Upon Viewing The World

We’re all in the dark
and it’s not early
Maybe not too late
We sleep in narrow beds
in rooms shimmering
and burning from a sickhearted
moon.
The stars reflect a defective hue.
We long for a powerful eclipse
or for a comet to appear.
Angels feet on fire.

Thinking our world is woven
by the fragile string of fate.
We waste the moonlight.
Gazing at static air.

-Tosha Michelle

Matter

Sometimes we have to
carry what we can and
discard the rest. I’ve
been talking inventory
of my life, trying to
decide what to leave
in, what to leave out.
My back sore from
the weighted
backpack of other
people’s burden I
lug around. I’m
cutting insanity from
my life with no written
apology. I’m burning
bridges so drama
can’t follow me home.

There are people I can’t
live without. People who
litter their bedroom’s floor
with clothes and always
forget where they put
their keys.

I do my best to give them
my time. I give them my right
not what’s left.

Tonight I say a prayer to
the God of humanity, to
give me people I can
love and dispense hope
to.
and the courage not to
wish away my plea.

Tosha Michelle

Allure

I may never go home again
My new lover likes to
feed me cake
and serves iced
champagne for breakfast.

He clothes me in himself
and says I wear him well

I wonder if he knows
I would go anywhere
with him
Even if we had to live
on pocket change
and the tic tacs
in my purse

At night we lie in bed
and make soulful art
He traces his name
on my body in heavy script
And I paint his concrete
city with graffiti

Afterwards, we lay
heart upon heart
and he beguiles me
with stories
of ancient mariners.
and sanguine times
I marvel at his semantic fusion

In the morning, he wakes me
with soft kisses
before he goes to work
I always link my fingers
with his
as we say goodbye
Two branches entwined

I hesitate to let him go.
Fearful there will come a time
when I wake up and find that
Michelangelo has left the chapel

And I’ll wonder
if I imagined him,
and he imagined me,
until there is nothing
left just paint splattered
dreams, the tragedy of a moment lost, an a anthem of some place we’ve never been.

Tosha Michelle

https://m.soundcloud.com/tosha-michelle2020/dont-know-why

The Answer 


My heart is hungry

for what I didn’t know before

the light. The air.

The tree branches sway to

ghosts on the wind.

The grass, a graveyard of regret.

I walk away, knowing what comes after

can only be better.

Next time, I’ll find the one

who’s been looking for me.

The one who’s eyes search

the sky.

I won’t settle for less

than what I hope for.

I’ve shed claws and sprouted

wings.  The moon nods its

approval. The crickets sing

a song of respect.

If you are not looking for me,

I don’t want to be found.

I’d rather stay in my shell

until my own resolve cracks

it open.

Free. I’ll listen to the spirits

of Dante and Beatrice,

and await the smoke signal

of someone who could matter.

Whether it’s the earth or me

who answers,  depends on

the flame and the charred

particles of the dust of my heart.

-Tosha Michelle

Flowers in Bloom

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

And We Write

Poetry is all about perception.
It’s what we perceive, not what
we see.

It’s all in the rhythm.
The arrangement of the poetic
notes.

It’s about loosening those
syllables until they roll off our pens
in a dance of self.

We release our whimper and watch
it turn into a roar on paper

We write for preservation.
We write to empty the emptiness.
We write like we eat, to live

We spend our nights out on a limb                                                      so we can fall into the melody of our craft

Our souls writing on.                                                                            Finding salvation in verse

-Tosha Michelle