Deity in Diversity

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Maybe someday we will
have written about humanity
and grace so much
that the paper we scribble on
will burn down
the forest of hate
that grows in casket-closed minds,
eradicating words like
racism, hate, bigotry.

The fire cleansing away
evil and ignorance.
Strike a match with
your pen.

Let’s try at least to
direct the language toward love.
Let’s keep moving the
adjectives higher and higher.
Trust the verbs to lead us,
the pin of light, to the fire.

Maybe as the trees come undone,
leaves igniting,
branches bursting with truth,
charity and clarity will rise.
Rustling beneath skin.
Love rising, tapping deep.
Opening eyes and cleaning tongues
in the dialect of compassion.
Hope slipping into the core.
Porous and large.
Looking out in every direction
until it is inside the sky,
the rocks, the moon.
Lacing the night and hearts with promise,
the rainy season finally over.

Until then, let your pens sway
against the dark waves.
Let’s push our boats against the current.
Light the candle wick.
Kiss it with fervor.
Give flame to the wind and waves.

-Tosha Michelle

Photo, my own 

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Liquid Nights


Liquid nights where they arranged
to meet and got drunk on wine
that made her blush and him
wonder.

She wanted to be seduced
He wanted to play master.

Those were the years they fell
in love, and bodies and tongues
touched, and they neglected
the garden and the blossoming
truth.

Now they sit by roses, but with
a different view. no longer under
the spell of Keats or moonlit
paths to sweet oblivion.

Now she only imagine his
burnt branding touch.
And he only remembers her
sting. the pull of disaster
desired, then spent.

-Tosha Michelle

Life in Motion

The encyclopedia of my life
dwells inside my mind.
Home is found in my personal history.
My world is located here.
The trajectory of a moonlight
path. The sun upon my face.
My mother’s embrace. The
voices of friends. Loves lost
Loves found The purr of my cat.
My daughters’ laughter. My
Father’s smile. These things
give me purpose.

My life has been a slow
awakening. With the passing
of each year, I become more
aware, more alive. Time has
a way of opening eyes. It’s
midday and the mist never
clears completely.
I’m still struggling in a dimly
lit room. Trying to understand
where my place is in the
swirling of seasons, places
and things. I yawn and stretch,
hungry for the unknown, the unborn poem,
the next adventure, to exist wholly,
before the fadeout begins.

-Tosha Michelle