And the Truth Spills Out

Let’s imagine that
you love me,
and no light can dim,
no faucet can leak,
and no one can take
you away from me.

Let’s imagine you love my risotto
and seared salmon,
and that you drink the wine,
the Scotch, and the tea.
Your eyes constantly on me.

Let’s imagine I’m what you imagine,
and I can cook risotto and seared salmon,
and never let your glass run dry.
All with my eyes on you.

Let’s imagine we had chemistry to spare,
that we are all warm mouths, and entwined limbs.
The eyes of the sun and the mountains.

Let’s imagine we weren’t the long read,
that took moments to unread.
The storm cloud that spilled
from our shattered wine glasses.
The headlights that flickered out.
The seared salmon that went cold,
the burnt risotto in the pot,
the empty glass in the leaky sink.

Now let’s focus on one true thing.
Your lying mouth and treacherous kisses.
The way you hurt me. Your eyes always
on the next best thing.

-Tosha Michelle

On the Clouds Eating His Shadow


The clouds drank in ravens
making the pines lucid.
His shadow fell beneath
the sky. If she listened
closely, she could hear
his melodic cadence
delivering soliloquies
adrift on the wind.
He as he was
She as she became
Awake. Aware.
Taking color and form.
Both somewhere between
what was there. What’s
not there. Someone you
remember and can’t
quite forget.
Lost mail on someone
else’s kitchen table.
The parenthesis enclosed.
Time takes away. Gone
in an instant particles
of the past.
She stays.

(She can’t stay)
Tired from this slow
burning off of yesterday.
That which was lost
will not become again.
She always thinks she
see gleams of him,
glimpsed and then gone.
The stem decimated but
drowning in rose petals.
No longer powerless
to the undertow.
His presence merely less,
but no longer wholly more.
His shadow falling,
falling into dust.
The only sound she
hears now is her
voice turning into
an early frost.
To every poem there is
a time and season.
Seasons that coagulate
into lost years.
In this one, she scourges
the past with lyrical ease
The wind no longer
contradicting itself.
Her pen drops ink
of flames, no longer
pointing to the sky.
Dr. Syntax gives her a
lollipop and a clean
bill  of closure. 

-Tosha Michelle

Laying the Blues Down

image

I’m tired of dragging my
hurts round like a stick
along jail cell bars.

And my tune always broken,
and the warden always asking
for some change.

Let me lie down on a cot,
or in the middle of the floor
and scatter my grievances
and self abuse all around.

And wait for another inmate
with a bottle of whiskey
and harmonica, who knows
how to play the blues, to
come and sit down beside me

And we’ll harmonize our angst
like pressing a finger to a bleeding wound.

And our hearts may be broken organs,
but we’ll pluck a banjo from it’s strings.

And we’ll sing until the night
opens for us like a door.

And let our song carry us as
far as the sky will go or, at least
to Chicago or St. Louis.

There we’ll swallow snowmelt, and
take our self doubt underground.

Finally laying those
melancholy blues down.

-Tosha Michelle

Tell Me

image

Tell me how you suffer
in notes both high
and low.

Tell me why everything
is rarely enough in a
world that is collapsing.
The sky nothing more
than cornbread crumbs.

Why do we not
notice this?

Tell me how we got lost
in a word of logins, of likes,
of tweets, a web of passwords.

When did Google
become a verb?

Tell me why people are disposable,
and we are constantly
judging our life
by the lives of others?

When I hear music,
my life shifts.
Layers of overstimulated
brain cells shed
their skin.

Dress me
in your melody.

Tell me in a song
why we love
something we
refuse to talk about.

Let your tune speak
of shattered knees,
barbwire fences
cutting into roads,
illness, loneliness.

Sing me
your pain.

Tell me how words
in old books
draw you near.
How their ghosts still reflect
pleasures recalled.

How peace is the
county you want
to live in,
but you get stuck in
customs instead.

How hard it hurts
to fall, to fall,
but each bruise,
each disappointment is
a testament that
our system is still
functioning and
there are tunes
still left to be sung.

I’ll sit beside you as
you serenade me
and finally pay
attention to the
sky.

The evening opening
up like a meteor,
a tail of a comet
waves to us as it
touches the sidewalk.
Satellites fall. For the moment,
heaven comes closer,
entranced by your song.

-Tosha Michelle

Nobody does suffering better than Adele

All About You


Hey y’all. Come in and sit a spell. I am really working the southern belle angle today. I’ll also be serving sweet tea and biscuits on the veranda. Rhett just got back from Charleston. He will direct you outside. 

Anyway, silliness aside. I haven’t been writing as much creatively lately, because I’ve been writing more in academic sense. I could share with you, but I think you would be bored to tears. I do hope to get back into poetry mode soon. I also apologize for not being able to keep up with your wonderful blogs like I used to. I really miss reading and commenting. When things slow down, I look forward to catching up. I just wanted you all to know that I haven’t forgotten you.  OK, not that y’all would be devastated if I had,but anyway. Just know unlike Rhett, I do give a damn. 

In other news, is Donald Trump for real???!!!

And things I wonder about some my fellow bloggers. These are the questions that demand to be answered

Has Alex shaved his beard yer?

How are Tony and his jersey girl faring? I so want a love like that. Tony, do you have a brother?

Wil ;Casey really put on the kilt?

Will Eric stay penciltastic?

Will the lovely lady, Randy become my new matchmaker?

Will Rob reveal anymore of his personalities?

Will Paul join an Air Supply cover band?

Will gyn rat Paul keep being a gym rat?

Will Niles ever score Norah Jones?

Will Oghen ever buy me a pint?

And so many more questions. However, I think Rhett is just about ready to sweep me off my feet and carry me up the stairs.

Or maybe I just need to sweep the stairs. Who can say for sure?

I will leave you with a song. This goes out to each and everyone of you. I am such a cheese ball.

Angst in Verse

 

cropped-wp-1465485078962.jpgMy poetry knows how to
sing the blues.
It finds rhythm in lost loves,
an empty room, a whiskey shot.
It’s cadence of roving eyes
a wallet devoid of
cash. the desire to stay.
The need to go.
Misery flows from lyrics
that refuse to let it fold.

My poetry channels
Ella Fitzgerald and
dissonant chords of a broken
someone.

It thrives on restless things and memories
that come to life in a song

Moaning the words so fervently, the ink drips
to save me, even when I’m out of tune.
And I can only glimpse
where I’ve been, not where I’m going.
The want for new history
and a new song spurs the poet on.

-Tosha Michelle

 

And on a u related and happy note. I am in love with this song. It takes me to a serene place.

 

A Mind 

A mind should implode, unfold, and behold all beauty, all monstrosities, lions, joined with lambs, with whales, the ocean, living words, flowing emotions, before the forest dies. Before the notes become too high to scale. Before the sliver coin flips over Before we realizes we are all mice and the serpent awaits.

-Tosha Michelle