Women of Substance (1997): a performance art piece featuring the work of Kwelismith, Kimberli Boyd and Michelle Parkerson. This project was created and developed under Emerald City Production. It enjoyed a national tour and headlined, The National Black Arts Festival in Alanta, GA.
I carry a back-pack
not for a change of clothes or silly snacks
no loose change, books or ball point pens
no magazines, toiletries or deck of cards for gin
my stuff is not to be taken lightly
and understand it belongs to me rightly
created and shaped by God
I keep these things close to my heart nightly
Often I've shared these things with you
at first slow; one and then another
now you reach into my back-pack with ease
your smiles grow and I know you are pleased.
Reach in and enjoy!
by Terry Sidney
Beyond Dark Corners (2009): has been an ongoing project that has taken many different forms, but staying true to original format of using poetry, theatre and movement to weave storylines of characters that sacrifice their spirit and true self to conform to the politics and social standards of the larger community.
I slowly wake up to untangle myself from him.
Pushing away those loving limbs
tentacles that bind and constrict
Thick thighs once pleasing now squeezing
Around my waist
Breathing takes on a syncopated pace
His face
Buried deep in the small of my back
His maleness pressed hard there
in that crack
Oh, how bittersweet, is this bliss?
But, once free, I already miss!
Yes, these are old love stories that would have been better not told.
Like hot piss on red bricks in the early morning
Any queen can sing you a sad love song.
Tell you long drawn out sagas about the coming and goings of men who left what?
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
And yet I lay open, exposing soft tissue
Feelings that dance on playgrounds
All of gods children got issues
Not Me
Not today
Yet, when he wakes I won’t question what more he takes
I give freely the sweetness of this ass, and wet kisses
life is too short to live in the pass
thinking about hits and misses
My reflection informs me of reality
the totality of this situation
is self-inflicted brutality
Under my bed lies many oral histories
Names and addresses, cell phone numbers, birthdays, birth-signs and resumes.
Their memories creep into my dreams and I often awake at 3am reaching for him.
So, yes I indulge myself in his masquerade this charade, a love arcade
filled with stolen passions, small gifts and used condoms
Sometimes a bitch has to do what a bitch has to do.
I take the things I need from him tonight, right
The softness of manly lips between my toes
The hardness of his fingertips inside my thighs
And the heat of his hot breath under my eyes
Saturday mornings with pancakes and a breakfast surprise
tomorrow is another day
and he has not promised to stay.
