Tag: Substack

Is Your Heart Big, Fat, and Juicy?

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A Book Review

BIG FAT JUICY HEART by Deanne (Dee) Dennis. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

If you’ve read/viewed my previous post, then you’ve seen this photo and even got a little blurb about the above book in the caption as well. However, this blog entry is its formal review of it. Deanne (Dee) Dennis is an up-and-coming writer whom I follow on Substack. She is one to keep an eye on, seriously. I enjoy her bubbly spirit, enticing words, and drive to grow and learn more about the woman she is becoming.

Below is the review I posted for Big Fat Juicy Heart on Amazon and Goodreads:

The title is appealing, and so is the book!

I was intrigued by the title, and even more ecstatic to read the words within the cover. I began reading the poetry of Deanne Dennis by way of Substack.

Poetry is my first love, so naturally, I gravitated toward her offerings. I am happy I did, and as a subscriber, I have remained.

Big Fat Juicy Heart is short, sweet, poignant, truthful, and luring in all the right ways. The writer gives the reader just enough poetry to know her capabilities, but does not completely fill the cup or surge into an overflow.

Every poem is strategically placed, flows well, and builds a strong tower all on its own.

I would have loved to see a few more pieces about self love and familial love because these two subtopics regarding love are near and dear to me.

However, for her debut poetry book, Deanne Dennis soared high above what many have been able to do with verse, and I look forward to reading more of her work.

There’s just something about poetry that makes you want to write poetry, and this book… well, this book reminds me how good it feels to be poetic. You can find Big Fat Juicy Heart on Amazon in Kindle ($4.99) and Paperback ($9.99) formats.

Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book & Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback (only) yet?

I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing, as I discuss recent events related to my previous place of employment, including racism and discrimination, the growth I experienced after resigning from that company, and the foibles and overall experiences of life. I welcome your visit.

a means to an end & a body for sale (on clearance)

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Two poems shared on Substack notes

Fictional character Dr. Temperance “Bones” Brennan as a cartoon. Created with Google Gemini

a means to an end

Bones… a show I
can watch over and
over again–the
reruns are salve;
balm for my
crowded mind–a
distraction.

sometimes, on
heavy days, a
distraction is what
I need.

to witness complex
cases, albeit fatal
fiction, I disappear
in their plot twists
and fall victim to
their endings.

funny how the things
that gross me out
in my dreams
invigorate me while
I’m awake.

who’s murdering
who is more than
a pertinent question,
it’s a means to
an end.

AI-Generated Image: A Black woman with locs, wearing glasses, semi-doubled over in pain.

a body for sale (on clearance)

I’m at an age now
when a hard and
awkward sleep can
throw my back out
or a sneeze from the
depths of my soul
can summon
tinnitus.

the body is a weird
thing to observe.
how fragile we can
become when we
think we’re at our
strongest.

we can be swiftly
reminded of just how
easy it is to injure
oneself without
force or torture.
depreciating value…

like a brand new
vehicle the moment
you drive it off the
lot.

clearanced and
marked down,
wanted only
because we’re now
cost-effective and a
hot commodity.

everyone wants the
cheapest version of
you.

Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book & Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback (only) yet?

I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing, as I discuss recent events related to my previous place of employment, including racism and discrimination, the growth I experienced after resigning from that company, and the foibles and overall experiences of life. I welcome your visit.

At the Mention of Your Name

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An audio lamentation for Jernee Timid

A cartoonized version of Jernee Timid, derived from an original photo I took of her several years ago. Google Gemini is the AI tool I used to convert the image.
At the Mention of Your Name by Tremaine L. Loadholt

Just after work yesterday, I took
the body to a place we enjoyed
for months—our sister imaging center,
to visit with previous co-workers and
staff there.
My friend’s mother—eager to see my
smiling face, and offer a hug that
said to me, “You may not be mine,
but you are mine,” awakened my
heart’s pain.

The elders, as they often do, check
on us when we need it most.
The way she tilted her head and
asked, “How are you doing?” could
not have prepared me for what
would take place next.
I knew what she meant.
I knew how she meant it.
And when your name fell from her lips,
the tears fell from my eyes.

I apologized as I am wont to do when
my emotions take over, and she held
up her hand to me and shook her head No…
”I asked you. I want to know. Don’t you
dare apologize for feeling, Tre.”
And I heard the bass in her voice, attempted
to tighten up, but also loosen up, too.

It’s still unreal talking about you and
not coming home to you.
There are far too many reminders, and
so many people who knew you.
Everywhere I turn, sadness is waiting
to string me along.
I hate that this is now what clutters
my heart—that I have made space
for pain of this magnitude, and it shifts
only when it is good and ready.

At the mention of your name, I become
puddles that plough through the depths
of powerful grief—I wade accordingly, searching
for a shore that will envelop me
and keep me safe.
I can no longer run to you for a sense
of security.
You don’t crawl into my lap for warmth
or stand at the entrance of our bedroom,
waiting for me to exit.

