Category: Poems

There’s NO Art in Small Talk.

Published on by Tosha Michelle52 Comments

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I hate small talk and how
it always leaves me
syllabically longing.
It’s tedious and exhausting.
It’s hard to get excited
about another conversation
attached to nothing.

I’d rather talk about rare books,
our literary gods,
elevator sex, Lexapro verses,
Wellbutrin,
the friendship between
Elizabeth Bishop
and Robert Lowell,
how sometimes in poetry
the pages weep,
the origins of the word
boeotian (I imagine it
stems from small talk),
how innocence can still thrive
underneath cynicism, and my
innate need to find trouble.

Conversation should be a Safari,
not a trip to the dentist.
It should be like champagne,
shaken and exploding
with bubbly decadence.
It shouldn’t make you feel bad
you haven’t died yet.
It should ravish you and leave you
feeling satiated, weeping
with ecstasy and profound knowledge.

So come sit beside me.
We can move the language
toward enlightenment and
starlight things that help
remind us why we are here.
Or we can beat our tongues
against monotony,
and discuss the weather.
If you choose the latter,
just know I am
dismembering you,
slowly and sadistically,
in my head
one syllable at a time.

-Tosha Michelle

Call. Don’t Answer.

Published on by Tosha Michelle35 Comments

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I sometimes long to be a

name no one answers, a

name that no longer

tolerates humanity. I yearn

to take the wintery chill

of my mind and go off by

myself, to live in a great

empty space, where

the breath of solitude can

falls on me like clouds,

-The only greeting needed

the green grass. I long

to belong to none, to be

elusive as residue.

The sun in my arms,

the only embrace I

need.

Then (as it always is)

Someone asked

“so how you been?”

How quickly the name

answers.

-Tosha Michelle

Wanderlust in Boots.

Published on by Tosha Michelle22 Comments

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In London, I finally

understood to be happy,

I can’ t regret. I can’t

be the ballerina in

a box waiting for

someone to turn

the key, trapped on

a platform of fear.

The key belongs to

me. I am the music.

I chose when I dance.

I discovered this while

navigating my way around

the city.

I became wanderlust in

leather boots, pleasantly,

disoriented by the

history. The city itself

a museum. On my own

for the first time. Alone,

with the wind of my mind.

I started to realize

that this “delicate” little

flower could survive

without water, that it

could grow anywhere.

I didn’t know it then

but my own history

was falling into place

as if Aristotle had flown

in from Greece (by way of

Great Beyond Air) to

help me make sense

of life.

It’s the little things

that change us,

that help us gain

knowledge of ourselves

the self that sometimes

needs to shatter.

Getting lost in

Greenwich Park

Sitting on a bench

unseen in the fog.

The bird that refused

my bread.
(The little bastard)

I swear I heard him chirping

stop trying to be responsible

for fixing everyone

Sitting in a cafe debating

the work of Turner after

visiting the Tate.

Just missing the

train for the airport.

Stopping by the gift

shop selling postcards

of London Bridge and

plastic keychains, making

me realizes I’ve had

enough of disposables.

Waltzing into pubs

and new situations.

Dizzy from dancing.

and finally believing

I knew the steps

Finally understanding

the beauty of missteps.

-Tosha Michelle

On The Clouds Eating His Shadow.

Published on by Tosha Michelle28 Comments

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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 conscious.

-Tosha Michelle

The Gentleman Blogger

Published on by Tosha Michelle18 Comments

Shameless plugs Wednesdays. It is now a thing. I’d like to introduce you to my friend Niles. Niles is not officer, but he is a gentleman. Suddenly, it’s lame sentences Wednesdays.

But I digress. Niles is like a brother to me. I’ve known him for years. He’s a lovely human being and a wonderful writer. I know he would be honored, if you would drop by his blog and check out his work. I’ve provided a link below.

