Tag Archives: Los Angeles Art

SHE CHRONICLES: “Enough” a poem by Deana Verse

The crazy part is that i know i dont miss you

i really truly miss what i thought we had so frikn bad
like an ache that wont leave…

i vascilate between living without you and and living with the lie you had presented me with

the lesser of three evils because either way i would wind up hurt
damn!

never been the lonely type

always been the drinking type

this lonely-ish mixed with drinking has invented a new type
at least for me

i would love to stumble upon in real life the facade we existed in for fake and take residence

i deserve it

you suck!

and you know you deserve that!

but i digress…

vodka plus emotions = this poem and had i not erased your number i would probably call you, but i erased itr for this very reason because i do not need to give myself something else to regret.

you were enough!

deanareed

Deana is a host, producer, event planner and writer living in Los Angeles.  The Ohio native remembers the day that a relentless depression pushed pen to pad resulting in her first poem.  Deana has hosted over 13 shows over the past ten years from charity events, fundraisers, music events and featured poetry shows.  She has been performing in the LA area for over 15 years and is considered a trailblazer for women performers, producers of poetry.

Find her on Facebook here

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SHE CHRONICLES: “Stones” a poem by Deana Verse

They say iron sharpens iron
discovered gratitude for the wrong way you grind against my existence
Just right enough to render me sharp samurai sword like against the white meat of discontent
I am a dull blade on purpose with you
Never understood the attacks festering beneath my tears
Never knew the demise i fathomed
Come true  of our union
I protect you fervently
Pray for the same incessantly
Ingesting disapointment like
Tequila shot
Jaws tight, teeth clenched
A familiar burn
They say
Constant bashing cracks the hardest of stone
I am a hidden vulnerable with you
Crepe paper under metal plate
 i cringe at the site of stones
Fists for stones
Tongues for stones
Eyes for stones
Your judgments  span the  entirety of senses
Sticks and stones crack Windows and souls
You  are toddler clumsy with my emotions…

Continue reading SHE CHRONICLES: “Stones” a poem by Deana Verse

SHE CHRONICLES: “Story #2,262,017” by Alice The Poet

SHE CHRONICLES: “Story #2,122,017” by Alice The Poet

Story #2,122,017, Week 6 Reflection – So earlier this week I have a conversation with a man who tells me that I am “not like other African American women.” What does that even mean? I’m hardworking, focused, loving. I’m navigating this life, working at balance (keeping God first and joy close). We only share positive things in our conversation. Why does that make me different? I see it as just another form of disunity. Unfortunately for some, there is a distinction (with hierarchy) between “types” of Black women globally; the African American woman being lowest on the ladder. Malcolm X specifically pointed out the Black woman in America (the African American woman) as being the most “disrespected … unprotected [and] neglected.” It is demonstrated not just in our portrayal, but also in our treatment. With his back-handed compliment, this Black man from Liberia demonstrates the sad reality of one of colonialism’s greatest and far-reaching tools, the practice of divide and conquer. I am thinking of wise, powerful, beautiful, kind and caring women like my grandmother-ancestors, my mother, my aunts, my sisters, my cousins, my friends, my colleagues and co-workers, all of the African American women I am like and those I strive to be more like (Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, Ida B. Wells, Mary McLeod Bethune, Lucille Times, Zora Neale Hurston, Clarice Brown, Coretta Scott-King, Oprah, Betty Shabazz, Michelle Obama, Sonia Sanchez, Assata Shakur, Angela Davis, and so many more) as I respond, “That’s not true! I’m just like African American women and proud of it!” 
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Alice The Poet (Alice Nicholas) is a PhD student in the Department of Africology and African American Studies at Temple University. Her research interests include Black Diasporic literature, Black literary theory, Black love and Black liberation. She has presented papers and research at national conferences and cultural festivals. Her articles, essays, poetry and other writings have been published in both scholarly and artistic publications including African American Review, Encyclopedia of African Cultural Heritage in North America, Imhotep and the Zora Neale Hurston Society.  In 1999, she created the10 Million Stories series (collections of poetry, short stories and essays) as a demonstration of self-discipline, self-definition and self-publication. She is currently completing volume 9.
Contact: AliceThePoet@yahoo.com or

a different kind of vicious

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The snow is gone. The trees are still bare. We survived without losing electricity. And the kids only have two snow days to make up at the end of the school year.

The culmination of a week and I had an incredible one with writing. I am consistent in writing everyday and this comes simple when I have nothing else to do. For example, turning my television off! Listening to music with no words so I don’t have to focus on someone else’s verbs. I remember space like this when I lived solo in LA. And I didn’t take it for granted but I did have something different back then. I had a fierce determination. A different kind of vicious.

Disregard the cliché, but I lived in a place with no space and time. I lived in that kind of confidence everyone has before you share with someone and adopt doubt. To me it was about a matter of opportunity. I had the body of material. I had the body of emotions. And I had the body. (the body body…36,24,34) I had a vicious overall outlook on art like my predecessors. I had a library to waylay me into the Harlem Renaissance and Black Arts Movement. I was indicative of significant worth. Period. I was perfectly positioned for success. And from what I prepared, I received.

There is a difference with reverence and support. And my spirit told me I didn’t have enough of the latter but I hoped I could muster enough to maintain humility. My solution when I couldn’t differentiate the two was to simply stop. Pull away and not perform. Get a job that demanded an early bedtime so I could not perform at late venues or the Sunday hot spots. Me trying to supply my mental with sustenance brought about a negative implication and it confused me.

And then poetry became political with the performance form of slam. And I became even more confused with how we can skip from the spiritual formula of creating to wanting an instant result of “winning”. I stopped.

I am in the present of creating a body of work that needs an opportunity. I am clothed with a fierce determination. A different kind of vicious. And I appreciate this cycle of not being caught up in a space or time. What will the outcome be this go around? Very different! Because I know differently.