My voice is a tiny grain
in his skull to be devoured
by vultures or fertilized by madness.
Evey morning as I rise I
pay homage to his stony
face. I read novels into
his stature that never moves
He never remembers anything
beyond his well preened shoes
I type with one eye open well
into the day. In stillness,
he stares narratives through me
Frantically , I write nightmares
in bold font until I am spent.
At midnight I place him back under glass.
My eggs firmly stored in his basket.
When I get tired.
I sometimes wonder
what’s this poetry
thing all about?
What am I writing for?
During these times
I’m usually stuck
in a creative muck,
I still don’t dare
call it a rut.
There’s no food
in the picnic basket
so I eat drudgery instead.
My mouth full of lost time.
I’m so hungry for words
that have run off
with my silk dresses.
I dream of nouns, adjectives,
and verbs, sinking
in a sea of syntax.
I try to dive in
but get stuck in the sand.
I sit along the shore
I wait. As seagulls fly
from under my bed,
my silk dresses hanging
from up above.
I reach for them
while I still can.
-Tosha Michelle
Here under the tent, we say
our final goodbye. Soon your
coffin will be lowered into the ground.
The crowd folds like fall foliage,
with promises that it will get better
and death is not the end.
What will they remember of you?
Your smile? The broach you always wore?
The photo of you on the beach
in your Sunday best, with sunglasses
as stylish as Jackie O’s.
Please send me a sign,
a popcorn kernel of hope
that your spirit lives on.
That your soul is in a peaceful
place. That days and years
from now, we’ll find you again.
I question the sky. It reflects
back light then dark. No
definitive answers there.
Yet still I search eternity,
for you. This depth of feeling
keeps me pondering infinity.
This anguish spurs me on.
-Tosha Michelle
I’ve inhaled tbe spell of honeysuckles
I’ve invented my own fortune,
spinning them into the fabric of my skin.
I leave poems behind for you to read
I sing you songs made of
moonshine and starlight.
The keening of my heart
in every note.
I no longer believe in stories with no endings
but I do believe we create
our own beginnings.
-Tosha Michelle
Tonight, I’d rather be home
getting lost in antique spines.
Craving the casual, yoga pants
and T-shirt. .Ditching this party
and dress. I can’t relate to
razzle dazzle, hoity toity
The desire for loud. My
symphony has always
been quiet.
These people
are a splinter in my isolated
hope chest for one. They
are a complex Allegory of
celebratory nothingness
Outward they glimmer
Inward, just a flicker.
I’m my own mistress of
distraction, mapping out
a poem in my head,
as some fool
in a too tight corset
tells me stories
about her latest boyfriend
who has a love for the
voluptuous and shallow.
The latter is just
an assumption on my
part.
As the clock ticks
inside my head,
sounding more
like bedtime, bedtime,
than tick tock. I note
the exit, I must reach
it before I’m tempted
to try hemlock.
I escape into wallpaper
border and sit down by
a napping cat. I stencil
my name on a gravestone
of banality and toss my
party dress off a bridge
I dissolve into particles
of light and reemerge in
bathwater of blessed
tranquility. I find kismet
with my bath mate, the
one I love-Solitude
We celebrate lavender and
quiet things. Afterwards,
I put on a night gown
of silence and
climb under a blue
comforter, under the
bluest of moon.
Finding serenity
in the stillness
-Tosha Michelle
You’re always fluttering around.
I watch you, scared you might fall.
I want to lead you to the right song, to the right flowerbed.
Instead I spin in the air. My form lost among the pines.
The light I had to lead us home, long since gone.
Should we follow the glow of the moon?
Sing to the wind? Give it a few days to answer.
Perhaps I should leave my heart in a wicker basket.
Cover myself in morning dew.
Abandon the very thought of you.
-Tosha Michelle
Your fingertips across my skin
The palm trees swaying in the wind
Images
You sang me Spanish lullabies
The sweetest sadness in your eyes
Clever trick
Listen to Almost Lover by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud
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 this is why my eyes are closed
It’s just as well for all I’ve seen
And so it goes and so it goes
And you’re the only one who knows
https://soundcloud.com/tosha-michelle2020/so-it-goes-billy-joel-cover
One of my best friends is celebrating his birthday soon and I wanted to do something special for him. Niles and I go way back and we’ve been seen some (insert curse word here) Twelve years of friendship and our bond just grows stronger.
This is my tribute to a gentleman with a lovely creative soul. Niles, thanks for being you and always getting me. Love, respect and snark always.
“The Gentleman Writer”
Seemingly readable and uncomplicated
Underneath he burns like the red sun.
Unruly ghosts tapdance in his head
He orders them in poetic verse
Laying claim to a writer’s vocation
Here his imploded dreams come to fruition
He spins his hope into a July moon
Ink becomes his salvation.
as he basks in the white heat
moments of no sound.
Knowing words are a gift
His fingers loosen the bow.
-Tosha Michelle
Listen to For Good by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud
https://soundcloud.com/tosha-michelle2020/for-good
Happy birthday, sir
May the
be plentiful.
always win
And
find her way to your door.
Everything I Never Told You 