Category: Art

Featured Poem of the Week

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Dead Roses

A Collaborative Effort with Barry Dawson IV|Musical Selection: Little Brother Featuring Joe Scudda/Lovin’ It

boxing
Ryan Tang|Unsplash

it is easy to gather roses
for the dead,
words for listeners —
you hide in the shadows, content
on stealing what does not belong
to you.

I have eyes in the back of my head,
protecting what feeds me.
licensing age-old lyrics,
no duplication, B.

if you’re stepping up,
ready for the game,
bring your best uppercut.
I gotta jab and a crazy left hook
gearing up for top lips
and pretty noses.

a cruel business, the world of writing.
your heart is on display —
the hungry come in droves,
salivating for something
fattening.

give’em slim fast,
Ensure, or Pedialyte, but
never ever give them
steak and potatoes.

trying to eat the whole meal
in one bite
instead of the portions
we gave you.

headhunting for
a one-shot KO
will never save you

from your ribcage-rattling,
shook from combos
of famine and body-blows;

still, you try to steal my soul
like your name was Jim Crow.

not one to hide, you open wide
to gulp down the fatty talent,
but leave the conscience
on the platter,

and then get mad at me
when diabetes takes your sight

as if your mad-hatter,
reckless appropriation
had vision to begin with.

I scatter dead roses
at the headstone where we met.
your fat festers, decomposes,
existing as undead,

but I ain’t dead yet

©2019, Barry Dawson IV and Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved

Originally published on Medium via  A Cornered Gurl:

*Barry and I have been collaborating for about a decade. If I think it, he can bring it to life. If he starts something, I can usually finish it. We have meshed well for such a long time that I was beyond myself with glee to finally see him get active on Medium. Every time we work together, it is fun to see where we are in our work at that moment. He is a great Writer and a dope fiend. 

Featured Writer for February

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Smita Vyas Kumar 

She is a brilliant Writer on Medium and is willing to take the journey along with me at A Cornered Gurl via Medium. For the next two weeks, her first contribution to the publication, To Conclude, will be featured here. Everything about this work makes me love the authenticity of writing poetry, of releasing, of capturing love and all its counterparts in a most precise way. Smita does that and ends the poem solidly too.

Please encourage her heart, beautiful people. 

To Conclude

roadends
Courtesy of Lubo Minar via Unsplash

Nothing ever ends well.
The sense of dread
you sometimes get
is all too real. Don’t brush it off.
Deals will be broken.
Your heart too.

What you thought would never
end on a bad note
becomes a pool of dried blood,
a flood on the floor

that leaves a stain
with jagged edges that will scrape
at your heels and pinch your toes
so hard to make your eyes smart.

Nothing ever ends well.
Don’t get fooled by promises
made and sealed
with a kiss. 

You let the friend go
when you took on the lover
and if it turns with the weather
you will always and forever
need a thick sweater
to keep out the cold.

Remember, nothing ever ends well.
It’s a myth made by minds
that want to go into enchanted forests
eat wild berries that stain the tongue

and swing widely from rungs
to fall into waiting arms
that won’t be there.

The leaves will crunch and crackle
under your weight
as your spine breaks
and you may never walk again.

The spirit may remake itself, sure.
But that’s the subject of another poem.

Tonight, just remember
nothing, when it ends, ends well.

To Conclude, published at A Cornered Gurl via Medium. This is the first of many guest Writers posts/features here at A Cornered Gurl via WordPress. Thank you so much for reading and thank you, Smita, for this beautiful poem.

The Walk

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An Experiment

Jernee, The Little Monster: Becoming familiar with nature. Photo Credit/Tremaine L. Loadholt

nicknames aren’t what most aspire to.
we’re often saddled with descriptions
that lessen our personality,
but “the little Monster” suits Jernee.
on walks, she sets her eyes
curiously on nature’s green gifts,
sniffing out the elite versus the subpar.
she has a system.
I am watchful, yet patient.
I admire her investigative process, her
obsession with marking her territory.

I give her space to explore
crumbled earth between her toes,
the dust settling on her paws
becomes a lickable treat after two miles.
we break for hydration and deep breaths,
neither of us — as young as we feel.
during Winter, the dew-drenched grass
is slick and tricky but doesn’t trip
the quick pace of a four-legged athlete.
she glides through the sea of green
without stopping.

life is less difficult with her around.
the walks we take, they are glue
for pieces of me prone to breaking and
in need of constant repair.
she senses my love for them, for her.
in every step, I witness a pet
who is confident in her role as
caregiver, as companion.

I don’t have to be anyone else.
she gives me space to adapt
whenever adaptation is necessary.
I favor the weekend morning walk.
we stroll and strut and spend
our time wisely.
just us, the wind, God, and the clouds…

and the knowledge of a connection
between a woman and her dog.

My little dog — a heartbeat at my feet. ©Edith Wharton

This is my eleventh year with Jernee by my side. You may hear people say, “I don’t know who rescued who,” but I do know and I can say without one shadow of doubt, that with her — I am much better. With her, I am alive.

Bullets of Adamantine

Bullets of Adamantine

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Occasionally, we come across a piece of work that wakes us up. This is one such work. If you feel so inclined, give him a follow. You won’t be disappointed as he writes as though a constant flame is burning deep within him, i.e., he’s always on fire. Yaaasss!

Please show the author some love via the “Original post.” 

Peace.