Rounding The Bend


If only I could find the train
back to you.

The crossroads are nothing
more than a Trader Joe’s now.

And I can’t even get you on an
imaginary phone.

All day long I try and call.

You were always the sky
that drowned me the most.

My heart stiffing faster
than clothes on a line,
then turning into a hard
remorseful verse of poetry
to be recited under a full
moon by the river’s dark mouth.

Fire feed the soul.
Breathe in ash.
The spirit swims away.
The body dredging dirt.

And in the distance a train
rounds another bend.

-Tosha Michelle


Here I Go Again

Hello lovely ones. Every now and again, I like to plug a friend. OK, that sounds weird, or maybe I just made it weird. Anyway, my friend Alex has a wonderful blog, you really need to be following. Alex is a true gentleman and just a really sweet and caring soul. He’s also single. Ladies take note.
His number is….

OK, I’ll let him give his digits away.

But I digress. Don’t I always?

If you’re into TV, music, travel, photography, and kind hearted Brits who like to play twenty questions and discuss everything from ice cream to art then Alex is your guy and his blog is for you.

Follow him!!

Cold Heart


Our love was a dark continent
we shared, violent and untamed.

It was unholy and seductive and left
destruction in its wake.

We were wind and fire.
Hot beginnings and painted
roads that led to secret gardens.

How quickly heaven was lost to us
when the sky destroyed the night
and the night decimated the sky.

When the lightening struck
we weren’t surprised when
the tree limbs splintered.

Knowing the branches couldn’t save us.

The storm burning away what
was left of the twisted roots
but never the wildness of our hearts.

The moon and I still yearn
for the chaos. Stealing our
breath and taking out sanity away.

God, how I wanted the pain,
the pleasure to abide,
but you can’t control the weather

Now the aftereffect remains.
and the wind goes on.

Closing all the windows as the
chill sets in. The cold comes
and you live with it.

-Tosha Michelle

Feel This


What if feelings were simply
make believe, and the pain
we suffer just a made up thing?

But they aren’t.
They’re real, aren’t they?

How they rule out hearts.
We let them lead us around
and try to explain to our mates
why we just had to have one more
pair of shoes, or to our parents why
we snuck out of the house to
meet our boyfriend again.

I remember how I used them to
explain my relationship with a
higher power, but ended up
doubting, because I felt like a
prisoner about to be hung.

How quick the righteous were
to drop their blade of intolerance
of judgement. But I escaped.

Briefly, I was absent of feelings,
and free from authority. I thought
I had moved out from under the
snide mouth of the patent leather
of life, too naive to understand there
would still be judgement from those
other misconceived safe places.

My heart breaking like a glass.
Coca-Cola bottle on the sidewalk.
My life there between the cracks
and crevices, where it’s ninety-nine
degrees in the breeze,
but there is no breeze.

Pain grieving in the hot sun of truth,
and in my existence. Do we give into
the black and blue assortment of scars
in the making, or do we fight to move
past the doubt and adversity and
into a peaceful existence?

Can we choose happiness even
if our feelings have no proof?

-Tosha Michelle

You Can’t Will It So.


I know we’ve just met,
and you think I’m well
put together. But don’t
be surprised when I fall
apart on you, and ramble
on incoherently about
my insecurities and how
sometimes I feel like a
black hole. But that’s okay
because I never trusted
stars any way.

God, I’m tired.
Will you put me
in your car and
take me home?

I want to rest now.
May I sit at your feet
for awhile and share
my shadows?

Did you know, in the
story of my life,
I often feel trapped in a
washing machine set on
and endless spin cycle?

And guess who can’t swim,
and how did sharks get in here?

Doesn’t it all sound so hopeless
and bleak in a Bronte way?
Emily, not Charlotte.

It isn’t. Note, I’m always happier
and sadder than my poetry suggest.

And there’s no moors and
Heathcliff (that sorry bastard)
moved to France forgetting
Cathy ever existed.
(fils de pute)

It seems to me art and
life are more than nothing.

And there’s a soulful sweetness
in the sound of my soul dropping,
even if it’s shy and barely there.

I’m here to tell you, it’s all about
being filthy with yearning and grief,
and the knowledge that living
is all in the brightening and darkening,
in the hurricane swirl of emotions
that cracks our skulls and disintegrates
our hearts to bits and starts them
up again.

Maybe that’s why I’m forever
kissing the sand and waiting
as the ocean swallows my
name again and again.

-Tosha Michelle



For my Grandfather, Woodrow Hawkins:

Seven years old, I rode
by my Papa in that big
Ford truck. His little June bug.
Jabbering away, too innocent
to notice the light fading away.
Foreshadowing the colder
hours that would settle over our
little house at the foothills of the
mountains. The oppressive chill
of loss, the darkening.

On that day, all I saw was green
with an undertow of adventure.
Happy to be with the first man
my soul ever loved.

Before the heart condition.
Before the heart attack.
Before I mistook the hour.
Before his death.
Before my Granny’s tears.
Before I knew the pain of grief.
Before the road before us
became the road behind us,
and I wasn’t old enough to
understand letting go.
And that everyone’s here
until one day they’re not.

The days of homemade ice cream,
piggyback rides, warm breezes
and my papa’s unconditional love.

When one precious moment merged
into another. Drinking lightness in
the light. Dizzy with lightness.

The gathering of the light as it
fell from the sky.
And thinking there’d still be
time to pour more.

And now I’ve lived long enough
to look back, to reflect;
and yearn for, even beg for,
the before, the sweet bliss
of not knowing what I would
come so desperately to miss.

-Tosha Michelle

And All She Sees Is Him


Oh hell.

Here he comes again.

Just when you quit believing
there was more.

Only neanderthals on hollow horses,
but there he is holding out his hands

Ping goes the heart, and your clothes.

And how you love the tale,
the reveal.

You can’t believe how happy
you are, just to lie in his arms
and debate grapes and math.

And not only does this guy
listen to your prayers,
he actually reads and
loves your poetry.

You live on Chet Baker, and
the occasional sauteed mammal.

You watch Amazon and Hulu,
and wonder how you ever got
by with just cable and a mind
that constantly wandered
to avoid being present.

Now you live in the moment
and don’t care if it’s a cliche.

When you fall apart,
as you are prone to do.
He doesn’t condemn
but feeds you and tucks you in.

And he let’s you see
his weaker side.

Unafraid, you help him
wreak havoc on his demons
by the light of a soulful flame.

Even when things get boring
and stale; he coaxes out fire
with the trace of his tongue
on the nape of your neck.

His gravelly voice crooning
your name in a song, with
sultry blues notes that
only you two know.

You lose yourself in
the subtle rhythm and
(two, four) here comes
the bridge- how you like
this part. Straddling his
his lap. Lying back
and swinging to the heat.

For once in your life you
aren’t afraid to improvise.

Knowing you’ll follow
those high notes
down as far as they can go.

-Tosha Michelle

Listen to “Feels Like Home to Me” Cover by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud