This week's Poet of the People is Peggy Logan aka Tabu Hazel. I have known Peggy Logan for close to 15 years. She is an award educator and spoken word poet and has featured at Mind Gravy and other Midlands venues many times. Often her poetry highlights the challenges faced by under-priviledged youth she encounters in the public education sector or facing challenges in yourself. Every child deserves a Peggy Logan in their corner lifting them up and mentoring them to become their best selves.
~Al Black
Dr. Peggy Logan, aka Tabu Hazel, is a dynamic spoken word artist, writer, and actor whose work resonates deeply with audiences. Known for her bold storytelling and unapologetic voice, she explores themes of self-worth, empowerment, and the complexities of human relationships. Under her poetic alter ego, Tabu Hazel, she crafts powerful narratives that challenge stereotypes, redefine identity, and inspire transformation.
A multi-talented creator, Peggy's artistic pursuits extend beyond poetry. She is the writer and visionary behind Digital Deception, an award-winning drama that dives into the complexities of love and betrayal in the digital age. Her work in the film world reflects her gift for capturing raw emotion and authentic storytelling. As an actor, Peggy has graced the stage and screen, bringing depth and intensity to every role she portrays.
With a career rooted in creativity and authenticity, Peggy Logan continues to inspire and empower others through her words, performances, and stories. Whether on the page, stage, or screen, her artistry leaves an indelible mark.
Broken Crown
He came to me like a whisper in the dark,
soft, deliberate, his words weaving a spell.
A kiss on my forehead,
his signature claim to reel me in,
as if that gentle touch
could rewrite the story of my scars.
"To be with me is growth," he said,
and I let his promises take root.
I believed him.
I believed the warmth of his hands,
the way his gifts spoke louder than my doubts.
Money slipped into my pocket like a secret,
gestures wrapped in silken lies.
I knew about her.
The ring, the vows, the life he shared.
But I thought I was the only other,
his chosen confidant,
a second truth in his divided world.
Until I wasn’t.
It started with her—
my friend, her laugh untouched by guilt.
She didn’t know about us,
but I found out about them.
The way his eyes lingered on her,
the way his words mirrored the ones
he used to draw me in.
And then there were others,
names I’ll never know,
faces blurred by the weight of discovery.
Each revelation broke me a little more.
What I thought was love
became a lesson in betrayal.
I told no one.
Not about her,
not about him,
not about the nights I spent
trying to piece together
how I let myself fall so far.
His love wasn’t love.
It was a mirror,
reflecting every fracture in my soul,
a hollow promise dressed in warmth.
He left me raw,
my heart in shreds,
my spirit crumbling under the weight
of what I thought we were.
But I didn’t stay there.
I couldn’t.
I gathered the broken pieces of myself,
the shards of my spirit he tried to scatter.
It wasn’t easy.
Pain has a way of sinking into the bones,
lingering in the silence,
whispering in the dark.
But I chose forgiveness.
Not for him.
For me.
Because to carry his shame was to let him win,
and I refused to live in the shadow
of a love that was never mine.
It still hurts.
The memory is a wound that aches,
a scar that reminds me of who I was,
and who I’ll never be again.
This crown I wear now,
it wasn’t his to give.
It’s mine.
Forged in fire,
shaped by survival,
polished by the light I found within myself.
I stand in that light now.
Whole.
Unbroken.
Free.
Love Out Loud
I never told my mother that I loved her enough when she was living.
We weren’t raised to speak love out loud.
Love was something we showed—buried in Sunday dinners,
Folded into the way she passed the cornbread, warm and buttered,
In the way she mended wounds without a word.
We weren’t built for affection with open arms,
We carried secrets like weights, grudges like armor,
And buried our silence in the same place we buried our pain.
I never told my mother that I loved her enough.
We weren’t quite built for that—
Too much pride, too much history in our bones.
Our families hold secrets like heirlooms,
We hold onto hate like it’s all we know,
And we bury silence in the same ground as our roots.
I grew up watching her hands do all the talking,
Hands that braided me and my sister’s hair, that wiped our tears,
Hands that worked long after the world told her to rest.
