Category: Creative Writing

Angles and Distance

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A Collaborative Poem by Barry Dawson & Tremaine L. Loadholt, published in Collaborature

Image: Greg Schmigel

BJ Dawson:

They come dripping with honied songs.
You happily lap them up at first;
so cloyingly sticky with promise
the sting of their claws goes unnoticed.
And just like that, there’s nothing again,

Only now, nothing feels less than that.
Got you chasing things you never wanted
just to feel something one more time,
just to get another juicy taste,
just like they wanted all along.

Play at being prey enough times,
angles and patterns soon seem telegraphed.
Funny how when you see them coming
those sweet songs croon on empty calories,
leaving you, me, and this naked truth.

Unsheathed, this mummer’s mimic still has fangs,
so be mindful how you cast them off.
Though a well-dressed no is still a no
and boundaries trigger venomous bite,
angles and distance out-leverage their reach.

Let them bait their lines again and again.
Mimic being moved by their siren song
as saccharine curdles into sour nothings
as you walk away from their invite
to thank them for gorging on your wholeness.

(In Response) Tremaine L. Loadholt:

You love being whole,
love feeling like you have
it all, and every woman you
meet must be craving
your attention.
A welcome yes may not
be the yes you yearn for,
but this doesn’t matter, you’ll
take what you want anyway.

And the sun and moon watch
as you devour hearts that
haven’t bloomed into their
ripe age. they plot on you–one
to brace you when it’s hot, the
other to push you when it’s cool.
You are so intent on breaking
every rule, you don’t realize
protecting you is their job.

The distance to sanity from where
you are is a two-day journey.
Wives and husbands, sisters and
brothers; every connected union
you find along your path–

To read the poem in its entirety, please find it in its published form at Collaborature. Thank you so much, Melissa Lemay, for hosting our work! Thank you, Barry, for continuing to collaborate with me. Our words have danced with each other for years, and I pray they continue to find each other in the future, too.

Saving Bruce Dennis

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Introducing Charlie Rhett Baylor

The image above is from Getty Images. It is a vintage photo of a young boy sitting at a table and looking mischievously at a whole turkey on a platter garnished with lettuce and tomatoes. The boy wears a suit jacket, dress shirt and tie, and his hands are folded and placed on the table. An empty dinner plate, a smaller plate with a dinner roll on it, and a full glass of milk are in front of him.

Bruce Dennis is getting so far up that the girls wail out to her, pleading for her to get back down to safety. The poor cat sits unbothered, still attached to ten red heart-shaped balloons, drifting by a will not of her own. They stomp their feet and cry out with impatience. Kinley Chris shouts downstairs to their grandmother—screaming for her help—begging her with plump tears in her eyes for her to do something.

“Grandma! Bruce Dennis is flyin’ up more and more. We need to get her down! Grandma, please!”

But their grandmother was in the very place she was before all the commotion began. The girls have no idea she is the one who hitched Bruce Dennis to the balloons—swatting the cat away for breaking her favorite vase. She had said so many times before her art room was off limits. She is going to show them better than she can tell them. But before she would wiggle her overgrown self from the vintage loveseat perfectly placed next to the only window in the art room, their young ginger-haired neighbor, Charlie Rhett Baylor, raps at their door.

“Kinley and Wayne!!! I see Brucie up in the sky. What is goin’ on, y’all?!” In between his yelling, there were frantic knocks at the door. Charlie is also thinking of a way to get the fat cat down while he continues to knock and yell. His father, Hank Baylor, is the Deputy Sheriff in town, so Charlie has a few tricks up his sleeve that will surely secure the fat cat soundly.

Wayne Donald shoots down the stairs quicker than an incoming evening tide and swings the door open. She notices Charlie’s Sunday Best attire, then waves for him to enter their home. Kinley Chris strips the bedding off the guest room’s twin mattress and tosses it out the window. She is thinking they can shoot the balloons one by one with her slingshot or BB gun, and get Bruce Dennis to land on the mattress, but they have to be quick. When Charlie meets her in the guest room, she rattles off her plan to him, and he throws his suit jacket on the box spring, kicks off his loafers, and races back downstairs so he can place the mattress in the spot where Bruce Dennis would land.

Kinley Chris loads the BB gun with .177 caliber pellets, flings the gun over her shoulder, and sets up shop right in front of the old window. Like a focused sniper, the eldest sibling tilts her head to find the subject, braces her legs for shifting, and kneels down in an experienced shooter’s position. She yells down to Charlie, who is in a frenzied state, trying to track Bruce Dennis’ landing position.

“Charlie Rhett Baylor, you gotta good eye on Brucie? I ain’t aimin’ to kill my cat when she falls, so you besta be movin’ that mattress in the right direction!”

