Hands of Gold

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

Who Am I?


I’m the woman who believes in thorns,
the beauty of fallen fruit,
and lavishing love on the lovable
and unlovable.

I’m generous, difficult, and incomplete.
I have spells of sullen iciness,
and moments of hot tea and clarity.

I’m the woman who can only be
of this world for moments at a time.
My soul affixed to solitude
and one darkness after another.

When the lights finally come back on,
I confess I like a warm arm around my waist
and a strong shoulder to rest my chaotic head.

I’m also partial to masculine fingers
that know how to coax my color back,
under silk sheets, with creative words,
and hands of purpose.

I’m often confused. Do I succumb
to the screeching crow
or pay homage to the nightingale?

I’m the woman who would go
anywhere to leave you,
but will beg you to come with me.
When we get there, I’ll fight with you
over the map and then kiss you
on the street.

I’m an expert at backbends.
I practice them every night
under memory’s disco light.

I hide an extra heart under my bed
in a packed suitcase of longing.

I’m the woman waiting for good enough
to be enough. Still, always wanting
more of much. Knowing life, like art,
is what we make it.

We all deserve something more than nothing.
I’m insignificant, and at times narcissistic.

I’m the broken woman.
cracked, bent. Damaged.

I’m the woman becoming whole,
becoming more me with each new break.

-Tosha Michelle

My cover of “Night Changes”

Listen to Night Changes by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

A Scholarly Gentleman


One of my best friends is celebrating his birthday soon and I wanted to do something special for him. Niles and I go way back and we’ve been seen some (insert curse word here) Twelve years of friendship and our bond just grows stronger.

This is my tribute to a gentleman with a lovely creative soul. Niles, thanks for being you and always getting me. Love, respect and snark always.

“The Gentleman Writer”

Seemingly readable and uncomplicated 
Underneath he burns like the red sun. 

Unruly ghosts tapdance in his head 
He orders them in poetic verse

Laying claim to a writer’s vocation 
Here his imploded dreams come to fruition 

He spins his hope into a July moon 
Ink becomes his salvation.
as he basks in the white heat
moments of no sound.

Knowing words are a gift
His fingers loosen the bow.

-Tosha Michelle

Listen to For Good by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

Happy birthday, sir

May the
be plentiful.

always win


find her way to your door.

Love Me


Love me like we’re
lost in the woods on
a moonless night,
being serenaded by
the wind, and the
ominous sounds of
a chainsaw and
maniacal laugher.

Love me like a pole
crashing into the yard,
live wires leaving their
streaks on the lush green

Love me without thought,
without asking, without
wondering if you paid
the light bill, or if you
should wear your grey
trousers tomorrow or
your black.

Love me when you’re
stuck in rush hour
traffic with a
headache, and the
jerk in the car
next to
you is blasting
hip hop
so loud, you can
feel your seat

Love me in a back
alley, up against a
brick wall, your mouth
on my throat, while
we move in rhythm
to the sound of
sirens and street noise.
Do it when
no one looking, and
there’s a citywide power
outage, and the looting
has begun, and a truck
jumps a curve and almost
sideswipe a bus, while
someone throws a brick
through a window.

Love me like the first
taste of bourbon, like
a blessing, like a flood,
like a barrage of light
filling a blind man’s
eyes, like eros and
agape love mating.

Love me when we’re
both too tired to make
love, when you are
lonely, when you
hate everyone and
you’ve lost your

Come lie down beside
me, close your beautiful
eyes, take my hand as
I sing you a lullaby of
longing, and I’ll
never stop as long
as you love me, as
long as you keep
loving me, just like

Again and Again


I know I mention this guy a lot and honestly, it’s because I like him so much more than the rest of you. I’m kidding. I adore you all but I am super fond of this lovely Brit. You will be too. Check out his poem and please encourage him to write more. Oh and follow him. He’s sure to return the favor

Happy Friday. God save the Queen and us all xx


What Would Keats Do?


Beautiful, meaningful poetry
is always possible.
Think of Shakespeare
and his sonnets.
Frost and his road
less traveled.

The poem I’m writing now
may be beautiful
and full of meaning.
It may not be.

Perhaps, it’s too early to tell.
Should I keep going?
What if I’m trying to hard
to create art?
The verses will show the pressure.

I want my poetry
to remind the reader
of themselves,
not so much the poet.
I want them to listen alone
with their own minds and hearts.

Maybe the secret
to beautiful poetry
full of depth
is not caring.
Perhaps, when I leave
poetry behind, abandon words
and have no desire to write,
that’s where great writing
will find me.

As I sit reading Anne Sexton,
I’ll remember what I once
would have sacrificed
to create art that matters.
And I’ll pick up my pen and paper
and write the poetry I dreamed of
as though I was another poet,
and as if i were the poet,
I may never be again.

-Tosha Michelle