She loved in ways that didn’t need words,
And I loved her back the same.
But I wonder—what would’ve happened if I had said it more?
If I had spoken the words that sat heavy on my tongue,
Before time turned them into regrets I now carry.
I want cookouts and Sunday dinners that fill more than plates.
I want laughter that isn’t afraid to be loud,
Conversations that don’t dodge the hard truths.
I want to tell her that I see her now—
Not just as my mother, but as the woman who carried the weight of the world
And never let it break her spirit.
I see the sacrifices, the sleepless nights,
The silent tears she thought I didn’t notice.
We weren't raised to speak love out loud,
But I feel it now, burning in my chest,
And it’s too late to say it in the way I should have—
Too late to fix the words I left unsaid.
But if I could, I would tell her:
I love you, not just for the things you did,
But for the things you endured,
For the battles you fought in silence,
For the love you gave, even when the world gave you none.
We hold grudges like we hold breath—
Tight, waiting for the release that never comes.
We bury our pain in silence, let it fester like wounds unhealed.
But I don’t want to do that anymore.
I don’t want the silence, I want the truth—
I want to tell you that I love you, even if we never said it enough.
I want to cook and laugh and feel
Everything that time took away from us.
I wish I’d known that love doesn’t wait,
That it doesn’t have to be hidden, held back by tradition,
That love could have filled the air, instead of just our plates.
I never told my mother I loved her enough when she was living—
But now, I’m trying to love her in ways she’d understand,
Trying to break the cycle of silence, of holding on too tight to what doesn’t matter,
And letting go of what does.
So, if I could have one more Sunday,
One more dinner, one more day,
I’d say it—I’d shout it, whisper it, let the words spill.
Because love was always there,
We just didn’t know how to say it.
But now I know, and I’m telling you—
I love you, in ways that stretch beyond silence,
In ways that live even after the words go unsaid.
Thrones of Insecurity
Oh, they enter like the room owes them something
Two women cloaked in chaos, misery their king.
Every word a dagger, sharp but weak,
Every glance a judgment they’d never dare speak.
They don’t build—they tear.
No bridges, no bonds—just walls of despair.
Sisters in name, but strangers in spirit,
Screaming for validation, too afraid to hear it.
Their laughter echoes, but it’s hollow and forced,
Fueling their power with envy, their only recourse.
They find fault in others to avoid their own cracks,
Throwing stones from glass houses, hoping no one throws back.
They circled me once, baiting me to join,
Their game of gossip, their poison coin.
But I don’t dance in dirt, I don’t play that tune—
I rise with the sun while they howl at the moon.
Oh, they tried to pull me into their storm,
But I refused, my peace my norm.
They mocked my stillness, mistook it for fear,
Not realizing my silence was louder than their sneer.
They sit on thrones made of envy and spite,
Rulers of nothing, dimming their own light.
Believing their bitterness is some kind of crown,
But I’m no subject—I won’t bow down.
They whisper like wind, their lies take flight,
But truth doesn’t falter, not under their might.
I see their pain cloaked in venom and steel,
They cut with their words because they don’t want to feel.
While they stew in their chaos, I plant my peace,
Watering joy where their shadows crease.
Fighting my demons in silence and grace,
Finding light in the laughter youth leaves in its trace.
Because you can’t tear down what you didn’t create,
And I’m not your competitor, just your mirror of hate.
I walk my own path, no need for their games—
Their thrones crumble under the weight of their names.
And here’s the truth they’ll never admit:
They’re not queens—they’re prisoners in their own pit.
Bound by their anger, chained by their pride,
They can’t stand to see someone simply survive.
But while they unravel, I’ll continue to rise,
Their pettiness shrinking under wide-open skies.
Because real queens don’t destroy; they build and uplift,
They speak with love and give others the gift
Of strength, of grace, of something pure—
But that kind of power they’ll never endure.
So keep your crowns made of sorrow and stone,
I’ll wear resilience, my joy my own.
Because while you fester in what you lack,
I’ll rise—always—and never look back.
And one day, when their storm settles,
When they’re left with their silence and twisted medals,
They’ll realize they never conquered me—
I was too busy building my legacy.