Heading Out: Saturday, November 01, 2025. Photo Collage Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt|Cartoon’d Tre by Google Gemini
GAINING confidence “fifteen minutes at a time” l i v i n g without 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 aboutrecent 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.
AI-generated image: Two Black women; one has an afro and is wearing black rimmed glasses, the other has locs and is donning massive gold hoop earrings. They both have pensive expressions on their faces as they hold on to each other in a sinkhole.
away from you
Con Funk Shun plays, and I finally hear what I need to in Michael Cooper’s sultry voice… “That’s the way it goes on Love’s Train,” and you begin to fade from memory.
As soon as you float into another part of my mind, The Gap Band plays, and then I hear, “Keep running,” and here I am… trying to talk myself from chasing after you.
I am slowing down, finding my own beat, and my own words to get far away from you.
death from cold
cold weather moves in without an invite–banging at the doors of the sky, willing to lap dance the day away, as long as it’s paid in full before the next business day.
its pimp hangs out around the corner, strangling the sun and threatening to take the heat from it.
we all layer up for safety. we don’t want to catch our death from cold.
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.
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.
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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