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Have a great weekend. Make it one to write about.
Category: Poems
Answering in Lyrical Sighs.
You don’t understand
my obsession with words,
with pen and paper.
You scoff at my lyrical sighs,
my iambic heartbeat,
my free verse of thought.
You plug your ears
as I read a Shakespearean
sonnet You don’t understand:
lilac dreams, aster stars,
or the need for a backstory.
There’s no money in poetry, you say.
You can’t fathom getting paid
in the sighs of the wind,
in quiet time, in a cathartic release.
You don’t understand
how writing saves me,
how it makes me strong.
This is where I reside best.
I’ll never get the hang of
your card game of monotony.
I’m over middle management.
I’m happy to live
in what you would call
my frivolous obsessions.
I don’t want to be
underwhelmed and uninspired,
somewhere between over the hill,
and the grass is never greener.
You can be the door slamming.
The late hours, the keeping up.
Throw your money at the wall
and call it success.
I’ll sit here with my pen and paper,
listening to the wind,
through the pine trees
releasing the hurricane
beneath my fingers,
and write a poem
about something
you’ll never understand.
-Tosha Michelle
The Sky is Falling.
If you think you are the
sun, think again.
You are the sky
holding the sun up,
trying to change the world
one dawn at a time.
Even if you don’t have time,
notice the new day.
We are so busy we forget
we’re out of milk.
We forget how we use to
hunger for a fulfilled life.
At first there was vitamin D
in excess, now just deficiency.
We can’t live if we are constantly
trying to escape our reality,
ourselves.
I’m a litany of doubts.
Wondering if I should lower
my expectations.
Maybe I’m still the sun.
Maybe the sky is your
hand.
I remember when our sky of delusions fell.
You spoke to me only in scars.
I’m trying my best to be
your nightcap, your safe route,
your whimsical merry go round.
Imagination echoes
in every chamber.
Hope lingers.
Is it enough?
The sky cries “Forget it”.
Sometimes, we are just lost.
-Tosha Michelle
My latest cover. My friend Danny requested “An American Trilogy” He also requested I sing it sans music. I did my best.
Listen to An American Trilogy (for Danny) by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud
She’s
She ‘s Beatrice and Delilah.
an illusion, a crime
She’s a skyscape that slips
from blue, to grey, to red.
She’s a spider web over
a bank vault.
She’s the pull swirling
in his chest.
She’s a whisper of longing
stuck in his ear.
She’s a wilder life, the sweet
seed, his heart’s core.
She’s a sigh, ragged and
melancholy.
She’s a crushing need
a helix of yearning.
She’s chemistry and anatomy.
She’s the witching hour’s
pleasures of bourbon and sin.
She’s soaked in summer,
spun in contradictions.
She’s a flame grabbing what
it wants, a tumultuous embrace.
She’s a thousand lips bruising
his skin.
She’s a back arching, guttural
moan.
She’s rhythm and release.
She’s as intrusive as a power
outage
She’s as frustrating as a
misstep.
She’s as elusive as spindrift
night.
She’s a woman set in his type,
born in ink, language spilling out.
She’s what he conjugates.
The artistry of his craft
-Tosha Michelle
Dragon Tales
I’ve been nominated for the Dragon’s Loyalty award by The Passionate Shepard. If you like your poetry on the romantic and sensual side, be sure to follow his blog
https://thepassionateshepherd.wordpress.com/
I am usually terrible at following up on these awards but when the shepherd calls,. I answer. I’m just a humble sheep. 🙂
The rules are:
•Display the award on your blog.
•Announce your win with a post and link the blogger who nominated you.
•Present 6 deserving bloggers with the award. (Scroll Down)
•Link your awardees in the post.
•Write 7 interesting things about you.
Facts (I’ll let you decide if they are interesting or not):
1. I always mishear lyrics. For example, the song Caribbean Queen. The lyrics ‘She brushed by me in painted bluejeans”. I heard. “She touched my mink and blamed it on me”. That doesn’t even make sense.
2. I’m bit OCD when it comes to cleaning. Sadly, I live with a bunch of slobs. Lucky for them, they happen to be adorable.
