I concluded my thoughts on this poem by silently recognizing how powerful human connection can be amidst a crisis. Tre wrote in free verse and used such vivid imagery that I was allowed to experience the urgency of a singular moment. And it felt all too real, as these are experiences that I, too, have had. I reflected on the impact of compassion and courage that most of us demonstrate in our daily lives, and I realized that I have allowed many opportunities to be the hero to pass by. —Nigel Byng
My writing about a dream I had turned into someone’s amazing perception of it, and not only did Nigel dissect this poem thoroughly and give it a new life with his words, but he also read it aloud.
pulse is a piece that came to me in late summer of last year, after I had what I would consider a bad dream. It garnered a decent amount of discussion from readers who felt something while reading my words. I am delighted to share what Nigel had to say about it, and also his velvety voice, too.
A cartoonized version of Jernee Timid, derived from an original photo I took of her several years ago. Google Gemini is the AI tool I used to convert the image.
Just after work yesterday, I took the body to a place we enjoyed for months—our sister imaging center, to visit with previous co-workers and staff there. My friend’s mother—eager to see my smiling face, and offer a hug that said to me, “You may not be mine, but you are mine,” awakened my heart’s pain.
The elders, as they often do, check on us when we need it most. The way she tilted her head and asked, “How are you doing?” could not have prepared me for what would take place next. I knew what she meant. I knew how she meant it. And when your name fell from her lips, the tears fell from my eyes.
I apologized as I am wont to do when my emotions take over, and she held up her hand to me and shook her head No… ”I asked you. I want to know. Don’t you dare apologize for feeling, Tre.” And I heard the bass in her voice, attempted to tighten up, but also loosen up, too.
It’s still unreal talking about you and not coming home to you. There are far too many reminders, and so many people who knew you. Everywhere I turn, sadness is waiting to string me along. I hate that this is now what clutters my heart—that I have made space for pain of this magnitude, and it shifts only when it is good and ready.
At the mention of your name, I become puddles that plough through the depths of powerful grief—I wade accordingly, searching for a shore that will envelop me and keep me safe. I can no longer run to you for a sense of security. You don’t crawl into my lap for warmth or stand at the entrance of our bedroom, waiting for me to exit.
You’re in so many places that make up who I am, and erasing you was never a plan—but keeping you in all those spaces is running over me. And if I can be completely honest with you, I did not prepare for you to live and die, and live again.
And for me to live and die, and try to live again.
A friend of mine popped up to my job on Thursday to lay a care package at my feet. In it, a lovely card, fuzzy socks (my favorite item of comfort clothing!), a most suitable coffee mug, chocolate (made with oat milk), the indomitable writer and spoken word phenomenon, Lisa Marie Lovett’s (SeasonedDialogue on all platforms) book, a pleasantly fragranced candle, and a beautiful plant. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
I hadn’t realized how poignant Jernee’s death was until the people I love started gifting me things that make my heart smile.
Out of the blue, pieces of this world made their acquaintance with me. A book, a candle, a mug, some fuzzy socks, decorative window ornaments, and so much more.
How did that little four-legged creature jump into the hearts of others just as she sashayed effortlessly into mine?
To have someone pop up at the gig casually ask for you, and then unload a hug so deep it touches your soul while handing you a wicker basket full of what now connects you even more to them is love personified.
I didn’t have the words. I almost didn’t have the legs to stand on because the gesture had been a sweet blow to my heart.
I wrapped her in my arms, thanked her profusely, and assured her that these gifts will never go unnoticed. They are the divine circling us back into each other’s line of sight.
Talking points of a loss heavier than any I have ever experienced; a feature film open for all to see. There are only a few seats left at the table of love… come one, come all while there’s still time.
This friend is a former co-worker of mine. While I simply shifted back to a department where I previously worked, we are still employed by the same organization. I am now back to being patient-facing, and I no longer work from home. She still does. We correspond with each other regularly via Teams and text message; however, to see her smiling face this past Thursday, and to know just how special I have to be to her for her to tap into all the things that bring me peace and joy, lets me know that our friendship is forever.
Below is a YouTube Short of one of my favorite Spoken Word Poets, Lisa Marie Lovette, aka Seasoned Dialogue. The fact that she copped her book for me left/leaves me speechless.
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-BookandPaperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutthe most recent events with a previous place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination, growth from the transition after resigning from that company, and life’s foibles and overall experiences. I welcome your visit.