You’re in so many places that make
up who I am, and erasing you was
never a plan—but keeping you in all
those spaces is running over me.
And if I can be completely honest
with you, I did not prepare for you
to live and die, and live again.

And for me to live and die, and
try to live again.

Musical Selection: Elton John—Your Song

Originally published in Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun on Substack.

back from Thailand & moguls get away with everything

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Two poems shared on Substack notes

back from Thailand

the crush just came
back from Thailand;
my phone is flooded
with pictures, videos,
and moments she shared with
beautiful people who
are more concerned
with nature, clean
eating, and knowing
their history.

I ask her, “Do you
feel changed now
that you’ve gotten
out of this country
for a while, and
breathed in the fresh
air of another?”

there’s silence, instead more
pictures and videos
are shared with me,
and that’s all the
answer I need.

moguls get away with everything

when you’re a mogul, the time
never fits the crime.
money and influence
can form gangs of
blackmail, and people in positions
of judicial power will crack.

it’s a game; players
learn their place or
find out how useless they are.

no one knows the
definition of loyalty
anymore and oaths
are laughable at best.

and they wonder why
silence is preferable
when the body has been defamed.

people in power
hear the stories, but
they don’t listen.

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.

Sometimes, I Just Need Poetry

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An audio lamentation for Jernee and this battered world of ours

Jernee Timid’s paw prints, courtesy of our vet’s office. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Sometimes, I Just Need Poetry by Tremaine L. Loadholt

my baby’s prints came today…
her paws…
I’d been waiting for them
since the 12th of September.
a lovely sympathy card
accompanied the red pieces
of art, neatly tucked behind them.
every member of our vet’s office
signed it.
their words and names crowding
the corners.
I smile. I cry. I remember the
best part of my life
no longer exists.

I stand at the edge of
my kitchen, shifting on
the balls of my feet. I am
shaking. I tilt my head to
look at each print, and the
smell of Jernee wafts across
the room and lingers in the
hallway. she’s still alive
in me; she hasn’t let go.
or, maybe I’m still holding on?

Zumi pats at the glass of its
terrarium, bargaining for my
attention, and I rush over to
see what the fuss is about.
food? check. water? check.
I think it just wants to hear my
voice, so I call its name in
a sing-songy way to appease it.
Zu-mi, Zu-mi, Zuuuumiiii.
what a silly tortoise you are.
it looks up at me and then
walks with urgency to its
hidey-hole.
we all need comfort.
tortoises are not exempt.

our home is quieter than it’s
ever been. the tapping of
paws are no longer morning
gifts or late-night signals of
an impatient senior dog who
“had me at, hello.”
I don’t know what I’m doing
with this life of mine now,
I’m just mulling on—making do.

I say that all I need is work—to
keep busy, but I think I am
telling myself this because I
am afraid of what will happen
to me if I sit down and focus
on every passing thought of
a love that was the greatest
love I’ve ever known.
where will I land if I
give my heart permission to
break and stay broken?

is there a name for people
who are no longer whole
without the pets they spent
nearly two decades becoming
one with? I don’t like having to
answer the same questions
every other day: “How are you?”
How are you holding up?”
“What are you doing with
yourself now?”

I wish there was a perfect way to
say, “I am cracking and folding
into myself because somehow
I no longer feel safe alone
with my brain, heavy heart,
and dying soul. somehow, I
no longer feel safe in this
body. something is not right.
something is not right.

it’s more than losing Jernee,
it’s all the ick of the world
that is seeping into our
skin, making our veins its home.
we’re trapped.
so, sometimes, I just need poetry
when everything is wrong
around me, and there’s no
guarantee it’ll change.

I need poetry to help me
remember who… and why
I am.

Originally published in Poking the Bear’s Belly on Substack.

horde escape & on our terms

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Two poems shared on Substack notes

horde escape

you will most likely never find me in
a horde of people looking as though
I’m in a place that carries comfort.

If I am, I assure you, I’m forcing my
body to be at peace, to try to enjoy my
surroundings. I’m never at ease in
those situations.

they are few. they are far between.
the path leading to them fades away
more as the years pile on to my age.

I am not who I used to be, I’m a
new person in an old body.
I’m both familiar and unfamiliar, and this
is what intrigues
you.

on our terms

the most difficult thing I experienced
with Jernee during her decline were the
lucid moments. I feared becoming
looped into their trap.

she wasn’t the same, and I knew
that, heart & soul, but sometimes my
baby would look up at me as if she
recognized my face, and I’d be putty
in five seconds.

“it’s only going to get worse” became the
anthem in my home, followed by, “this
sounds like a brain tumor,” and with
each regressive instance, I was
reassured…

I cut death to the quick, and
offered it a seat at the table.

if it was going to take my baby, it’d
be on our terms.
but was it, though?

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.