3. I was a nerdy, awkward kid. I’m a slightly less nerdy adult, but still incredibly awkward.
4. I’m gullible. My family finds this amusing. They are always trying to trip me up with outlandish stuff Example The Fonzie bird. Don’t ask. Just know I fell for it. I’m not stupid. I always excelled at academics. I’m just susceptible to nonsense 🙂
5. I appear to be meek, soft spoken, and sweet BUT I can be stubborn and temperamental. I’ll cut you! Kidding (hides knife)
6. In college, I had a band with my boyfriend Matt. We played festivals, wrote our own music, and thought we were the sh**. We weren’t 🙂 However, I’m free to sign autographs after this blog post. 😉
7. I love people and have many acquaintances. I give freely of my time. I’m often overwhelmed. However, when it comes to friends. I only have a handful. I open myself up to a select few.
Now for my nominates. 😉
1. Geetha her poetry is beautiful (as is her heart)
https://geethaprodhom.wordpress.com/
2. Christian- he’s a wonderful writer I’m hooked on his prose. His face isn’t bad either.
This is My Therapy
3. Niles- Southern gentleman, Arsenal fan,tea drinker, lover of women and books. He’s also one of my best friends.
http://jamesdennard.com/
4. Eric- poet extraordinaire and a really lovely human being.
https://myswordandshield.wordpress.com/
5. Deb- the Midwest wonder. This woman can write her pen off.
http://cdogco.com/
6. Jane- the queen of snark, condos, goldfish, and photography. (also a one of the chosen few) Check out her beautiful photos here.
https://perceptionsphotographybyjane.wordpress.com
If I Were King of The World
This isn’t my most eloquent poem. I’m aware. My silly and playful side needs an outlet, too. For now, I’ve locked angst in the closet.
If I were king of the
world. For this poem
let’s suppose that
this is a thing.
I would never lose
touch with the details.
I would answer all
your calls.
I would be a regular
at the Starbucks you
hang out in.
There would be laugher
in thunder. I wouldn’t
pretend to be bigger
than you.
Salvation would be
found in art and folly.
The mourning doves
would learn jazz and
how to wing it.
The livable life would
be embraced. Slow on
recliners and TV viewing.
Everyone would have
a place at my table.
I would dispense milk
and clothes, but never
unsolicited advice.
Good sex and good
manners would be
cultivated.
Love would come
without conditions.
I would lay my kisses
on imperfections
and celebrate the
different and strange.
I would do my best to
catch hearts falling
from pine trees.
Everyone would be
required to read Henry
Miller and Fitzgerald.
The Karxashians and E
would be banned to their
own island. Egos and
ignorance too.
Like any king, I would
contradict myself, but
mostly, with humor and
nonsensical poetry.
Water would be
plentiful. Wine too.
I wouldn’t take away
all your burden, some
are needed. How flimsy
our characters would be
without them.
Earth would be spun
in hope. There would
be 7 days of fun. The
8th day, chocolate.
Instead of a robe
and crown, I would
wear yoga pants
and a T-shirt with
James Purefoy face
on it. Everyone would
know who James
Purefoy is.
Words would live in
evey home. Love
would hang out in
the kitchen.
The inner world would
would trump the outer,
which reminds me,
there would be no
Donald Trump.
-Tosha Michelle
Little Boy Blue and Mary Quite Contrary
Dear Past,
It’s been awhile. I come waving a
flag of peace and unarmed.
My arsenal is depleted.
I have no time for hate or malice
laced air.
I imagine like me
you want to live in peace without
the threat of guns and
claws. To awaken to the sound
of serenity, not bombs going off
in the distance.
I hope hearing from me doesn’t cause you pain.
Frankly, I miss you. Your theatrical ways,
always leaning toward a Shakespearean tragedy.
No time for much ado about nothing.
Although, everything had to be as you like it.
How you were
a master at parlor games and word play.
Your eyes a depletion
of fallen leaves and green tea.
Hair as dark as a grackle.
Arch so charming, fencing with
unseen stars. Little boy blue,
and Mary. Mary, oh, so contrary.
How our garden did grow.
Shells that pelted the ground,
causing wreckage and carnage.