“Yeah, I’m watchin’! I’m watichin’ ya, Kinley. You just let those bbs rip, and my eyes will be on the fat cat prize.”

Kinley Chris launches the first three pellets with vigor and swift calculation. Two more pellets follow, and Charlie is monitoring every hit and is maneuvering the mattress as if his life depends on it. Kinley Chris launches two more pellets, and Wayne Donald wails in exclamation—deathly afraid of a negative outcome.

Just before Kinley lets the last three pellets fly, Bruce Dennis is falling down at a pace none of them expects, and Charlie has his eyes on her—keenly assessing the situation as every second passes.

“I’m lettin’ these last three rip, Charlie! Make sure that mattress is placed right. Looks like Bruce Dennis is comin’ right at ya!” Each pellet hits its respective target, and the fat cat meows loud enough for the whole block to hear. She lands with a pounding thud on the mattress on her eight-lives-left paws and quickly runs toward the shed behind the house.

“Wayne Donald!” Kinley Chris turns to her sister to give the final instructions. “You go on to that shed and make sure she ain’t got no bruises or nothin’ like that, and take her a fresh bowl of milk and open a can of that good tuna for her, too.”

Charlie waits until he sees Wayne Donald, then hurries up the stairs to grab his suit jacket and loafers. His day of helping the neighbors is over, and now he has a story to tell his highly decorated Deputy Sheriff of a father.

Bruce Dennis won’t even look in the art room’s direction. She will never trust the girls’ grandmother again.

This piece is my offering for this week’s Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge, #348. We had to save Bruce Dennis; we simply had to.

Part I and Part II

Writing It Gently, Babies

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A Book Review

Let Me Write This Gently, My Baby by Lisa Marie Lovett. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

Lately, I’ve been reading books that are seeping into my soul, spreading throughout my body, and settling into my marrow. There is nothing like reading a damn good book that strengthens you throughout the read, and begs you to sit with it for a while longer than you initially planned to. Let Me Write This Gently, My Baby by Lisa Marrie Lovett (Seasoned Dialogue on all platforms) does exactly that.

A spoken word poet, speaker, and influencer (amongst other things), Lisa lures the reader in with her gentle sayings that come wrapped in love, but with Mama’s sternness, and lets you know she means exactly what is being said to you. In every word shared within these pages, there is love, kindness, encouragement, testimonies, and a subtle bite to remind the reader that the author can get feisty if she has to. I appreciated everything this book has to offer, and I am blessed to have had a friend gift it to me a couple of months ago.

Below is the review of it that I shared on Amazon and Goodreads:

I Sat With This Book As If It Were My North Star

And that isn’t to say that it steered me along the right path every single time I opened it up, no I am saying this because the journey was a much-needed one. It came at the right time, and as a gift, too.

Sometimes, we need wisdom to glide to us in other forms, and when it is laced as poetry and literary art, for the written word creative, that is a blessing.

To connect with another human being’s words when you’re hungry for peace is soulspeak on an entirely different level.

Lisa Marie Lovett is in fact, “Seasoned Dialogue”, everything about this book screams teacher, poet, writer, experienced, a work in progress, blessed, and willing to learn. “Knowledge is infinite”, and within these pages, there is plenty of it shared with the reader.

I intend to read this book many more times, especially when life becomes far too heavy to carry or is cloaked in evil that I cannot fight alone.

Let Me Write This Gently, My Baby is a testimony that will continue to confess for many years to come.

If you’re a lover of poetry and looking for a book full of spoken word and poems that will nestle up next to you and spend a few nights in your head, this book is for you. The flow is smooth, succinct, flawless, and seamless, without a single hiccup. I appreciate the literary artistry on every page, and I am sure you will do the same.

Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book & Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback (only) yet?

I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about 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.

At the Mention of Your Name

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An audio lamentation for Jernee Timid

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.
At the Mention of Your Name by Tremaine L. Loadholt

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.

Musical Selection: Elton John—Your Song

Originally published in Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun on Substack.

19th WordPress Anniversary & the mirror doesn’t lie

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19th Blogaversary. wOW! Time surely does fly!

When I first started blogging on WordPress, I moved away from Blogger and created my first blog here EONS ago. I cannot remember the name of it, nor do I recall the domain, either. About three years later, I hosted two more blogs: one for my personal writing and another for writing directly related to Jernee Timid. Again, I do not recall the names of those blogs or their domain names. What I do know is this… I have not had any major issues with WordPress. It has always felt like a family affair, and I can pretty much keep the trolls and nonsense at bay on this platform, and for that, I will forever be grateful.

We have our own little private/public spaces on the internet, and the community never ceases to amaze me. I’m pretty sure I’ll be on WordPress until the rickety wheels of this platform fall off. Nineteen years is a long time to express oneself on the same platform, and I intend to do it for many more years to come.

