Author: Tosha Michelle

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

“Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

Published on by Tosha Michelle5 Comments

F. Scott Fitzgerald ❤❦♪♫

My relationship with F. Scott Fitzgerald has evolved over the years, but he is still one of the great literary loves of my life. I discovered him at 11 years old when my aunt gave me a copy of The Great Gatsby.. I read it all in one go. After that,  I was hooked and quick to read anything Fitzgerald had ever written.  In middle school and high school, I was taken by the romance of it all. His books were magical; the parties, the glamour, those beautiful lyrical prose.  It was only after I was older and began reading about Fitzgerald’s life that I truly came to understand the depth of his work.  

Life for a while was a great shindig for Fitzgerald.  He married the love if his life, the belle of the ball, his first book This Side of Paradise was a huge success, but so much can change in a decade. Success is fleeting, the belle would stray, be forgiven, go mad and end up in an asylum. Fitzgerald would lose himself in gin and insecurities.  He would die of a heart attack at the young age of 44 at a time when he was just finding his creative voice again.

Fitzgerald is not unlike you or me. He was man who understood grey, the fading of the seasons, the sting and zing of a lived life.  I hope he is at peace, his final chapter written much too soon.  When I am in a particular melancholy mood, I read Fitzgerald’s work and let his words guide me, Knowing that the man behind the text understood life’s nuances, that dreams are often lost in the dirty laundry, that the heart is constantly bending itself and being reshaped, that often failure is just a deceptive voice, that we have to move with the taste of change and finally, that everything has a conclusion. Or does it? Fitzgerald’s words will last long after our cars are replaced with hearses, his ancient ledger of living verbs, nouns, and adjectives, a future pearl for a new generation.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m feeling a bit blue today. Gatsby is calling, like a hidden note, I wonder what his pages will reveal today.

“It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald ❤❦♪♫

F. Scott Fitgerald ❤❦♪♫

❤❦♪♫

Papa

Published on by Tosha Michelle13 Comments

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At eight years old.
I hold my Granny’s hand
The one that use to hold
my Papa’s hand
The one she
held for 32 years
The one she won’t
hold again.
I wonder how much
different mine must feel

We stand in a darkened room
Sharp with the taste
of ash and loss,
full of family and flowers
Tissues to cheek,
eyes red.
Grief pouring out,
like the holy spirit
at a Pentecostal revival

My Papa in his coffin.
dead. I struggle to
understand.
The adults talk of
angels wings, gossamer,
and light
Remarking how peaceful
he looks.
Granny lays her head
on mine and weeps

I place a rose
in Papa’s cold hand,
and kiss his cheek
Hoping he will
answer me
“Papa, I love you.
I’ll take care
of Granny
and hold her hand,
until she sees you again. “

In those few fragment moments
where consciousness
and grief collide.
I understand loss’ lexicon
That is comes off
like synthetic fabric
fused to a body
in a fire
taking skin with it

-Tosha Michelle

On Words and Self Doubt

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My poetry always exposes
the imperfect fit of my skin,
with words that run off
with the seeds of pretext.
I’m left behind chasing
an existential crisis,
no fairy tales to quell
my anxieties

Choking on a parched narrative
thinking too much.
about thinking
Too much “who?” too much me
not enough “what can I do?”

My shoes moist
and full of warm blood
I take them off-revealing my blisters
Exhausted, I sit down
and breathe in despair’s air.
watching the newspaper,
and leaves long dead, fly by me.

The turmoil traffic,
thumb to nose, mocking me,
the dark taunting me
with Medusa’s stare.
Some fool shinning a light
(as if that could make a difference)

I sharpen my lyrical claws,
fist fighting my wit,
cursing stupid cliches
telling banality to f*** off.
Wondering if that’s
how written language will end.
with a “bee in your bonnet”
and impotent pen

Waiting…waiting…waiting

for words and their Judas betrayal
to find me,
so we can release our flaws,
like a dying hooker’s last confessional,

Perhaps, this time- words
and I will join in semantic fusion,
an authentic coupling, anointed
with a whispered touch,
fertile in rhythm and verse
stirring to stir..stirred to stir.

Birthing the poetic molecular structure.
the genetic code of the spirit
Wearing multiple faces, places,
memories, hearts, and loves.
Dressed with an imagination affluent in grief

Maybe this time our monologue of loneliness and self doubt will make the soul’s late late show.

-Tosha Michelle

Playing Peek-A-Boo

Published on by Tosha Michelle5 Comments

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Apathy married to assumptions
birthing prejudices-
mindless minions
breast feed on lies

Pay no mind to the stepchildren
the sex slaves
the homeless
the abused and downtrodden

The talking heads are too busy parenting discord
in a nation that loves to light torches
and cast blame on each other.

It’s easier to listen to counterfeit prophets-
Polluted pundits with their false reason
than form educated and independent thoughts
It’s easier to drink the kool-aid of complacency
than taste humanity’s pain

Salient questions
Original ideas
Be damned

There’s no time to nurture the truth
in an attention deficit society
fueled by a Ritalin dispensing media

Take Two

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Infatuation such a futile thing
when the world is distorted
through a rose colored mist.
Blurred edges The landscape
formed through nostalgia’s lenses
Everything in soft focus.
.

