Category: Pain

Your Poem From Me

trE

The Giving Cause

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood via Pexels

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Carl Sandburg via BrainyQuote

I feel moved . . . compelled to do this. I have had this idea dancing about in my mind for a few weeks now, and with the world still spinning away from where we need it to be, the timing feels right. Poetry has always been my way of communicating when I did not know how to say what needed to be said. It is a way of me being able to connect with this community and other writing communities–an expression of everything I can emote, but has trouble leaving my lips and making its way into the ether. I know I am not alone when I share this–writers, especially those of us more akin and in tune to poetry, rely on our words to heal, help, honor, and create happiness. We need poetry–it is our air.

I also know some people who love reading poetry and connecting with it who do not necessarily know how to write poetry or express themselves properly with the writing genre. There are things they cannot talk about for fear or any other obstacle standing in their way. This is where I come in to offer you a gift . . .

Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life.

Tremaine L. Loadholt

Every Sunday at 07:00 am, I will share a poem I have written for someone who has contacted me with their request. There is no subject matter too taboo; nothing I am not willing to handle and pen for you–on your behalf (except for a few intolerable subjects). Allow me to give the world what you want the world to read, but you just can’t find the words suitable enough to meet your specifications. Your poem will be pinned to the top of my blog page via A Cornered Gurl for one week (until the next requestor’s poem is published) for others to read and share the thoughts they may have about it. What you’re afraid to share, I can share for you, in my words, giving my understanding of your request. Who knows . . . It may touch someone who needs it–it may soothe someone who yearns for it.

I am in this with you–I can host your pain, your fear, your indecisiveness, your intolerance, and your “no more fucks to give” here in this space.

If you are interested, please send an email to apoem4ufromme[at]gmail[dot]com. In the subject area, please note, “Gift Poem Request”. Please do not place your request in the comments section of this post. I will respond to your email within two business days.

A few ground rules . . . I will not write about the following:

  • racist acts (you’ve committed or intend to commit) or hate speech (of anyone in any way, shape, or form)
  • child pornography or the acceptance of pedophilia
  • belittlement of someone who doesn’t accept your opinions or beliefs
  • and anything upon review that does not help promote our most humane selves

We are carrying so many loads these days, the weight of them can be crushing. Let poetry be your expressive path–I can help you along your way.

Welcome to “Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause.” I await your requests. Peace and blessings.

Tom Misch featuring De La Soul It Runs Through Me
Holding on, or: Letting go

Holding on, or: Letting go

trE

David, over at The Skeptic’s Kaddish (of a son) was so kind to host me as a feature for his Poetry Partners segment, and I love the poem he shared to accompany my words. It is an honor to share the same page with this awesome human being. I hope you enjoy the poem (s), lovely people.

Thank you again, David! What a great way to build community.

ben Alexander's avatarThe Skeptic's Kaddish 🇮🇱

Poetry Partners #33

A poem by trE of ‘A Cornered Gurl’

the depth of love carries a torch of light
it ushers in the kindness we need
and lures fighters whose intentions are bright
the heart a source not of stinginess or greed

we long for understanding in this world
our chances of finding it are slim
but we hold on to faith unfurled
peace will fill our hearts to the brim

A sevenling (I have recollections) by ben Alexander of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’

I have recollections of lightheartedness, a
weightless innocence, but more readily remember
crushing heaviness. Now, my heart's mostly numb.

It has gained understanding, as it has come to
reject faith. Depth of love has been the primary
constant... So, I direct others down a different path.

'Yes,' I smile, 'Just believe in yourself.'

