Poetry – Page 14 – A Cornered Gurl

Monday As the Bad Guy on a Good Day

05/14/202505/25/2025trE

Another Monday waltzes in uninvited,
and I greet it with an unapproving eye.
I have to be nice to it, though. It holds the fate
of my workweek in its hands.

Sighs yet another necessary evil
I have to shuffle through
in order to stay sane.

No one tells you how hot the
dumpster fire is until you’re
knee-deep in it, and the caps
have lost their cartilage.

The crush’s daughter has a
new puppy; a pitbull. She
sent me a photo of him
lying on the carpeted floor –
in deep sleep.

Instantly, I’m in love. It
shifted my Monday to a
new space – one I could
appreciate better. Ace is his
name. I joke about being a
great aunt.

It was the first day of my
co-worker’s absence, and I
hadn’t worked through her
not being there, but I would
now.

I realized the loneliness
later as hours ticked by and I
had to fill in the holes of
spaces that my supervisor sunk
herself in.

I am filler, and I am
placed everywhere.
And everywhere is coming
for me.

I wanted to play around with this piece that started off as a rant of sorts for my Substack notes. After putting a bit more of ME into it, the above-written work is the result.

the dog and the sandman

05/10/202505/10/2025trE

the dog is dead
to the world.
this kind of sleep
is what I used to have
before the change,
before the crush.

there’s too much worry
in my bones – too much
brokenness. I am
whole-body ache in
need of a salve that’s evergreen.
who will deliver?

Wednesday is just
another day that my
body confuses with
Thursday, and the mind
battles with it – warring
with an enemy who
has an army of an
undisclosed amount.

I am stuck in the middle.
the dog is still dead
to the world.
she didn’t raise her head
or bat an eye.
the sandman who visits
her is clearly not the
one who will beat down
my door tonight.

we were made to move

05/06/202505/06/2025trE

an experimental audio poem

Contemplative Tre. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

we were made to move by Tremaine L. Loadholt

I feel her
crying soul
letting go — we’re
breaking free from
the chains we
formed around us.

breathing is like fighting
under water — struggling to
pull against every push.
I tell her “I am here” when
her mind strangles her.
I am ready to save
her from the darkness.

my friend says to me,
“I could never say no to
something like this… the way
you poured your heart out, Tre.
the way you wear your heart
on your sleeve.
if I were her, it’d be a “Yes.”

and I don’t think
people get the crux of us — the
history. we have been
sacred for years; subordinate
to manager, there were just
some roads we couldn’t
cross, and now that we have
this cross to bear, it’s
more jigsawed than ever before.

still…
I feel her
crying soul
letting go — we’re
breaking free from
the chains we
formed around us.
we were made to
move.

Author’s Note: This piece began as a bit of micropoetry I shared as a note on my Substack. I wanted to play around with it and see what else I could produce. The photo above of me helped with this process. The thoughts bouncing about in my mind needed formulating — they needed a home. I think I have found one for them.

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 my place of employment as it pertains to racism and discrimination. I welcome your visit.

Peace and Blessings!

Left-Handed in a Dream: A Haibun

05/05/202505/05/2025trE

Part VI: Discovering memories

AI-Generated Image: A Black woman with locs looking at a photo album while sitting outside on a bench. She is wearing a jean jacket with a hot pink halter top under it. Her hot pink nails pop as they slide across the photo album.

Memory goes for a long walk. She carries one of her favorite photo albums with her. She is reminiscent of the times she and Rodney shared before marriage. Their friends always knew they would do life together — that they’d succeed in lassoing one another to their hearts. They did. And now she is searching for the feelings she used to have before marriage. She wonders where they have gone. Can she find them in the photos before her eyes? Discovering memories could serve her better than the past ever could. She’s desperate. She loves Rodney and wants to continue to spend the rest of her days with him. But she needs more. She craves more. Will she find what she’s looking for in the pictured past?

discovering life
while the sun sets in full view
bittersweet lovers

This concludes the Left-handed in a Dream Haibun series. Thank you so much for reading.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, & Part V

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 my place of employment as it pertains to racism and discrimination. I welcome your visit.

Peace and Blessings!

3 Poems

05/02/202505/02/2025trE

NaPoWriMo #29| Published in Chewers by Masticadores

It has been a long time coming (not really) since my acceptance email of the three poems I wrote for the express purpose of submitting to Chewers by Masticadores. I was delighted that they all made the cut and were published on Monday, April 28, 2025. However, I am sharing most of the published work here as my contribution for the 29th day of National Poetry Writing Month.

I hope you enjoy them!

*My late maternal grandmother, Betty Louise Frazier. Photo Enhancement Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt*

Flair

A show-stopper–
She never asked for acceptance
But was given it in
Full measure at every turn.

Advocate for People of Color
And wanderers of this broken
World, she struggled to save
What could not be saved.

Dying must be a gift for
Those of us who have been
Giving so much of ourselves
That the flair we once had
Can only be restored if our last
Breath is taken.

Forever a part of my broken heart,
I’ll hold her in my memory bank
And pull her from it when
I need a reminder of someone
Special who made me better.

*From the Chrysler Museum of Art in Norfolk, VA. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt*

What Is Art?

Is it swirly whirls caked in
Funny curls or sculpted crowns
Matched with sequinned gowns?

Can it be chopped liver and
Onions, mashed potatoes & gravy,
And a side of hashbrowns?

Would you liken it to
A couple on their first date–
Woman and man about town?

Or could it be a banana peel
Dressed in zeal, hanging daintily
On a meshy wall turned
Upside down?

I can’t tell you what art
Is more than I can tell
You what it is not, but
I know it when I see it.
And it never makes me frown.

The third and final poem, supertrE can be read by clicking this link. I hope you have enjoyed my offering to a publication I truly enjoy reading. Many thanks to Nolcha Fox for accepting these poems once again.