Winter’s Planning on Sticking Around

An Audio Rapid Rhyme

Photo by Kirsten Kimasch via ReShot
Winter’s Planning on Sticking Around

Winter whispers in my ear
cold & flu season is definitely here.
We have not been spared–no dismissals,
no chance at making ourselves useful.
Cuddled under covers with our loves,
fishing through movies in fingerless gloves.
No “White Christmas”, but payback has landed,
thankful to God I’m sheltered–not stranded.

I’m taking time to count my blessings,
praying intently, sharing my confessions.
The days ahead are getting longer,
my broken heart is beating stronger.
Old Man Winter isn’t asking for much,
one day soon, I’ll embrace the touch
of anyone in my circle or crew
I’m waiting for that day, it’s true.

Isolation keeps me weary,
my brown eyes are often teary.
I can’t change the season,
and there’s really no reason
for me to rush time.
Here and now is sublime.



Your Poem From Me

The Giving Cause

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

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.

The 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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We Don’t Talk About Daniela

Musical Selection: We Are KING (or KING)|Hey

Flash Fiction: Narrated by Kay Bolden

Photo by Ellie L via ReShot

*Readers, the following story details murder and death graphically, abuse and neglect of children, and a family’s indescribable pain.

We Don’t Talk About Daniela Narrated by Kay Bolden

We don’t talk about Daniela. We don’t reminisce — don’t share our memories — don’t even flip through the plastic pages of our favorite photo albums. We can’t say her name. We don’t. We don’t. We don’t. But my sister Alexandria does. She chants it. She brings up the past. She draws in the days of old and begs us to dance with her. She shouts the name. She spends it around her fingertips and blows a kiss to us with it. She is enamored by it, dressed in it, locked into it, and we . . . we can’t get her to stop. We want her to stop. We want her to start. We don’t know what we want. But we don’t talk about Daniela.

We don’t talk about that night. We don’t look into the eyes of her sons and wonder what happened — why they lived — why she didn’t. We don’t ask for answers. We don’t wait for answers. We stopped looking for answers. But my sister Alexandria does. She spends hours on the phone with private investigators — works overtime to pay meaningless dollars to an overweight, flighty man who lives at his place of business — too focused to go home — too greedy to know home. She is submerged in the knowing — the yearning — the need to find answers. We wish she would stop. We hope she won’t stop. We can’t get her to stop. But we don’t talk about Daniela.

Alexandria picks at the paintings in my mother’s home — asks, “Who’s this? Who’s that”? and she knows every face. She knows our family — our dead — our ghosts. My mother does not respond. I stand statue-like, still in the presence of my sister who won’t let go. I want to be like her. I want to talk about Daniela — our youngest sister. I’ll try. I think I can. I think I can. Will you listen?

My mother has soulless eyes now. They have been drained of tears. She is hollow-boned and sunken — dry. Nothing moves her. We exist. We still exist. We are here, Mama.

Daniela was the reason for the word beautiful. She had golden eyes. Did you hear me? Golden eyes! Her voice was a velvety sing-songy lullaby. The smartest in her class. The light in every room. The undeniable work of art God created, stepped back, and announced, “It is good” . . . She was thirty years old when that night happened. Thirty years old. Thir — Alexandria was on her way to see her — she had all of their favorite snacks. It was a Friday evening and the roads glistened with the first sprinkles of summer rain. Luther Vandross’s Never Too Much played on her radio. And she sang along. She sang along. She sang along.

Alexandria says, “As soon as I saw her house, something felt off. Something wasn’t right.” That’s what she said. That’s what she says. She got out of her car approached our sister’s home. Her stomach fell to her feet. Tears pummeled her eyelids. She couldn’t move. She wanted to. She couldn’t. She found our nephews tied up in their bedroom — removed the muzzles from their mouths, and listened to their screams. How does one cut their own sister down from a spinning fan? Her neck bruised — eyes bulged from their sockets — breathless. Who did it? Who did it?! Who did THIS?!


An overwhelming feeling to shelter our nephews — at the time, ages seven and four, tapped at her, and Alexandria guided them to the family room, closed the door, and called the police. She was advised to leave our sister hanging — to watch her sway — to not tamper with evidence. Is this right? Was this okay — to allow someone you loved more than the full-bodied moon to just . . . hover lifeless in your presence? It didn’t feel right to Alexandria. It wasn’t right. She took a chair from the dining room, placed it under our sister, and butcher-knifed the rope in half. The two of them fell to the floor.

She held her — smoothed her hair away from her eyes — rocked back and forth. Every tear was a testament to the days she would search for her killer. Every breath was etched in pain. She rocked back and forth. She rocked . . . The boys beat at the door. They kicked. They raged. They wanted out! She rocked . . . she rocked . . . She held onto our sister. She cried. She cried.

Sirens blared in the dark — the slick road announced the officers’ arrival. The hushed trees swayed in the distance — they announced the ambulance’s arrival. The sky opened up and showered down its heaviest rain. It announced the local fire department’s arrival.

Alexandria says, “It was the worst night of my life. It was the worst night of their lives. It was the worst night of her life.” Her being, Daniela — the name we don’t say. The one we don’t talk about. But I’m trying. I — I really am. When I heard my sister’s voice that night, there was a feeling deep in my gut that told me to be quiet — to just listen. I don’t know how she did it — how she told me every detail of that night after holding our dead sister. After embracing our nephews. After answering question after question and catering to authorities performing half-assed duties. I don’t know how she did it.

A suicide — that’s what it was called. Really?! Alexandria slapped the authorities with their own words. Our sister would have never tied up her sons or abused them or beat them in any way. She would have never managed to hang herself or physically bruise her own body prior to this. Who did it?! Look! Search! Do something, damn it! Question the boys. Ask them! Ask them! They know . . . They know . . . They know . . .


Someone had to tell our mother. Someone had to be the one. Someone needed to let her know. How do you tell a woman her youngest child is no longer alive? How do you tell a woman who nearly lost this child in month four — she’s truly gone now? How do you tell a woman she is a mother of two — not three? Someone had to tell her. Alexandria drove to our mother’s home after our sister’s body was removed from her house. The boys sat silently in the back seat. In hushed whispers — intermittent tears fell. She drove faster. She drove faster. She had to get to our mother.

Mothers know. They always know. Alexandria says, “When Mama saw me covered in Daniela’s blood — her sweat wrapping my body — the boys’ tears staining my clothes, she knew.” How Alexandria thought our mother would react was not how she reacted. She sat stoically on her couch, smoothed the silk pajama pants she had on — cleared her throat — closed her eyes. Alexandria told her. She told her. She let her know.

The boys stood by her. They clung to her. They let the woman who birthed the woman they called mother love on them. They allowed her to hold their hands — kiss their cheeks — ease their pain. And it has been like this for the last five years. It’s that way. This is the way. It’s her way. And why we don’t talk about Daniela.

We don’t talk about Daniela. We don’t reminisce — don’t share our memories — don’t even flip through the plastic pages of our favorite photo albums. We can’t say her name. We don’t. We don’t. We don’t.

But my sister Alexandria does. She does . . . To her, Daniela was what we wished for — our shooting star in a land of fallen stars. She will never stop talking about Daniela.


Originally published in The Junction via Medium.

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