Tag: Creative Writing

Poem for an Image

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#7: Zumi’s Growth

Zumi Tye, my Red-Footed Tortoise, at 18 months old. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

my sweet, unsexed tortoise,
grows quicker than the
sun can set.

meals are three times
per day now.
at this rate, it’ll be
draping over the sides
of its terrarium in less
than two years.

Zumi interacts with me;
it licks the glass and moves
its head from side to side
at the sound of my voice.

I think it knows me.
I think it loves me.

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.

Poem for an Image

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#6: Saturday lunch

Throwback cooking: I purchased a small can of Crisco All Vegetable Shortening because I was feeling nostalgic, and I’m glad I did. My fish tasted like crispy heaven, and my cheese grits were absolutely delicious! Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

a late lunch, early dinner
after a day of work;
overtime was easy to
get, needed the distraction.

a full belly clapped in
appreciation, my legs
buckled twenty minutes
after–naptime knocked at
my temples, rest found
me in a zone.

I needed the food.
I needed the sleep.

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.

Poem for an Image

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#4: Hand-Me-Down Everything

Jernee’s toys. The only thing that is not going to AARF is the stuffed monkey. It will be buried with Jernee Timid. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

gathered the grand clan
for donation, only a few
didn’t make the cut–wear
and tear met them where
they stood.

other pets will have
a chance to tackle a toy
now that Jernee will no
longer need them.

blankets, beds, a few items
of clothing, and her crate
are in the mix, too.

our home is the only
lived-in space that will
forever hold her scent,
and I can’t give that away.

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.

pigeonholed & sidereal

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Two poems shared on Substack notes

pigeonholed

I never wanted to be
pigeonholed into a
category ill-fitting for
what and how I write.

I don’t know where I
should be or why, but
I do know I can write
whatever I am
assigned. I always
have been able to
create and build
characters out of
thin air.

Poetry is my salve.
Fiction is sustenance.
Nonfiction is time
delegating a few
memories to those
willing to consume.

I am a bustling soul
linked to ancestors
who told stories
about lifestyles and
enslavement.

I am my great-grandmother’s
twin; I have her eyes,
her lips, her walk,
and her mannerisms;

I’m the walking dead.

sidereal

she is out of this
world–a sidereal
creature crafted by
the best God I’ve
ever known.

a crush I’ve crushed
on, and probably will
until time leaves me
breathless. we hang
on every word that
pours from our lips.

I’ve become
complacent in the
knowing of her
presence–she’s
steadfast in being
here, and the
moment I shift my
presence, she glues
herself to everything
I’m connected to.

I would typically
leave, a ghost with
nothing to lose, but
she has galaxies for
eyes, and I am
forever cursed by
her.

I’m stone, unable to
be chiseled, unable
to break.
and secretly, she
loves it.

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.

Poem for an Image

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#2: Deer Alert (Deer Season)

A loner, but just down the block would be an entire family. However, they all ran off as soon as I got close enough for the perfect shot of them. I am sure this one was standing at attention, keeping its eyes on me as I got closer to them. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

Deer Season

Dear Deer Season, we normally
don’t meet on these terms, but
I’ve seen many does and not
that many bucks, and I am
wondering, will there be
any mating this year?

I know you’d much rather keep
it all a secret and surprise me
on my walks with new additions,
struggling to keep up with
the bevy, but I need to know
which corners to avoid
because Daddy Deer isn’t as
friendly.

I haven’t planned on using
running mode with these
knees, but if I need to
kick up my gears, I’ll
gladly do so if a male is
spotted and is in search of
heat that I can’t produce.

“Death by Deer” isn’t a
phrase I envisioned on
my tombstone.

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.

pulse

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a stranger cupped my
hand in hers at the curb
of the crosswalk, and looked
at me pleadingly.

I am funny about touch if
I don’t know you, and sometimes
even when I do, but I knew
something was wrong
when I saw her eyes dancing
like they were running away
from terror.

I tilted my head and leaned
into her personal space and
smelled fear.
caution warned me not
to turn around, so I didn’t,
but I could hear him
breathing.

a cop–woman, stood by
her cruiser a block away,
and sitting shotgun was her
partner. I looked at her, raising
my tethered hand, and then
looked at the silent woman,
and the cop knew.

the man started running
as soon as their eyes locked.
the silent woman sat in
the backseat, and closed
the cruiser’s door.

I walked two blocks home,
dangling my hand at my
side, twiddling my fingers,
feeling the lonesome lack of
the woman’s grip.

I prayed for her safety as
my pulse quickened.

This was my dream from last night. I hope it isn’t a premonition or a vision into what will happen.