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The Day After New Year’s Day Is a Puddle of Regret and Lost Memories

trE

rain falls–
beats the windows
like they stole
something
I walk the dog
in inclement weather boots
I’ve had for
eight years
we rush to
one side of the
neighborhood
then, to another
my head is a fireball
of indecisiveness
I want so much
yet I can’t remember
what those things are

a friend of mine
contracted this overgrown
virus that we’re all
so extremely tired of–
then, her mother,
her toddler . . .
same week, my cousin,
and another and another,
and . . . when will this
all end
I ask myself
the dog perches
on my lap
astonished by the
morning darkness
could this be an
oxymoron

the day after
new year’s day
is a puddle of regret
and lost memories
and I didn’t think
I’d wake up feeling
this way, but . . .
I woke up
didn’t I
I’m supposed to be
grateful–I better make
a short list
of the things I shouldn’t
have, yet I do
I better remember I’m
still here while
others took their
final bow earlier
in the week
I better get my
head in the game of
life and gear myself
up for the bullshit
that will surely come
so I can say
I made it through
this is my testimony
I made it through

I Am Speaking To the Shadows of Your Past Self

trE

Musical Selection: Moonchild|Cure

A Prose Poem

Photo by R. Walker via ReShot

I know not to call you anymore. I know not to text. I let the thoughts of you wander in and caress my shoulders, but I do not engage. The holidays are here with their incessant come-hither vibes, and I am weary. I flit between loneliness and happiness and unsureness effortlessly.

I ache in several places. Many I can disclose. Others, I cannot. You would know if you saw a certain look windmill past my eyes. You would catch it quicker than a hare racing a tortoise. Always eager. Always waiting . . . passionately. At least, you knew what I needed most and when I needed it.

I have not had my needs met in a number of months that exceed this God-forsaken virus’ inception, and I miss you. I miss what used to be us sneaking in quickies before the children rose from their beds. And there’s no one I can tell. There’s no one who would listen. So, I talk to the air. It can keep a secret.

Being with you was my imagination’s way of reminding me I can go overboard and well . . . I need a lifeboat now. I can say it without feeling ashamed. I am speaking to the shadows of your past self, and they tell me in faint whispers, “You must move on. You must break free.” Get me there, I say to myself — just get me there . . . wherever there is. But . . .

I am stuck. Still planted in the same spot you left me, and try as I might, I can’t lift myself to freedom.

I have smiling faces around me — cluttered in love, googly-eyeing one another, and I am envious. I don’t want to be. No one wants to hear about a person wallowing in their loneliness — spreading self-pity. It’s contagious, and there are no vaccines against it. So, I spend time alone. It seems fitting. No one questions it.

The dog paws at the tears that fall from my eyes. She’s used to this habit of sulking — these seasonal blues. And really, I wish she wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t.

You’re probably wrapped in love’s cure-all right now — shit-talking your husband playfully — preparing to chant positively for another new year. I hope you’re at peace. You always were. I guess, you always will be . . .

Especially without me.

YouTube

Originally published in Intimately Intricate via Medium.

I Don’t Send Christmas Cards To You Anymore

trE
Photo by Jenny Smith via ReShot

An Audio Poem

I don’t send Christmas
cards to you anymore
and while that may not
be a thing to share with
others for many people,
it is something I think about.
eighteen years of celebrations
and laughing and love and gifts
and . . . and . . . every fucking thing
else and now . . . nothing.

I walked away from a vehicle
that was a financial burden
when the price was right
and I thought immediately after,
“This is something _______ would
do, not me.” but, there I was,
nodding to the rhythm of the
words coming out of the
sales associate’s mouth. 
I took my check and ran.

the dog buries herself in
my lap, nesting painfully–
my thighs have scratch marks
failing to heal.
I spoil her. 
she can have her way.
hers is a pain I don’t mind.

I set myself up, Shutterfly’d
customized holiday cards with
my smiling face plastered on
the front — the dog, wearied and
bothered on the back.
this is our way of
being present in a time
where place is no longer
tangible — I can’t touch it.
I can’t get to it.

I’ve spent these last two years
secretly weeping over a woman
who has yet to call me
to ask me to return.
how egoistic of me — how
traditionally insufficient. 
but I said it. I admit it.
shouldn’t this count for something?

winter is spinning around
the lonely souls — blanketing
us with past loves and reminding
the willowed bones of
their frailty. what would I
say if I heard your voice today?
how would I react?

who knows? who knows?
I just know it’s one more year
of no Christmas card to you
and no redemption for me
and that . . . still hurts
when it’s not supposed to — 
not anymore.

Originally published in The Junction via Medium.