Category: Women

NaPoWriMo #6

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Hey, There. Thank You For Being Here.

For Denise
Hey, There. Thank You For Being Here. Tremaine L. Loadholt 2022 April 05

at first, I was so nervous — afraid
to even speak to you — you weren’t
familiar.
the spaces I crept through the
day I graduated from training
made me feel as though I was
sinking in a sea of mission-less
movements.

slowly, over time, I began to know
a woman who has a smile that
can pull you into the light.
I had so many dark days behind
me, and standing in a brighter place
lured me in.
I’m still here. I’m still surviving.

much of this world would not be possible
if you weren’t doing what you do
just the way that you do it.
to check in monthly, inquiring about
my mind, heart, and my work ethic
keeps me interested — keeps me
accountable.
the proverbial door is always open — 
ready for anyone to step in.
I am so glad I don’t have to knock
more than once.

you are made for this time — your
position is one you have earned,
and the title suits you.
a supervisor is supposed to
to be able to pull up her pants
and lower herself into the muck
with her employees, assuring them
everything is okay, and you do
more than just wade in it with us,
you ride the waves effortlessly.

I’d put my money on you
on any day of the week because
I know you’ll get the job done.
there is no one else under which
I’d want to be placed, not after
knowing what you do for us.
no one else.
thank you.

For my supervisor who has taken the time to hear me when I truly needed it most, and she never stops.

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt

The Ladies of Workforce Management Poems #3

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NaPoWriMo#5: The Shadow-Speaker: For Stace-E

The Shadow-Speaker Tremaine L. Loadholt 2022 April 03

we don’t always see you but
we know you’re there — two-stepping
in the shadows, popping out only
when time allows or something has
fallen completely apart or a few
house rules need reiterating.

how is she overseeing it all,
I often think to myself? how is
it done and sanity is still
as crystal clear as it was one
year and five months ago?

I wasn’t always this vocal and
adamant on telling my higher-ups
what they mean to me, but flowers
are meant to be smelled while
one can still smell them, and I’m
moved to make sure you have
your bouquet.

Sometimes I don’t know what
I can do — sometimes I’m not as
confident in myself, but you’ll
step out of the shadows to remind
me of my abilities, and then I
remember — I can do whatever I
coerce myself to do.

you are serious about our work — 
about us maintaining a certain
presence as we submerge ourselves
in the almost neverending sea of
calls we get on a daily basis.
we know who we are.

we know what we can take.
on the days when breaking seems
like it’s so very close, you emerge,
and a sliver of light
pulses through the clouds.
goodbye darkness.

there’s a reason I say,
“Good morning, QUEENS” nearly
every day as I log in to help calm
the raging waters of doctors’
offices and patients alike retrieving
their orders . . . it is because
you are — all of you — standing tall
in the face of a promising
kingdom, directing us from
a not-so menacing throne.
thank you.

This is the last poem in The Ladies of Workforce Management Poems series. Thank you so much for reading.

The Ladies of Workforce Management Poems #2

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NaPoWriMo #4: The Wolf Mother: For SS

The Wolf Mother: For SS Tremaine L. Loadholt 2022 April 03

you aren’t just punching keys
and hitting buttons on the other
side of the screen, you come
equipped with Mama Bear claws
ready to pounce on belligerent
individuals who dwell in insouciance.
I imagine you grimacing mockingly
at people who are senseless as 
they make demands for something 
we cannot do.

you don’t need a cape, yet you’re
out here saving us from verbal abuse
and people who haven’t had their
share of walking over hot coals 
in a world not meant for many of us. 

I tip my hat to you — with tons
of markets flashing before your 
eyes as you monitor their moves,
you still have time to say, 
“Good morning!” and on 
some days, that means more 
than the breaths I take to 
continue this life.

I believe you have our best interests
at heart and even though we 
may cut up and find ourselves
on the happier sides of time throughout
the day, you honor your role 
making sure we are held to task.

it takes a mighty woman to
sit back and say, “I am not trained
in that area, but let me point
you to someone who is” and 
lean into her badge of vulnerability — 
of simply being human.

if you don’t know just who you are
to us, let me be the first to dub 
you wolf mother — pack gatherer extraordinaire,
we all fall in line because we want to
not because we’re demanded to, 
and there’s the difference between a leader
with willing followers versus one
who has to beg them.
thank you.

I am doing a series of poems for the ladies who form our workforce management team at work. They truly are a gift. This is the second of three. Thank you for reading and listening too. Peace and blessings

the mystery of the flirtatious woman

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A Prose Poem

Photo by Derek Fahsbender via ReShot

she doesn’t come wrapped in bows boldly standing at your doorstep–she creeps into your thoughts unannounced and ready to test your loyalty to the image of her you have tried hard to forget.

she carries herself well–bust intact and perfectly pressed into a pushup bra, eyebrows threaded without a flaw. she blows her honeyed breath in my direction, flashes a brief smile–I catch her pearly whites before blinking.

