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


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A Scholarly Gentleman

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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
https://soundcloud.com/tosha-michelle2020/for-good

Happy birthday, sir

May the
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be plentiful.

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always win

And
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find her way to your door.

Love Me

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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
grass.

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
vibrating.

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
faith.

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
that.

Again and Again

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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

https://alexraphael.wordpress.com/2013/12/10/the-hand-of-nature/

What Would Keats Do?

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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

Hands Over Your Eyes

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Close your eyes.
Cover your ears.
We’ll take a train
away from here.

Somewhere greener
Anywhere warmer.

Someplace just beyond
our reach but we’ll
reach it anyhow

Leaving the delirium
of the mundane behind.

We’ll hold court in a
seaside town.

And rinse our glasses
in sugar.

Learning the music
our hearts make when
blessed with a peaceful
beat, the sound of us.

We’ll lean into each other
and come like we
never have.

Your mouth all over me.
I’ll sing you to the edge.

Your gaze only on me
as we will dance into
new revelations, and
curl like a comma
into hopeful beginnings

-Tosha Michelle

Artwork by me.

My cover of ‘Realize” for Niles, one of my best friends. Follow his blog at http://www.jamesdennard.com
He’s lovely and likes the ladies. 😃