~Cutting Ties~ Poem

Written By: Dee Parker

Sometimes...
you gotta let go of hands that once held you,
just to hold on to yourself.

I said,
Sometimes, you gotta love yourself loud enough
to let silence do the talking.

Lately.
I’ve been falling back,
from people, I laughed with,
Ate with,
Dreamed with.
Folks I would've gone to war for,
but never noticed I was already in one.

It’s not because I stopped loving them.
It’s because I finally started loving me!

I started noticing
when the room changed
but nobody said a word.
When my joy got smaller,
to make others feel comfortable.

Nah.
Not anymore!

Some people are like gangrene.
And I ain't saying that to be cruel
I'm saying that to be real.

You keep ignoring the infection,
next thing you know,
you’re losing more than a limb,
you’re losing yourself,
Your life!
Your light!
You're why!

So yeah,
I chose me.
Not in arrogance,
but in alignment.
Not with rage,
but with revelation.

Cutting ties ain’t always angry.
Sometimes, it’s graceful and quiet.
Sometimes it's, I still love you,
but from over here.
It’s I forgive you,
but I can’t keep handing you the knife.

It’s, I see you,
but I see me too now.

Because of peace.
Peace don’t plead.
Peace doesn’t perform.
Peace doesn’t sit in rooms where it’s constantly questioned.
Peace just leaves.

So I had to cut ties.
Cut ties.
Even the ones tied in childhood.
Even the ones stitched in struggle.

Because if the bond costs me my balance, well,
it’s not worth it.

Let me be clear,
This ain’t bitterness.
This is boundaries.
This is healing.
This is choosing life.

And yeah,
It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.

But I’d rather grieve the loss of someone who meant me no good,
than mourn the loss of the man I’m becoming.

So I’m walking away.
Not cold,
but clean.
Not angry,
but aligned.
Not broken,
just brave.

It's all small steps to a giant!
(Random thoughts) 

D~Parker 5.3.2025

~Thinking~

POEM
Written By: D~Parker

Sitting back thinking about things I was taught growing up. 

Thinking about times, I was dealing with things I don't speak about.

Thinking about times, when I kept smiling on the outside but was worried about things on the inside.

Thinking about all of the obstacles I have faced all I could do was pray and keep pushing forward. 

Thinking about my grandmother and taking her advice to heart. 

Thinking about ways I can be a better version of myself.

Thinking about why we are stuck in survival mode instead of living life to the fullest. Then realizing survival mode is what has carried us this far.

Thinking about generational curses and past traumas.

Thinking about ways to heal and move past them.

Then it hits me, that pivotal moment an epiphany if one must say. 

It's all small steps to a giant and with this, I continue my day. 

(Revised)

( Random thoughts)
D~Parker 12.16.2024

Miss Mae Remembers

Written By: Douglas Curry

Design by: Xander Bowen

Miss Mae daydreams in the summer breeze
of some yesterdays long  ago although
they seem as clear today as one of those tv's;
pretty mens with their perfume and powder

not sissies, no;  loafers... sheiks
with their high-draped pants
and long-toed shoes... slicked down hair
gold-chained Elgins and polished nails

gettin' that Beale Street fast-track money
faster than they could spend it
pass a gal a sawbuck for a song
a gold toothed smile and a wink for a date.

She sees rough, beefy-faced bulls
watching with steely-eyed menace,
pistols tucked, billy clubs ready,
scarred and chipped... Saturday night law

beckoned to alleys by girls  for pleasure
living large on illicit treasure
the pimps' and bootleggers' bounty
costs of doing business, beneits of the job

Miss Mae remembers the small crowds
when you came in as Ma Rainey left town,
taking with her all their money and their hearts;
but huge crowds for her - and Bessie's - closing shows.

Country folk with brogan shoes;
bandy-legged gals with love for sale
musky mens tryin' a give it away
Sat'day night in Black Bottom

Miss Mae recalls...
Bessie, singing opera for a laugh,
and spirituals on Sunday mornings...
whilst her dykes, pimps, rounders...slept

And then there was a two week stint
When Mr Calloway needed a high yaller
to high-step and "Hi-de-Ho" at the Cotton Club
O' Harlem... how you jazz me; you do make me high...

Oh... the times... the parties, the crowds.
Gold-toothed blues singers dressing fine,
cool jazz cats in dark cars taking  dope,
passing reefers to a back seat full of 'ho's

Miss Mae smiles just to think...
of her big money sugar daddies;
there was at least one in every town
from Biddle Street to Lenox Avenue...

before the wars...
before so many started to move

George Karger/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

before the pickets, the marches, the riots
before things got so complicated

Sittling on a trash can top
watching the Harlem children
sprout, grow, disappear...
Miss Mae remembers her song...

"They call me Maybe Mae
and I just come to play
but, treat me right, Daddy
Maybe Mae might stay..." 

And the clouds blocking the restless sky
are as gray as Miss Mae's scattered braids
that hide the rememberings of an old woman
who no one knows now, her reverie lingers...

Struttin' her stuff, high steppin'
in those greasy, noisy joints
they were for 'colored only' then
and only for them, singing her blues.


Doug Curry
May 3, 2017

And I'm Done

written By: Dena Ross Jennings

Done tip-toeing,

Done bowing,

Done living an apology

For things done to my generation

For the wisdom borne of our experiences 

That makes a new generation cringe

And bend with the latest wind of -ism

For which we are deemed the harbinger.

Toughen up, young ones.

Your noose of deaf zeal is

As tight as the stem of strange fruit

As damning as the rod spared

As stifling as the bleached white hood of night

Without lifting a fist, but a pen

Without wielding a knife, but words

Cutting to the deepest marrow just the same

You see, my sixth decade comes in like a lioness

Done with this hunt until the next,

Dividing the truth for the survival of the pride,

Hungry to be heard though ready to distribute 

Each portion of the bounty gleaned

To the weak and the young that bite as they yelp—

Not yet as old as my oldest scar

Unwilling listen until I am done.

© Dena Jennings 2019.