A Poem for Niles


This post was written for a dear friend.  Happy Birthday, Niles. You are the calm to my storm. The voice of reason to my insanity. The jitter to my bug. The Niles to my girly Frasier

Without further ado, I give you my ode to you.

There’s once was a guy from Macon
who like to shake his bacon
his hips, yours for the taking


but seriously….

Still Waters

While other men measure success by titles and cash
He dreams of making text dance over the crevices
of uncharted pages, imaginary characters alive in his mind
He longs to breathe life into figures he has never met.
to fire his own artistic semantic round.
to pen The Great American Novel,
with sophisticated soulful prose that linger

While other men play golf and women
He’s happier with his nose in a book
Getting lost in CS Lewis and Hemingway
Sliding between his world and theirs
walking chapters to be read. Again and again
He lives in the land of mystical lions,
not fearing the tolling of the bell,
finding his lifeline in fanciful excursions

While other men long to dominant and control
He strives to be gentlemanly and bold
A silent nod to a picture page
Old world charm, lost in a photograph
Shaking the dust off his top hat
He welcomes chivalry anew.

While other men court surface friendships,
His quiet still waters run deep
As deep as the tea he seeps
He puts his shield away
Cast the armor aside
Content to share the secrets he holds inside
He caters only to a select few
Kind beyond fault to those he holds true

While other men drown in the noise of a fast paced life
He’s busy taking comfort in starlit skies
Content to linger by the stream with Whitman and Thoreau
Green fields blooming. His soul dances in the yellow light
He smiles at the passing herd, wondering if the sheep
will ever open their eyes and see?

While other men are slaves to convention
He marvels that his soul is as free as a feather
No guise needed, a peaceful mind is on his side
He travels on, marching to his own tune
with steadfast authentic steps and exquisite simplicity

-Tosha Michelle

Alternate ending

He travels on, marching to his own tune
with steadfast authentic steps
and visions of Norah Jones
alive in his bed (Note from poet, I couldn’t resist)



Gin Soaked Memories


Music glides and slides,
weaving its way through the room
Smoke darts to and fro,
twisting and turning between the tables

A solitary figure sits at the bar
Rolling his tumbler
He stares into the bottom of his glass,
looking for salvation

He throws his head back
and down the drink in one shot.
Liquid fire to warm his November soul
a taste mixed with memories

In his whiskey colored eyes,
the light of her impression,
a girl he loved once
His pixie, a fair, faint slip of a woman

Every moment recorded and
filed away in meticulous order
taken out and revisited in times
of gin, regret, and recollections

He recalls the days of Aphrodite and Dionysus,
the nights before
Hades and Tartarus-
a life lived freely once, in a time long ago

The days of morning glory,
fireside dinning, Parisian wine
Swaying to Charlie Parker on repeat.
Two souls lifted on the breeze of contentment

The nights of melting and meshing,
into silk sheets-teasing hands, guttural moans
Hard on soft. Passion so smoldering
even the windows cried out in a steamy release

The days of sultry tempting lips
that tasted of strawberries and unmitigated sin
a soft neck made for nibbles and kisses
an intoxicating fresh clean scent
The hint of vanilla and warm sugar on her skin

The nights of stolen moments,
faded hope, broken hearts
shuttered glances, hushed goodbyes
a love that fell out of time

As the bartender pours the man another drink,
the past blends into the now
Playing out like a moving picture book

He sees her behind the bar
Reflected in the neon,
dancing with shadows,
singing her reminiscence tune

She beckons, inviting him to come along
His foot taps along to her song.
Her rhythm fades.

Where did she run off to?

He reaches for his wallet and pays his tab
stumbling forward out the door

In his mind’s eye,
he glimpses her,
dashing ahead of him.
Her dress billowing in the wind

He rushes onward,
trying to catch her.
Chasing the sound of her laughter
His arms reach out to embrace her

Hands are left empty.
She’s only a ghost hidden among the leaves
Fragile and wild, shifting like the finest lace
disappearing into nothing, shattering the illusion

The man finds only lights flashing him blind
the blare of horns, people, and endless chatter

Briefly, he and the night stand still,
aching with a thousand remembrances
Mournfully, he shakes his head,
sighs, and wanders off into the night

-Tosha Michelle



MUSIC by Charles Baudelaire

MUSIC doth uplift me like a sea
Towards my planet pale,
Then through dark fogs or heaven’s infinity
I lift my wandering sail.

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,
And through the cordage wail,
I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me
Beneath her sombre veil.