I want to place my hands in places not meant for prayer. I stand unsure of where to go when she is near. should I carve a path? should I move my mark?

she is a mystery to me–showing me what I could have, but keeping me at arm’s length. I have all these inches yet I yearn for a mile.

I am a patient person . . . 
I whisper to myself. 
I am a patient person.

Originally published via Simily.

Boldly, She Creeps. She Creeps.

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Musical Selection: Snoh Aalegra|Fool for You

A Free Verse Poem

Photo by Ashleigh via Pexels

and I am beholden to her,
bathed in a glossy light
of her intentions.
could she just be flirtatious — 
plotting on playing, picking
sides, and pursuing nothing?

I am cautious in her presence,
boldly, she creeps. she creeps.
and when she does, I stand aside
and mimic a child looking for
her lost toy.
I must find it.
it needs me.

I can’t figure her out.
I keep telling myself, “Tread
lightly. Watch yourself.
Be careful.” there could be
danger ahead.
I want this danger. I don’t want
this danger.
this danger is linked to her — 
I want her.

But I want to be safe too.

I hear an older church mother
in the back of my mind shouting,
“Pick your poison, baby. Can’t
have your cake and eat it
too!”
And I understand her words of
concern. I know the memory
of her will play on — she knew
what she was talking about.

Age and wisdom and experience.

I ask the dog, “Why me? Why
has she chosen me to
beat around the bush with
when I need consistency and
clarity and comfort?
women know what they’re
doing with their ways. they do.
keepers of lust and desire,

I will not pressure her.

I will remain in a lane
of my own making — happy
to gallivant effortlessly in
a world of her design.
I see what she cannot.
I hear what she cannot.

I do not want to damage
the goods she flaunts in
my direction.
boldly, she creeps. she creeps.
and when she does, I stand aside
and mimic a child looking for
her lost toy.
I must find it.
it needs me.

And I need her.

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt, Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

YouTube

The Love Button

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Flash Fiction

Photo by Jatin Purohit via ReShot

Lalina held up her new button proudly and shoved it in her big sister’s face. “Look what I got, Ndia! Auntie bought it for me today at the festival. You should have come. They had basketballs for sale.” Lalina’s older sister loved basketball — she would try out for her school’s junior varsity team in two weeks. Knowing this, Lalina did everything she could to make her sister feel bad about not coming with them to the festival. After all, isn’t this what a seven-year-old sister did?

“I don’t care about that festival, Lali. I had some rounds to do and layups and sprints. While you and Auntie were at the festival, I got those done. What else did you get besides some old tired button?”

Lalina adored her button. It said exactly what she felt everyone should do in life — “Do What You Love”. It amplified her feelings about swimming and ice skating. While her sister loved playing basketball, she had a gentler touch regarding sports. She wanted the button for their mother, who had been working double shifts for two months; an almost feeble attempt at making ends meet for the three of them.

“The button’s for Ma-mah, Ndia. She works so hard. She’s always tired. The button is for her. I don’t think she loves what she’s doing. I think she just has to — for us.”

The pressing thickness of the air between the two sisters got thicker. Ndia knew her kid sister had a big heart, but this moved her to a place she hadn’t connected with in a few years. After their parents’ divorce, the thirteen-year-old rebelled — fighting her mother’s rules and constantly bringing up their father’s absence. It wasn’t a peaceful time for any of them, but Ndia was a “Daddy’s Girl”, and everyone knew it.

“I’m sorry, Lali. That’s really sweet of you. Ma-mah will love it. She will. You’re a good kid, Lali.”

Melba plopped her beaten body onto the faux leather couch. She let out an exasperated sigh and kicked her right leg onto the couch’s head. She was just about to lasso sleep into her world when her youngest appeared before her weary eyes.

“Ma-mah, look what I got you!” Lalina flashed the button in front of her mom and waved it from side to side as if she was displaying the finest item one could ever lay their eyes upon. “Look what I got, Ma-mah!” Melba raised herself up on her elbows and steadied her shaky frame. She blinked twice before tears filled her eyes.

“What’s this you have here, Lali? Where’d you get this?” The tears filled again as soon as she wiped them — she had been overcome with so much emotion and overwhelmed by her baby girl’s gesture.

“It’s a Do What You Love button, Ma-mah! Auntie bought it for me at the festival so I could give it to you. Do you like it? I think you should do what you love, Ma-mah. You’re never happy. I can tell. And you’re always tired.”

Melba sighed a heavy sigh, wiped the spittle from her lips, and pulled her youngest daughter into the tightest bear hug her exhausted frame could muster up. She held on for what seemed like hours. Then she pushed Lalina in front of her gently and gave her little pajama’d body a thorough review.

“Lalina, what a sweet girl you are. Thank you, baby. Thank you so much. I will wear this every single day, okay? I will.”

She hugged her again, wiped the salty tears from her eyes, and patted Lalina’s head.

“I just want you to do what you love, Ma-mah.” And without missing a beat, Melba whispered into her youngest child’s ear, “I am, baby. I am.”

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt

Originally published via Simily.