And Everything 

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He makes my heart leap

But i’m so very careful of the rocks

In the distance I see the lush

greenness of the vineyard.

The roots true. The vines ripe

Do I have faith in the landscape?

It still looks abstract from here.

I walk on with my shoes of hope

wearing clear blue skies and a

thawed out soul.

 

Still I worry about a change in

the weather, falling into a ravine

My spirit like a sacred dare

challenges me to forget my fears,

to journey on deeper into what

could become less or more.

 

His voice in the distance

permeates my darker self until

all I see is sunlight.

Who can say what dust will bring?

Wine or a cloud spun our of

misguided fate?.

 

For now the light glimmers

How freeing it is branching

it’s way out into the unknowns.

 

-Tosha Michelle

 

Show me some discipline – Runaway American Dream

My thanks to the Anthony for the poem dedication. If you aren’t following him, you’re missing out on some stellar writing, photography, and music. Oh and most importantly, his ongoing romance with Jersey girl. If you think his poem for me was lovely., check out his amazing verse for his girl….so beautiful and romantic. Sigh worthy stuff.

Follow him and the yellow brick road, but mostly him. Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend.

https://runawayamericandreamsite.wordpress.com/2016/07/27/show-me-some-discipline/

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Doll Friend


My voice is a tiny grain
in his skull to be devoured
by vultures or fertilized by madness.
Evey morning as I rise I
pay homage to his stony
face. I read novels into
his stature that never moves
He never remembers anything
beyond his well preened shoes
I type with one eye open well
into the day. In stillness,
he stares narratives through me
Frantically , I write nightmares
in bold font until I am spent.
At midnight I place him back under glass.
My eggs firmly stored in his basket.

Still The One

They said, “I bet they’ll never make it.”
But just look at us holding on
We’re still together, still going strong

(you’re still the one)
You’re still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You’re still the one I want for life
(you’re still the one)
You’re still the one that I love
The only one I dream of
You’re still the one I kiss good night

-Shania Twain lyrics

My cover for The Lonely Author and his wife Allie, Anthony and Jersey girl, John and Terry

When The All of Me Fails.


When my life becomes
hard. I write away in
my notebook of dreams
that lives on my desk.
I take a short cut through
ink to be with it.
My pen
of angst spilling out
particles of love. desire,
fears.
I wonder how the pages
can ingest them all. My
constant purging of
emotions. Trying to
convey with words
truth before time
distorts it and it
becomes an artifact in
the Museum of
UnNatural History.
At times the fog
likes to exert control
over my verse. Longing
tend to be blind to
reality and reason.
It never sees things
as they are. The poet
trying to alter the
past and its asterisk
Poetry becomes a
contraption of denial.
Truth fight its way
through pages
watermark by tears
to sit on my back
like a weighed
pack, pulling
down hard on the
straps. Reminding me
how flimsy
my poetry and life
would be without it.

-Tosha Michelle 

Years Later 


Years later when we meet again.  I’ll see you sitting on what used to be our park bench. You’ll give me that same sweet smile, grimmer now but still so beautiful. I’ll marvel at how I thought once  I could love you. We walk arm in arm for our last dance. We talk of the past and how it can never be taken from us but wonder where do feelings go?

I ask him if he’s happy as he thought he would be and the gleam in eyes and wedding ring tells me he is. For a moment, they are a blade to my rib cage, but then he tells a joke and in that instant. the cut doesn’t feel so deep. We are both here but not here. I confess,  I’d hope he’d see me and be presence with me like he was before, like there was no other woman waiting for him behind a door now closed to me. 

We walk toward the street he lives. I can tell he’s anxious to get home.  He mentions her name. It sounds like the ocean in the creek of my ear. He moves towards his sideways gravity. He’s reached the vanishing point with me. And no, we’ll probably never meet again.  We part with a kiss on the cheek, a barren bow and Goodbye. 

And then there’s the smell of pine trees, damp as if freshly plucked. The cemetery nearby with the dead in it, and rain from the sky falling lile a melody-the affection I had for him/ gone, like a nightingale’s rib cage cleanly picked.

-Tosha Michelle 

Those Three Little Words


Every time love has visited me it has been accompanied by a death spirit. Leaving behind the chill of isolation. Yet, I know I have been blessed to love, to have loved.  After heartache, after lesson learned in tears, the chest becomes less tight, the soreness fades.

I long to look at love in a new way, while standing in its light, to be caught in its sight, to gaze up and see Orion shining.  to be joined in a long continuance. The hard candies of granite and bone. I long to live alongside love in the fervor of hope, in the heard, seen, and finally fathomable power of a soul held in place.

I want to feel the brush of love’s tenderness,  to remember the constellations I once dreamed upon. I long for a vocabulary built on the promise of truth, in a world where I know the language like I know home, residing on a strong foundation that can  prevail in the sweetness of the summer harvest and in the noon frost of winter. 

Give me a love I can dwell in. I’ve had it with uninhabitable beauty. I desire a place thar suits me, a place to rest where I can finally tear the footbridge down

Tosha Michelle