All photos were lovingly snapped by Jernee Timid’s owner who loves her and is grateful for her existence every single day.
For those of you who don’t know, that’s me. LOL!
Just Jernee
Category: Animals
A Change Had To Come
I had grown complacent; my time
to change and maneuver into a new
space almost eluded me.
Somehow, I found the strength
to push through fear and allow
excitement to take over.
When you’ve spent five years
in one space, you’re going to do
one of three things: remain in that
space with no intention to move,
move away from that space to find
another that will be much better, or
do something more to that space
in order for it to continue to feel
like home.
I decided it was time to move.
We’d given The Powers That Be enough
chances to right their wrongs of
our conditions and I won’t stand
for it any longer.
I prayed. I stood steadfast on my word.
I watched God work.
And now, I move.
I am fervent action in motion risking
it all for the betterment of my mind,
heart, body, and soul.
And in tow, is my senior dog who
is curious about the things
shifting in real-time before her eyes.
We are downsizing from two bedrooms
and two baths to one bedroom and
one and one-half bath — one never knows
the amount of junk one has until it
is all showing its teeth at you
while you pack it up and
put it in out-of-reach spots. . .
Cautious not to get bitten during
the process.
I am tired — no, an understatement; I am
exhausted. My body aches in places
I did not know
aches could exist, and there is still
more to do.
But I am ready.
The most important part of this
experience is that I recognize if
I opt to stay here for another year,
more pieces of me will deteriorate
into nothingness, and I intend to
keep this year easier on the ME
I am becoming instead of harder.
I claim fewer struggles.
I claim happier moments.
I claim peaceful rest.
I claim growth.
I claim pure love.
And it all starts here
and now with a change
so subtle yet overpowering,
my soul knows its power.
Originally published in soliloque via Medium.
The moving day is Thursday, August 24, 2023. I’d forgotten how much of a major task it is to move and I am being reminded of it every single day. I am attempting to see the joys of it as well as the higher possibility of sheer happiness from it, too. Thank you for reading.
An Overnight Trip To Charlotte, NC
Previously Submitted
A few poems that didn’t make the cut
The Weird Games Children Play
The kids play Marco Polo
without a pool
Their little hands flail wildly
in the October sun
No one is IT
Everyone chases the sound
of voices unsure
of what they’re trying to find
The Delivery Guy Is Dyslexic
243 is 234 to a keen set of eyes
buried in the head of an
amazing human being yet
try as I might
I can’t be in two places
at one time
However, he doesn’t know this
My food sits in front
of a neighbor’s door waiting
for me to retrieve it
I send a message through the
app explaining the dilemma
The digital approval of
a refund chimes in
I really just want to eat
what I ordered
without the hassle
|but I’m also empathetic to
the plight of one’s struggle
I’ll order again tomorrow
The Dog Does Not Approve of the New Arrangement
I was feeling frisky the other night
so I decided to rearrange the
living room furniture
Afterward, I cleaned and
noticed the dog focused on this
new maze inside her home
She does not approve
I nod satisfied with what I’d
accomplished and my little
friend huffs in disgust
She sniffs the furniture for clues
of sameness — I explain
everything is still here
She tilts her head up to
look in my direction and I can’t
help but feel as though I’m
being graded on my performance
I did not pass her test
This Is Not Bravery
I don’t think it brave to
exist in skin the color
of spilled lies and wake up
to a face that never changes
I didn’t ask to bleed the same
blood yet I do
and authorities Other me before
I can utter a word
It is not bravery knowing I
can die for making a sharp
right turn without a signal
in a car registered in my name
with all the updated paperwork
One false move and I
could be hashtagged
The type of privilege that offers
safety is what I envision
for everyone but centuries of
racism begs to have its
face at the ball of life
No one’s dancing . . .
we’re all too afraid to move
All poems were written in October 2021.
Originally published in CRY Magazine via Medium.
Darryl & Delilah
Flash Fiction: A Tale of two squirrels
“I’ve named them, you know?”
“Who?”
“The squirrels that keep coming to the stoop. I’ve named them.”
“You have, have you? Let’s hear the names!”
“Darryl & Delilah.”
MacKenzie’s older sister shoots her an odd look — one that questions her name-choosing skills, but the younger sibling stands her ground.
“Darryl & Delilah!? Mack, why on earth would you . . .”
“It’s simple. Remember that song Mommy used to sing when I was like 5? The one by Billy Joel, ‘Just the Way You Are’? I hear that song every time I see them running around, gathering acorns, and hoarding them under the flower pot on our stoop. Their names fit them. They seem like a happy couple — one that can’t live without each other.”
Misha stares at her kid sister in total disbelief. She can’t believe what’s coming out of her mouth, but then again, she thinks it’s best not to question 11-year-old girls whose parents recently divorced. She continues to listen without judgment.
“I see Mommy and Daddy in them. Mommy rushing to gather all the acorns. Daddy hustling to the stoop to lift the flower pot so Mommy can place the acorns there. They make a great team!”
And then the tears fall. Misha watches her kid sister turn into a mush-mouth full of anger and resentment and pent-up sadness on the corner of Circle Way and Todd St. Divorce isn’t simply dividing their family, it is changing them in ways they never thought it would. MacKenzie is anthropomorphizing the squirrels in the neighborhood now. What’s next?!
“Mack . . . it’s okay to cry. You know that, right? It’s okay to just cry. You don’t have to make up stories or see Mom and Dad in the squirrels that use our stoop for storage. You can just . . . cry.”
MacKenzie shifts her thinking head to the left, bats her lashes slowly, and leans into her sister’s personal space. She whispers . . .
“I know. But it hurts less when I make up stories.”
Misha pulls her sister into a tight embrace, smooths back the wispy hair from her eyes, and kisses her forehead.
*Sighs* “I know, kiddo. I know.”
love
A Cornered Gurl 
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