Flowers in Bloom

Spring whispers when you are near.

Breathe your name into my ear.

Tell me your stories,

especially the ones

written on ancient tapestry.

Give me flower seeds I can plant.

I’ve stumbled through the bramble

to find you.

I was not seeking this knotty retreat,

but look how my leaves

have taken to the light.

Carry me to the highest treetop.

Fly with me on the wind.

Watch over me when my mind

plays peekaboo with the dark.

When I can’t locate myself on any map,

and I’m lost a land wishing to destroy me.

Give me the gold of your heart.

The stream of your resolve.

The pixie dust of your hands.

For me, at least, your magic is enough.

-Tosha Michelle

And We Write

Poetry is all about perception.
It’s what we perceive, not what
we see.

It’s all in the rhythm.
The arrangement of the poetic
notes.

It’s about loosening those
syllables until they roll off our pens
in a dance of self.

We release our whimper and watch
it turn into a roar on paper

We write for preservation.
We write to empty the emptiness.
We write like we eat, to live

We spend our nights out on a limb                                                      so we can fall into the melody of our craft

Our souls writing on.                                                                            Finding salvation in verse

-Tosha Michelle

Alphabet Soup

Come sit with me where
the world is all warm breeze
and blue birds calling.
We’ll forget the bramble
and the cry of the wild wolf.
Let spring go on and on.
The universe can register
a complaint with someone who cares.
You and I will follow the gumdrop trail,
edged with lace. We’ll disappear
into breakfast at midnight and some delectable sin.
We’ll tango to the radio. Let the fire tag along.
Put on a show for the moon
until everything becomes now,
everything becomes still and we’ll watch
as the night opens for us as lightly
as our ABC’s with not one verb of regret.

-Tosha Michelle

Upon Stealing a Kitkat

You’ve taught me how far
I can go toward myself.
No need to run from who
I am.

That’s how it is with us.
Windblown fragments,
two are we.

We live in a shareable place
our little patch of green.
where I’d rather hear you
than all.

We converse fluently in
a language only we understand.
Your charm never lies in the
way wedding songs and
love sometimes do.

In my head you’ve cut a groove,
leaving your initials there
Absolute. Right. Permanent.
They tell a story even when
my mind shifts and happenstance
grabs the pen.

The darkest ink is not dark enough
to eradicate the thought of you.

Our kinship, a sonnet to pathless
woods, always ready to explore.
We reach for a state of grace,
Knowing life can only get worse, but
better too.

Tosha Michelle

White Hillsides and Falling Into a Leap

image

Calming breath as I walk in the cold. The sky cast in a sober shade of melancholy. On the ground a thin layer of snow, lined by my footprints, creating a circle. Feet that have lost their direction. No faith in the journey. My heart blue with evening. My soul in the dark hours. My mind in paraphrase.

It’s a New Year. Time to let go of past regrets, focus on the now. Toss out our bad habits and scrawl a new list. Do I still have use for such things?

Soon January will mutate into February. Hibernation is a kind of conservation, I remind myself. I could live inside, sleep until spring comes. Let my dreams refurbishes and rehabilitate. No longer full of Cinderella wishes, but still wishful.

I’m not as young or as uncomplicated as I once was. My spirit has never been still. The future is an Edward Hopper’s painting, a lost penny on the side of the highway. Perhaps, this is what purgatory is like: the scent of falling snow, the taste of ash, the endless road of what was, the journey to what will be.

As I walk back inside. I catch a glimpse of myself in the living room window. For a moment, I see the reflection of the girl I used to be. Shy. Timid. Meek. She was always happy to linger in the hallway outside her life.

Would I go back to the days before I became unmoored,  before my life accumulate in experience, sorrows, and lessons learned? I don’t think I would. A dust free existence isn’t really living, is it? The artful dodge is only artful for so long.

Perhaps, Purgatory really is where we understand the multiplicity of self. That what’s left for us, is what we make it. Maybe I’ve been trying too hard to remove myself from the syllables. Perhaps, there’s grace in the old nouns, adjectives, and verbs, and hope in the new ones.

As I go to close the front door; I note my footprints, and how the snow looks brighter and softer in the half light. Could it be my steps have purpose, even if the heaven I’m looking for isn’t there?

-Tosha Michelle

Variations


I call him eccentric
He thinks it’s a reprimand
He doesn’t realize
His exquisite eccentricities
reveal his unique inner form.
like Gould last recording of
the Goldberg Varations

His illuminated soul
seemingly always in motion.
I read religiously his light.
Text etched with acid.
but cut with gentle sweetness
The light only growing brighter.
He coaxes me out of my
shadow box.

I could take refuge in his uniqueness
The magic of his mind, linger there
in the smudge of the stars.
Let him read the face of my spirit,
my wildest wishes, the lure
of eccentric things
Framed by endless strings of grace.
A concerto of serenity. defined
composition, melodic hope.

-Tosha Michelle