Tag: Spoken Word

staying golden

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NaPoWriMo #23 An Audio Poem

My new mug. The Golden Girls was truly a favorite show of mine growing up – I still watch reruns of the program. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
staying golden by Tremaine L. Loadholt

a gift to myself, but not really
from myself – courtesy of the crush . . .
birthday gift cards hit different,
especially when you can buy
all the things you’ve been eyeing
and not with your own money.

as I listened to my decaffeinated coffee
percolate and watched it trickle
down into my new favorite mug,
I wondered if it would taste better.

and, it did.

there is something orgasmic about sipping
caramelized cocoa goodness with
a hint of butter cream and
savory mocha that sends my
heart aflutter.

who knew an after-work hot
beverage would boost low morale?
I’ve needed this form of pick-me-up.
it’s hitting all the right spots as I
wait for the woman with
my heart to return home
safely.

she has captured it, you see . . .
my heart, that is. and until
I lock eyes with it
again, I am a lowly soul
tethered to her whims.

reminiscence begs for attention,
and I find myself recalling a scene
from The Golden Girls – Dorothy
mentions to Blanche the irony of
looking at oneself in the mirror
while lying down – you’re not
the same.

I know when I look at this
new mug from this moment
forward, a flicker of memories
will flood my brain, and I will
remember how it came to be
a centerpiece in my cupboard.

and I, too, will never be the same.

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.

Coupling of a Different Kind

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Photo by Mpho Maponyane on Unsplash
Coupling of a Different Kind

I’m the person who makes her feel better.
and it’s light and airy and innocent …
there are days that pummel her
into submission, and I sense them.
I am ready with a “Hey, are you okay?”
and the response is an honest one — 
one that lets me know, she’s holding 
on, too.
“I am trying to be.”

I know that place.
I live in that place more than
I care to admit,
that place is a place where
we find ourselves lost and
wandering aimlessly through
time and actions, and if anyone
is available to save us, we’ll
run straight to them.

she doesn’t need saving, though.
she needs a listener.
I listen. 
I crack jokes.
I talk about the things in life
that make no sense and we agree
as we work and she monitors
my time on calls and I shift
from one aspect of work to another.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I say. how we can
struggle together and open up
long enough to let the other in?
she agrees. we can chat for
hours about things that crush us.

I know where she’s been. 
I know how I got through it,
how I am getting through it, and
we’re both walking different paths,
but it feels like our destinations
aren’t too far from one another.
I offer her a ride.

“Since we’re headed in the same direction.”

there was a wall there — there was.
I have always had a knack for chipping
away at them and sliding through 
undetected, and before you know it,
one’s bare before me — their past becoming
one with mine.

it is an amazing thing to see someone
walk away from themselves, pull up
a seat next to another ailing heart,
and release like there will be no tomorrow.
she’s so beautiful when she’s fragile.
she’s even more so when she’s strong.

the hard exterior comes through
on days when patients have gotten
their full fill of long hold times and
the glitches of shoddy software can 
eat through the cores of our patience.
I can see her falter — lose her sense of peace.

And I step in — “Are you going to make it?”

a simple question returns a simple answer.
and we move on from that place
that can turn into darkness if
I do not send enough light, but I do.
and she waits for it.

and even when my darkest days
salsa right before me, I can 
remove my stilettos, slip my
gown over my head, sling my 
jewelry across the room, and
invite her to get naked with me.

and there in the most silent
of silences, we stand — free 
of inhibitions, wary no more, 
aware that whatever else may come,
we have the tools to
conquer it.

Originally published in Intimately Intricate via Medium.