It’s hard to explain, I create when I need to–when the weight of life sneaks up on me and wrecks my brain. There’s nothing like moving words from one section of your heart to another… nothing like massaging your scalp to push out stories that have been trapped inside for weeks; a literary birthing of art.
Background noise, not a deterrent… I block whatever doesn’t fill me. I ignore the unimportant.
A writer’s words will see the light even if darkness has a grip on their sleeve–they’ll find a way.
My neighbor is taken with me — smitten. It’s cute. I’m sure it could have been even cuter if I hadn’t warped her brain by revealing my age. I know what it feels like to crush on someone out of your league… out of your rank. 20 years my junior, I’ll pass. I can’t see myself tuning into someone I could have given birth to.
I never thought I’d see the day when I’d say, “I am sure I’m way older than you. How old do you think I am? My guess, you’re in your 20s, right?” And right, I was. The look of shock that swept across her face was madness to my spirit.
Should I grow more gray hair? Am I aging backward?
The creator in me wants to poem the night away, but the thinker in me allows the words to marinate–to gel. I have to find a way to build blocks with the stories I wish to tell… to wrap them around the stairway to heaven.
I think there’s a race passing me by, watching me side-step and break my ankles just to be rid of people who are distractions. I want more creative things, like the stickers on my laptop, the titillating words of a fellow author, and the sacred sunset that’s never on time.
More creative things… I crave them, and until I am fed, hunger will ravage me.
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about the most recent events with a previous place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination, growth from the transition after resigning from that company, and life’s foibles and overall experiences. I welcome your visit.
Caison Michael’s 8th birthday celebration. My little Munchkin Man is 8 now! *SOBS* Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Flying Time by Tremaine L. Loadholt
He’s eight now, Time flies, wow! Can’t keep my emotions intact The little ones are growing so fast I remember diaper-changing days, Now that period has flown away. I watch as he sprouts to the sky, His beauty and loving heart soaring high. Could it be just another year, One destined to leave me in tears, Or is it a momentous occasion, A turn of time with persuasion, And a final blow to my chest, OUCH!
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about the most recent events with a previous place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination, growth from the transition after resigning from that company, and life’s foibles and overall experiences. I welcome your visit.
my baby’s prints came today… her paws… I’d been waiting for them since the 12th of September. a lovely sympathy card accompanied the red pieces of art, neatly tucked behind them. every member of our vet’s office signed it. their words and names crowding the corners. I smile. I cry. I remember the best part of my life no longer exists.
I stand at the edge of my kitchen, shifting on the balls of my feet. I am shaking. I tilt my head to look at each print, and the smell of Jernee wafts across the room and lingers in the hallway. she’s still alive in me; she hasn’t let go. or, maybe I’m still holding on?
Zumi pats at the glass of its terrarium, bargaining for my attention, and I rush over to see what the fuss is about. food? check. water? check. I think it just wants to hear my voice, so I call its name in a sing-songy way to appease it. Zu-mi, Zu-mi, Zuuuumiiii. what a silly tortoise you are. it looks up at me and then walks with urgency to its hidey-hole. we all need comfort. tortoises are not exempt.
our home is quieter than it’s ever been. the tapping of paws are no longer morning gifts or late-night signals of an impatient senior dog who “had me at, hello.” I don’t know what I’m doing with this life of mine now, I’m just mulling on—making do.
I say that all I need is work—to keep busy, but I think I am telling myself this because I am afraid of what will happen to me if I sit down and focus on every passing thought of a love that was the greatest love I’ve ever known. where will I land if I give my heart permission to break and stay broken?
is there a name for people who are no longer whole without the pets they spent nearly two decades becoming one with? I don’t like having to answer the same questions every other day: “How are you?” How are you holding up?” “What are you doing with yourself now?”
I wish there was a perfect way to say, “I am cracking and folding into myself because somehow I no longer feel safe alone with my brain, heavy heart, and dying soul. somehow, I no longer feel safe in this body. something is not right. something is not right.
it’s more than losing Jernee, it’s all the ick of the world that is seeping into our skin, making our veins its home. we’re trapped. so, sometimes, I just need poetry when everything is wrong around me, and there’s no guarantee it’ll change.
I need poetry to help me remember who… and why I am.
A Cornered Gurl 
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