll ever know how to pick up the pieces 
and put them back together.
Watching my tongue around her is like tip-toeing past a lion’s den.
My heart lives in my throat,
blocking the utterance of any words,
too afraid to wake the lioness from her slumber.
Being with her is like standing between the hunter and the fawn.
Her—the fawn.
The world—the hunter.
I can only protect her for so long, 
then I take the blow and she takes the shock.
While I lie there, 
motionless,
emotionless.
You frolic off, and I don’t know when I will run into you again.
Loving her,
Loving her is like spotting the rainbow after the flood.
It’s like seeing those first flames conjured up in those ancient caves.
It’s like God’s greatest gift to man, to me.

If I never knew you, 
would I ever feel the way I do?
Still though grief and fear and sorrow 
are your best friends and only my close acquaintances.
I thank you for introducing us.
I wonder sometimes if I am the sick one
and not you.
Why don’t I feel things the way you do?

Why is peace so easy for me
and why does it always taunt you from a distance?

Thank you for saving me from that middle-class American fairytale.
That was too much happiness 
that I would never have understood
if it weren’t for you.

I love her, I do.

Details | Taylor Holiday Poem

Like Mother Like Daughter

Why did I not want to grow up to be her? 

She who formed my world. 
She whose body housed me,
and whose arms raised me.

How could I know her a lifetime
and still not know her?

Mother, tell me, 
why am I afraid to submit?
Why am I chasing a road 
so opposite from yours?

Mother, tell me our history.
Hold my hand 
and walk me down our line. 
The line that leads down a path 
of broken hearts 
and shattered homes.
Diaries of “I’ll never be good enough” 
and tears shed only in dark rooms.

Mother, tell me, 
what are they hiding? 
Are they happy? 
Is it an illusion?

Mother hold my hand 
and use your other to open their mouths. 
Pull out the truth that’s lying
between their teeth

Help me understand
why I should let the cycle end.
Remove the screen 
and let their stories beam 
through the opaque, window.

Mother, teach me why you chose your path 
so that I can follow.

Mother is there a lock on my heart?
Did I lose the key?
At what age will it open 
and give itself away to one 
it loves with all its self?

Give me your wisdom. 
Help me gain your strength.

Help me be like the women in our line- 
resilient;
but let me speak. 
Let me move my heart 
from my chest to my sleeve.
Let the truths in every story be passed down 
so we remember and so we never forget.

Mother, teach me forgiveness.
Teach me to love with no conditions.

Teach me to be like you.
Mother.

Why did I not want to grow up to be her?

Details | Taylor Holiday Poem

My Mama and My Hair

One comb,
One brush,
Some spray to tame the frizz,
Two handfuls of gel
to secure the final product.

First, she brushed.
Then she combed,
so the curls could find their way back home.

Her gentle hands held my head, 
while the comb steered it in each direction. 
With her unmatched patience,
she worked her way through each knot.

There were so many knots.

Those wild strands-
I never understood
how they got each other tied up
in such a mess,
But my mother combed.

She sorted through every problem,
Those curls jumped into.
Even though,
After every rescue,
There was a new mess.

Those locks
with the spirit of dread locks,
were never content,
not for a moment.
So, she combed.

Her hands cramped,
but she combed.

My stubborn hair refused,
knowing the comb was only 
trying to help.

Time passed.
My hair conceded for the day.

The knots built up.

My hair returned
the next morning 
to my mother’s side.
absolutely hysterical.
So, my mother combed.

Details | Taylor Holiday Poem

One Drop

One Drop.
They told me I was pretty for a black girl.
Me, with my pale olive toned skin,
the traces of Europe in every curve of my face.
They said I was pretty, but only for a black girl.

One Drop.
They said they loved my fro.
My fro? 
They mean the curls that bounce on my shoulders,
each strand coated in gel or Cantu.
And so, they liked my "fro".

One Drop.
One drop too much for a standard beauty,
but just enough to still be pretty.
Your warped perspective, your corrupt standard, your false ideas
of beauty.

Bring some chairs to the table of the elite,
because my queens need a seat.
Invite my pure bred sisters,
with the rich ebony skin,
curls tighter than the space at this table,
roots deeper than the mighty Oak.

One Drop.
I am not pretty for a black girl.
I am not pretty for a white girl.
One Drop.
I am not pretty for a mixed girl.
I am beautiful.
We are beautiful.
Period.