I feel the tremblings of all passions known
To ships before the breeze;
Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

I pass the abysmal seas
That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair
Of my despair!

Climb Out of The Brown Paper Bag


16.4 million children living in poverty.
14,500 to 17,500 people, primarily women and children, trafficked to the U.S. annually.
Unemployment rate of 9 percent
$16 trillion dollars in debt

However, all politicians seem to do is party in semantics over party semantics. Their philosophy- how do I keep myself in power and not how can we possibly ameliorate humanity. Instead of serving the people, they serve themselves and help themselves to a fist full of dollars. Instead of protecting the interests of the people; they protect the corporations, and in return the corporations protect them- in a turgid, tacit agreement that can be compared to blind patriotism. They are no less than mannequin pimps with pens, who have acquired a penchant for back stabbing the people who put them in power. It needs to stop. It’s time to take the money out of politics and put the humanity back in.

Staying in my soap box for a moment, in my opinion, politics and Facebook don’t mix. I’ve been suckered into a few debates on the state of our country. They always end with hurt feelings and bent out of shape noses. However, I respect people’s right to express their views (even the one I find appalling) Note, I’m not a big fan of the Fox News crowd.

What sickens me is the dissension and polarization I see. It’s one thing to feel passionately about one’s beliefs. It is another, when one tries to bash those beliefs down another’s throat. There is no civility in politics anymore. There is no civility among Americans anymore. Perhaps, there never was. I just hope we find a touch of empathy in ourselves.

Sometimes, it’s not just about flags, or guns (the left…the right) Sometimes, it’s about innocent lives lost. Sometimes, it’s about acknowledging that racism is alive and well. It’s about finding proactive ways to fight oppression. It’s about asking ourselves; how can we end the senseless noise of senseless bickering? How can we love more and hate less?

We now return you to your regular schedule blog of poetry and randomness.

The Gift


I received you cold shoulder
wrapped in disdain
tied with a bitter bow
a gift of retribution
meant to flog my soul
like a petty whip
Fifty shades of fu***ed up

I should just retreat back
into my self imposed isolation,
but I always was more sinner than saint,
with a stubborn heart, a chaotic brain
and a restless soul
devoid of peace and sanity

Come closer if you dare
I’m returning your gift
and giving you one of my own

Sound and fury
Fire to melt ice

Heat the will own you
burning you from the inside out
thawing your cold facade
Flames licking at your core

Hypnotized by my light
dancing through the trees
of your mind.
igniting every part

Try and extinguishes the flames if you must
until there’s nothing left
but the smoldering undergrowth
and the lingering heavy blanket of smoke

Choke on the fumes as they soak
intimately into your soul
as you fall into a siren’s trance
Look down- you’ll see my reflection
in your burnt scarred martyred hands

Joan of Arc- you have met your match

-Tosha Michelle

Watchmaker Analogy (Out of Sync)


A toast to the last sip of sanity,
to a friendship, I thought would never end
Drink from the bitter flute of regret
as chaos and mistrust oxidize
the palate of life

Cheers to a relationship
swallowed whole by anarchy
The struggle of bosoms buddies
maderized on sea of lunacy
Kindred spirits no more

Raise your glass to a hint of
false truths, fair-weathered faith,
famished reason, futile declarations
Assumptions paired with judgment in excess-
verbal checkmate.

Here’s to “Judas’ daughter”
Dante’s stage prop, a sterile cross,
and a refermented simulacra Jesus.

-Tosha Michelle



Seductive Tea


“A penny for your thoughts” he says,
piercing me with his knowing eyes.
sinful smirk,
and picture perfect perfection

I bite my lip and blush,
fearing my face will give
away my lascivious cerebration
I look down at my cup and lie

“I was just thinking-this tea is divine”

I can never tell him
the true thoughts stuck in my head,
clinging to me like static to a balloon
Playing tag with my mind

His lips brushing mine,
nibbling, teasing
sucking, tasting,
licking, biting

His fingers reading my body
like a passage from his favorite book,
tracing fiery trails,
leaving sparks in their wake,
Bookmarking his favorite part

I can never tell him
I picture him in my bed

My heart longs
to be a tourist of his flesh,
to learn his language,
in sighs, trembles and hips

Mapping a route with my hands,
Tasting his forbidden fruit
Drowning in his exotic essence,
as we melt into silky sheets and sweet release

He asked, but I can never tell.
instead, I get lost in
soundless seduction
Sipping my tea. I sigh.