Author: Tosha Michelle

Poet. Author. Podcast host- Chit Chat Chicks. MS Purdue. Proponent of words, creativity, kindness, and humanity.

Plotting

Published on by Tosha Michelle71 Comments

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The man I kissed on the train
was a Michelin star chef from Ireland.
We talked scallops on the way to Paris
and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Was this scene partly real or dreamed?
After I lost my car in the parking lot,
I invented a serial killer
to give the story just the
right amount of suspense
Believe me. even James Purefoy belonged in that
bar fight at Whiskey River, but
I still can’t decide if he should
speak with a British or American accent.
And when exactly should he notices me
and my long legs, because I’m 5’7 in this tale.
But sometimes I’m stuck in the world of what is
helpless to the sufficient things.
5’2 and looking at the magnolia tree in my backyard.
It’s beautiful at dusk, all tact and fact in a serene spot.
What could be better?
What could be worst?
I sigh as I sip my tea.
I can’t muster up the inclination to make it bend or sway.

-Tosha Michelle

Dark Room

Published on by Tosha Michelle50 Comments

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I wish I could chart my feelings
like and equation, but I was
never any good at math.
I’m a star pupil in self doubt.
My inner little demon stomps
all over my heart in her red boots.
My spirt has been left
to air out in the sun.
I find comfort between a rock
and stone, developing a self
portrait of a soul still unknown
who survives on parlor tricks,
and a floating photo frame.
Patterns of wants and desires
on pale face illuminated in the
ghost light of lost years.
I’m trying so hard to negate a negative space,
posing in black and white. Finding color
in the multiplicity of things. I transcribe
the image maker script into what I meant to say.

-Tosha Michelle

These Are The Days

Published on by Tosha Michelle91 Comments

Dedicated to my children.

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My daughters’ laughter
fills me like a bell.
It’s the most joyous sound.
They share stories with
me over tea. It seethes
in our merriment.
My cup overflows with their
happiness. The days of
Goodnight Moon and Dora
The Explorer long since
past. I’m thankful for
what was, happy for what
is. Pleased by
the young women they
are slowly, not so slowly
growing into. I pray to
the God of teenagers and
driver’s licenses and hair
products. Since it seems
what we are made of is their
images, dark hair, blue eyes.
Blessed is she who gets
to kiss those beautiful
sweet heads. Sitting
with them in the kitchen
after a wrecked day. Thank
you for their laughter and
this unearned sweetness.
To the God of two beautiful
miracles,

I say, Amen.

-Tosha Michelle

My Port of Call

Published on by Tosha Michelle105 Comments

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Every time I’m in NYC
I start thinking I should
change my life.

Stop acting my digits.
Set fire to the rain with Adele.

Climb the Empire State
like Spiderman.

I’d be Vera Wang to the hilt
Stylish, polish, beautiful.

And then I think of where
I come from, my blood deep
roots of sweet tea and grits

Magnolia blossoms and
ancient oak trees stooped
over like sage crones

Of some warm song with
just a touch of twang coming
out of my Daddy’s guitar

I think of Southern charm
and those gloriously still
moments just before dawn,
when we rise with shine and
crow.

And I realize there’s a lot
to be said for flawed and small
for canned jam, for tangled forest
where blue birds lives and kudzu grows

And suddenly, I just want
to be me and who I am.
And who I am
can’t wait to be home again.

-Tosha Michelle

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Another Time, Perhaps

Published on by Tosha Michelle91 Comments

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I grasp for infinity
while trying to coax
the pins and needles
from my head.

I long to sleep
and wake up in a new land
where I can ease
into a less chaotic life,
slip into serenity
and under your sleeve.

No ill intent in my trespass
but I do have a plan.

We’ll take over the moon
and force the clock
to surrender.

We’ll live forever on
a daydream and pixie dust.

Dine each night on
wild berries and sunflower seeds.

You there in the leather jacket.
I’m not boastful.
I take no credit for our meal.

I just ask that you consider me
man of wasp and honey,
maze and train whistle.

Feel the softness
under your coat.

Take it off
and let me in.

-Tosha Michelle

Lisdont-know-whyKnow Why by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

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Suffused

Published on by Tosha Michelle75 Comments

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I write my life in black
and blue.
I’m the girl suffused with
exclamation marks
and dramatic pauses.
My words infused
with dust.
The counter winds of my mind.
Years linger on the windowsill.
The past flows from the
same white cup.
Memories arrive like Jehovah’s Witnesses
on my front doorstep.
Fragments of my life
trying to convert me.
Pestering me to revert back.
Trying to lure me out with
promises of redemption.
I reattach myself
one line at a time.
Slipping from grey
into lavender.
Bound to advance
not retreat, I vow
to right my upside down heart
by the slip of pen
and the exorcism of yesterday.
I slice myself in threes
and write my riddle of release
over paper full of
missteps and scars.

-Tosha Michelle

Journals

Published on by Tosha Michelle67 Comments

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The craving for them is on par
with my desire for chocolate
and James Purefoy.
It’s almost carnal, this longing I have
for the blank pages.
How I love to let the want fester and grow.
My mind a compass of yearning.
This urge to fill them with erotic possibilities,
kissing the pages with ink and language.
I approach them like a hopeful lover.

I don’t need shoes or jewelry or a line of men out my door.
I just need you to direct me to the nearest bookstore or stationary shop.
I can never get enough. I’m impractical, wanton, greedy…

My house is a shrine cover to cupboard. Any day now I expect them
to get together and throw a meet and greet.
I don’t know how they cope with the burden
of my chaotic musings, my erratic penmanship, my half truths,
my outright lies, my heart’s telling secrets.
I love them for never being judgy of my judgement.
Always there to offset any loneliness.
They are the most patient of listeners. I scrawl my confessions out
and there’s always another lovely page ready to learn more.
I confess I might need an intervention, journal rehab.
Until then it’s just me and my sweet notebooks
of beginnings where preservation and obsession
never end.

-Tosha Michelle

Going Under

Published on by Tosha Michelle89 Comments

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The seasons change, we peel off our regrets
But still look for an opening in the air.
Love always leaves a residue, a stain.
The slate always slightly smudged.
Our hearts striations of clouds.
Memories come and go
with its fountain
of nostalgia flowing over
us without warning.
Blurring the landscape of
time until it unfolds back.
Dividing then from now.
Dividing soul from sanity,
until all that remains is an
oracle, an empty beach
dark waves of sorrow,
a tide long since receded and
an icy wind blowing in yearning
from yesterday’s yesteryears

-Tosha Michelle

The Day After

Published on by Tosha Michelle100 Comments

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He’s somewhere between a
brother and a lover.
But not my brother or lover.
He says my sighs say broken.
And because he’s near I’m
transformed somehow.
The words sound different
when they come out of
my mouth.
My form has changed, even
the evergreens take notice.
I bathe in the dappled light
between the trees.
He takes my hand and leads
me down an uncharted road,
where no one has thought of easy.
He says December is the perfect month
for skinny dipping in Minnesota.

-Tosha Michelle

Upon Reaching for the Sky

Published on by Tosha Michelle63 Comments

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Inside her pocket
she keeps letters
she’ll never send,
and long lists.

She sits at the vanity,
brushing serenity out
of her golden hair.

Listening to lost rain
that’s surly meant to fall
anywhere but here.

Somewhere already green
and lush.

Her mind grieving winter brown

It’s February.

If she mailed her letters
and shared her lists,
who would read them?

She asked for a cup
of tears
The liquid burns
her tongue.

She listens for the
soft cadence of his voice.

Her heart repeats its inquiry.

Memories and reality
undefined.

-Tosha Michelle