Thank you to all of you who have connected with me, read my work regularly, and appreciate what I bring to this community. I am so enamored by all of you and your patience, time, and dedication to art in literary or visual form. We make this community what it is.

AI-Generated Image: A Black woman with locs wearing glasses and a knitted hat, standing in front of a mirror.

the mirror doesn’t lie

the mirror shows it
all; you cannot hide
from yourself, even if
you want to.

I joke with myself
occasionally,
“wherever you go,
there you are,” so
I’m stuck with me,
and the older I get,
I want to be with ME
more.

my heart needs the
love I’m giving it.
my mind deserves
the peace I’m giving
it.

it is joy to surround
oneself with
beautiful gifts that
enhance our every
waking moment.

I’m walking
alongside a
human being who
hid behind shadows
and the covers of
hoodies for decades,
and I finally
realize…

she is undeniably
unique and
incomparable, and I
adore her.

I want more of her.

Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book & Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback (only) yet?

I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about 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.

The Fat Cat and the Red Balloons

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A Wayne Donald & Kinley Chris Adventure

Photo by  Reba Spike on Unsplash. The image depicts a fluffy tabby cat floating through the air. It appears the cat is suspended in midair by ten red heart-shaped foil helium balloons, the strings of which can be seen near his midsection. The sky in the background is a deep blue, with clouds scattered throughout.

“Kinley Chris, you see that fat cat anywhere down there? Grandma said it rushed outta the art room after knockin’ over her famous vase, and now I can’t find it nowheres!”

Wayne Donald shouts from the top of their ancient staircase down to her sister near the basement. She is standing on her tiptoes with her right hand on her hip, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.

“Wayne Donald, girl, you better stop that yellin’ at the top of them stairs like that before Grandma come huntin’ for ya. I don’t see that fat cat down here, and it shouldn’t come this far anyway. Check the bedrooms and then the two guest bathrooms. It’ll probably pop up again when it’s supper time.

Wayne Donald searches each guest bathroom, bedroom, and then circles back around to the staircase, wandering down the hall toward their grandmother’s bedroom. With each step, she grows curiously curiouser as to where their tabby could be.

“Bruce Dennis! You fat cat, where are ya? BRUCE D-E-N-N-I-S!!! Where are ya, Bruce Dennis?”

Just like the girls, their fluffy and pleasantly plump tabby cat is double-named with what most people would consider a name fit for a man; however, the cat is female. On a somber and stormy night, the cat, who was then a kitten, found its way to their front door. The girls heard something scratching at it lightly. They begged their grandmother to walk to the door with them to see who it could be. When they peeled back the squeaky door, to their surprise, the kitten sat there with the most pitiful look on its face. The girls pleaded to keep it, and their grandmother approved.

They screamed names back and forth until finally, Kinley Chris chose the name Bruce, and Wayne Donald selected Dennis. Their grandmother nodded and tutted them with her hand to get the girls out of her hair. Bruce Dennis had become a part of their family.

“Bruce Dennis! Brucie! Where is that cat?”

Wayne Donald walked deeper into the bowels of her grandmother’s bedroom and slowly approached the old window. Upon looking outside, she gasped. Hanging at least 450 feet in the air was Bruce Dennis, tied to a bundle of red balloons. Wayne Donald almost fainted.

“Kinley Chris! Get up here right now! I say, get on up here!” She took a moment to breathe and then scolded Bruce Dennis for being outside. “Bruce Dennis! Now, how in God’s holy name did you get out there? Where’d you get them balloons?! KINLEY CHRIS!!! I SAY, GET UP HERE NOW!”

Kinely Chris raced up the stairs, taking them by two, and ran to their grandmother’s bedroom. If she had been any faster, smoke would be at her heels.

“Wayne Donald, I declare, you’d better have somethin’ serious for me callin’ my name like you The Law.” Wayne Donald looked at her big sister, her big come-hither eyes stretching wide as the Nile River. She huffed and pointed to the window.

“Kinley Chris, you just go on and look out that there window. You just look. Bruce Dennis is floatin’ up toward heaven.”

“Bruce Dennis is doing WHAT?!”

The girls stood at the window, both of them flabbergasted by the scene before them, and shocked at just how peaceful their fat cat appeared. They looked at each other and within seconds knew exactly what to do…

“GRANDMA, BRUCE DENNIS IS ALL RED BALLOONED OUT AND IS ON HER WAY UP TO HEAVEN!”

Their grandmother sat peacefully in her art room, playing her jazz records and tapping her feet. She tutted the girls silently to herself and shooed their summoning with her hand.

She would not be moved.

This piece is my offering for this week’s Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge, #347. As soon as I saw the image, I knew I wanted the girls to make another appearance. You can read their debut here.