Infatuation such a soulless thing
devoid of sovereign reason,
when the God you seek,
is an illusion..not to be believed,
in a heaven made of cardboard dreams
painted with muted time.

A Poem for Niles

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This post was written for a dear friend.  Happy Birthday, Niles. You are the calm to my storm. The voice of reason to my insanity. The jitter to my bug. The Niles to my girly Frasier

Without further ado, I give you my ode to you.

There’s once was a guy from Macon
who like to shake his bacon
his hips, yours for the taking

Kidding….

but seriously….

Still Waters

While other men measure success by titles and cash
He dreams of making text dance over the crevices
of uncharted pages, imaginary characters alive in his mind
He longs to breathe life into figures he has never met.
to fire his own artistic semantic round.
to pen The Great American Novel,
with sophisticated soulful prose that linger

While other men play golf and women
He’s happier with his nose in a book
Getting lost in CS Lewis and Hemingway
Sliding between his world and theirs
walking chapters to be read. Again and again
He lives in the land of mystical lions,
not fearing the tolling of the bell,
finding his lifeline in fanciful excursions

While other men long to dominant and control
He strives to be gentlemanly and bold
A silent nod to a picture page
Old world charm, lost in a photograph
Shaking the dust off his top hat
He welcomes chivalry anew.

While other men court surface friendships,
His quiet still waters run deep
As deep as the tea he seeps
He puts his shield away
Cast the armor aside
Content to share the secrets he holds inside
He caters only to a select few
Kind beyond fault to those he holds true

While other men drown in the noise of a fast paced life
He’s busy taking comfort in starlit skies
Content to linger by the stream with Whitman and Thoreau
Green fields blooming. His soul dances in the yellow light
He smiles at the passing herd, wondering if the sheep
will ever open their eyes and see?

While other men are slaves to convention
He marvels that his soul is as free as a feather
No guise needed, a peaceful mind is on his side
He travels on, marching to his own tune
with steadfast authentic steps and exquisite simplicity

-Tosha Michelle

Alternate ending

He travels on, marching to his own tune
with steadfast authentic steps
and visions of Norah Jones
alive in his bed (Note from poet, I couldn’t resist)

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MUSIC

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MUSIC by Charles Baudelaire

MUSIC doth uplift me like a sea
Towards my planet pale,
Then through dark fogs or heaven’s infinity
I lift my wandering sail.

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,
And through the cordage wail,
I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me
Beneath her sombre veil.

I feel the tremblings of all passions known
To ships before the breeze;
Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

I pass the abysmal seas
That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair
Of my despair!

Climb Out of The Brown Paper Bag

Published on by Tosha Michelle6 Comments

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16.4 million children living in poverty.
14,500 to 17,500 people, primarily women and children, trafficked to the U.S. annually.
Unemployment rate of 9 percent
$16 trillion dollars in debt

However, all politicians seem to do is party in semantics over party semantics. Their philosophy- how do I keep myself in power and not how can we possibly ameliorate humanity. Instead of serving the people, they serve themselves and help themselves to a fist full of dollars. Instead of protecting the interests of the people; they protect the corporations, and in return the corporations protect them- in a turgid, tacit agreement that can be compared to blind patriotism. They are no less than mannequin pimps with pens, who have acquired a penchant for back stabbing the people who put them in power. It needs to stop. It’s time to take the money out of politics and put the humanity back in.

Staying in my soap box for a moment, in my opinion, politics and Facebook don’t mix. I’ve been suckered into a few debates on the state of our country. They always end with hurt feelings and bent out of shape noses. However, I respect people’s right to express their views (even the one I find appalling) Note, I’m not a big fan of the Fox News crowd.

What sickens me is the dissension and polarization I see. It’s one thing to feel passionately about one’s beliefs. It is another, when one tries to bash those beliefs down another’s throat. There is no civility in politics anymore. There is no civility among Americans anymore. Perhaps, there never was. I just hope we find a touch of empathy in ourselves.

Sometimes, it’s not just about flags, or guns (the left…the right) Sometimes, it’s about innocent lives lost. Sometimes, it’s about acknowledging that racism is alive and well. It’s about finding proactive ways to fight oppression. It’s about asking ourselves; how can we end the senseless noise of senseless bickering? How can we love more and hate less?

We now return you to your regular schedule blog of poetry and randomness.

The Gift

Published on by Tosha Michelle4 Comments

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I received you cold shoulder
wrapped in disdain
tied with a bitter bow
a gift of retribution
meant to flog my soul
like a petty whip
Fifty shades of fu***ed up

I should just retreat back
into my self imposed isolation,
but I always was more sinner than saint,
with a stubborn heart, a chaotic brain
and a restless soul
devoid of peace and sanity

Come closer if you dare
I’m returning your gift
and giving you one of my own

Sound and fury
Fire to melt ice

Heat the will own you
burning you from the inside out
thawing your cold facade
Flames licking at your core

Hypnotized by my light
dancing through the trees
of your mind.
igniting every part

Try and extinguishes the flames if you must
until there’s nothing left
but the smoldering undergrowth
and the lingering heavy blanket of smoke

Choke on the fumes as they soak
intimately into your soul
as you fall into a siren’s trance
Look down- you’ll see my reflection
in your burnt scarred martyred hands

Joan of Arc- you have met your match

-Tosha Michelle