Category: Poems

Crushed Flowers

Published on by Tosha Michelle21 Comments

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And these are my flaws
My vices.
Impatience, a tongue
sharp as a guillotine.
Caffeine. Chocolate.
Sarcasm on every occasion.
And unquenchable desire
to be loved.
A heart that is an
exhibitionist who
weeps upon
my sleeve

A fear of monochrome
colors, thunder,
the undone,
petty gossip
and letting go.
A hunger to be kissed
often and with fervor.
An awkward shyness
around new people.
A fascination with
the lure of a snowbound
life.

Not being Christian
enough to turn the
other cheek or Zen
enough to just be still.
The knowledge that my
life is unimportant
in a world with a noose
around its neck but
writing about it
anyway.

I often prefer the company
of books and my cat to
other human beings.
I live nside a cluttered
mind in a pristine house.

And not listening closely
to my Granny and her
treasury of wise words
Most which I have
forgotten, but
I do recall her saying
you must learn
to take what will
be with grace,
that our flaws
bind us
to humanity,
and to never forget
even crushed
flowers are beautiful.

Static

Published on by Tosha Michelle2 Comments

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People with nothing to say

Emotions running high

Reason running low

Verbs and nouns

with no substance

Adverbs and adjectives

with no pretext

Spilling out

on an anvil of facsimiles

 

Slowly the chasm

grows until

there’s nothing to transmit

Just words without sound.  

 

“Your Song”

Published on by Tosha Michelle17 Comments

I’d be honored if you would listen to my rendition of Elton John’s “Your Song” I recorded this with someone special mind. Perhaps, that someone was you.

Listen to “Your Song” by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

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She always wanted more…more chocolates…more books…more shoes…more solitude..more anarchy.. more peace.. more calm…more chaos ..more sex…more time…. more love…more stability….more heaven…more hell….more poetry… more J’s…Jon Stewart…..Jimmy Fallon…jolly rancher’s…Josie..
.more Lana Del Ray….more BBC America… more…more… more ..more…more…until there was no more.. until all the more had been used up…ingested, consumed, spent, thrown away…and more became less…and less became so much more…

Tosha Michelle

Solo

Published on by Tosha Michelle35 Comments

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When my heart becomes
drained from voices
and sound, the anchor
of social interaction
crushing me into stone.
I go in search
of solitary exclusion

My ship sailing away
into the gray.
The night opens
for me.
My soul’s backbone
chilled by the wind.
fingerprints unseen.

I hide out under
a hard luck moon.
In those moments
I love no one.
I hate no one.
I’m indifferent

Lost in the stillness
The shadows follow me.
They write in pencil
taking notes in
a black journal
chronicling the sadness
that resides in me.

Something lingers
in the silence, a ghost,
an echo of compassion
creeping up and taking
possession of my bones

Eventually the stars
catch my eye
giving me a provocative
wink. Pointing their
celestial fingers at me.

Singing back
my lost lullaby.
reminding me the
universe can be
mysterious and grand.

Embracing me in humanity
Folding me back
into gold,
Melting the ice
from the marrow
of my bones.

Telling me to go home
that it’s late, but not
inside me, that I can
learn to dwell.
That the time has not
come to say goodbye,
only goodnight.

-Tosha Michelle

The Flood Came

Published on by Tosha Michelle6 Comments

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The mist whispers “come closer”
as the rain falls down,
The sound invading my heart
Sadness huddles in the leaves,
waiting to burst forth with the wind.
brushing my cheeks
finding purchase within my bones.
Bringing me to my knees
lost in a puddle of bruises
My red rimmed eyes
trying to breach the light
Darkness consumes me
Literally.
Figuratively.
The kind of darkness
I feel with every breath
filling my lungs and
slowly suffocating my soul.
There’s no reprieve from the darkness
only self inflicted torture
of a tear stained mind.

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

Published on by Tosha Michelle8 Comments

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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

Published on by Tosha Michelle5 Comments

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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

Published on by Tosha Michelle13 Comments

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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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