It wasn’t all welts and hell.
There were days when light swelled
and sliver bells grew.
But i digress, as I climb a slide of memories,
backwards with slippery hands.
My legs lose traction,
my lungs clog with dust.
I end up on the ground negotiating
with my untapped toe.
Trying to reclaim the beat with
half recounted facts
and nostalgia’s false sense of rhythm.
Holding a few cards in the hand you deftly dealt me.
Beside me lies a map, marred
by revisions.
that reads let it go. Let it go.
I stand up, and realizes there’s a
tear in my heart, that I
mistook for my sleeve. I walk through the open gate,
ignoring the stained alleyways,
cobble stone,
and street lights shaped like a question marks.
The scent of orchids lingers in
the tired air.
My soul fighting off bees and
the counter winds.
You, dear past, will always sting.
-Tosha Michelle
Granny
I’m snapping green beans
I bought at the store today,
thinking they would remind me
of Granny and sitting
at the kitchen table,
listening to her “well,
when I was your age” stories.
Hoping that just for a moment
I could hug her again,
feel the sureness of her being,
her sweet familiarly.
Go back before dementia
stole her mind,
and cancer her body.
The days of sweet tea,
peppermints, and house dresses.
Granny could solve any problem
with a hickory stick or a stern look.
I miss her, even now years later,
I can’t help but compose
her in a poem- warm hands,
dark hair, sadness
that never left her eyes,
a lifetime of hardships
For a moment I’m ten again,
and Granny gives me her Irish grin.
Something soft but fierce about her.
Finding joy in an orderly
home and things done right.
How solid and healthy
she looks laboring away
over green beans.
Singing her favorite hymn
“In the sweet bye and bye”
Light shimmering through the room.
Real but unreal.
“We shall meet on that
beautiful shore”
Her notes gradually
becoming fainter.
The words descending,
echos from the past.
Love in every syllable.
I listen as evening opens
around me.
Sorrow changes its pitch.
Thee last of the sunlight
streams in the windows.
Swelling, even as it
disappears, even as it waves goodbye.
-Tosha Michelle
Not Quite Love in an Elevator
Some people keep in
touch via the phone,
the internet, weekly
lunch dates.
You keep in touch by
pissing me the hell off.
Lightening up our
elevator display
of toxicity until
we’re stuck between
floors.
Listen, do you hear that?
that’s my head lacerating
on the wall.
My sense of peace
fractured.
Go ahead pick the bone.
I’m done battling
scratched glass.
Drag me through it.
It’s time to rinse
off the anger,
and nail all 1483 of my
grievances to your
sanctimonious door.
Martin Luther and me
the grand reformers
He sowed in grace.
I’m more prone to
mace.
Maybe, I’ll just try to
lose you in a place
I’ll never find again.
Unraveling your
foothold or finding
mine, up your………
I’ll save the hair pulling
spear throwing, and
obscene gestures of
distain for terrorists
and guys named Tad.
I’ll just vent my anger
in a silly poem
Snide as my temper,
but light as numbers
with no equations,
letters missing
sentences, and a
poet whistling
satirically at madness.
-Tosha Michelle
The Bliss of Madness
I always find meaning
in madness.
It’s hard to know
who we are at times.
Our attention wavering
before the buttons are undone.
Plans run off with good ideas.
The future -crumbling paper mache
Our art supplies scattered
on the floor.
Now what will we do
with our hands?
Let’s put on
our mad hatter shoes.
Lose the map.
No phrase book needed.
Grab your backpack of
sin.
Take my arm.
I’ll be the voo doo
you do.
Try and not trip over my
tangled spirit.
Come with me
and let’s stroll down
a road that
will never lead to Rome,
but might lead to precinct
of hell.
Don’t worry, darling,
we can play king of the hill
on the torrid slope.
We can rattle the gates
Break the windows.
Take all that’s nimble
Dine on crumb cake
and bitter tea.
Jazz up the day.
Sun up the night.
Trust in chance and
let the cocoon unravel.
Afterwards, we’ll
distract the unmoored
shadows, and frolic with
sanity’s debris, while
madness steals the sky.
-Tosha Michelle
Everything I Never Told You 