Thanks,

Tosha

Autobiography – http://wp.me/p1E0N3-e3

The Darkness

Published on by Tosha Michelle8 Comments

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I feel a darkness coming on.
The build up is always the
worst part. The shadow
of depression sneaking
up on
me. Breathing down
my neck. I know it won’t
be long until it falls on
me, tethering my spirit
to a barren tree. The
landscape flatten
Nothing is flourishing
The devil stands near
by holding his pitchfork
of sorrow. Smirking
as he plots new
calamities for fragile
spirits like mine,
not a fundamentalist
in sight.
I lie down on the
ground.. I surrender
to the darkness.
For today, there
is no escape.
The empty glass
is broken, the
ticking clock is
silence. When I
awake, I will look
for a way out.
Knowing the
darkness can
never hold me
for too long.
The light in my
heart never
sinks. It just
hides like a
lost penny.
For now though,
I become less
and lesser.
Boneless,
empty, and
ready to go
I let the
taker, take me.

Clean

Published on by Tosha Michelle10 Comments

My cover of Taylor Swift’s Clean

https://soundcloud.com/tosha-michelle2020/clean-taylor-swift-cover-piano-and-vocals

“Clean”

“The drought was the very worst
When the flowers that we’d grown together died of thirst
It was months, and months of back and forth
You’re still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can’t wear anymore

Hung my head as I lost the war, and the sky turned black like a perfect storm

Rain came pouring down when I was drowning
That’s when I could finally breathe
And by morning gone was any trace of you,
I think I am finally clean

There was nothing left to do
When the butterflies turned to dust that covered my whole room
So I punched a hole in the roof
Let the flood carry away all my pictures of you

The water filled my lungs, I screamed so loud but no one heard a thing

Rain came pouring down when I was drowning
That’s when I could finally breathe
And by morning, gone was any trace of you,
I think I am finally clean
I think I am finally clean
Said I think I am finally clean

10 months sober, I must admit
Just because you’re clean don’t mean you don’t miss it
10 months older, I won’t give in
Now that I’m clean I’m never gonna risk it

The drought was the very worst
When the flowers that we’d grown together died of thirst

Rain came pouring down when I was drowning
That’s when I could finally breathe
And by morning gone was any trace of you,
I think I am finally clean

Rain came pouring down when I was drowning
That’s when I could finally breathe
And by morning gone was any trace of you
I think I am finally clean
Finally clean
Think I’m finally clean
Think I’m finally clean”

Bella

Published on by Tosha Michelle8 Comments

My beautiful friend Terry has just started a a WordPress blog.  In addition, to being a sassy Italian chick from New York, Terry is also a talented writer, not mention, one of the most kind hearted people you’ll ever meet. Please check out her blog, and follow.
.

Nostalgic – http://wp.me/p41XYO-15

Random Wisdom

Published on by Tosha Michelle10 Comments

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“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

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Proustless

Published on by Tosha Michelle6 Comments

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‘The true paradises are the paradises we have lost” -Marcel Proust

We both liked Proust.
Your Proust was my
Proust. We both
thrilled to his words.
Perhaps, that is
where we should
start with Proust.

I want to believe
our hour has not
passed. That
your days could
be part of mine
once again,
even though our
clock stopped
ticking ages ago.
I long to bag up
our past hurts like
leaves, to burn
them, and not
choke on the
sour fumes.

I know our worlds
broke off in a
windstorm of
anger,
accusations,
and the
harshest of
words.

We’ve both been in
different woods for
years now. How
long must the
firs remain a bitter
green? The hours
and days too
numerous to
measure.

I thought I had
healed,
but lately when I
hear
the birds singing
it is a stricken sound,
one of regret
and nostalgia. I know
I’m better off not
attempting to cross
the ridge to your
forest.
I know I’m
mostly likely to be
met with cedar
falling on my head,
The sound of your
chainsaw sputtering
on the breeze. Dead
leaves and debris
everywhere.

I know the valley
between
us is deep. Yet, I
foolishly hope that
the
shadows could give
over to light.
A second chance,
where
the flowers turn
vibrant
in the spring. And
the pine
trees look toward the
horizon.
That we could take
the
fallen wood and
rebuild
the room of our
friendship,

Sit together and read
from Proust, thrill
to his words once
more. I know
it’s just a dream,
The light has sunk.
It died
where it ended,
with
the blood of the lamb,
a cross on the
back to bare.
Miscommunication,
Mixed signals and
metaphors.
There’s nothing left
to build upon,
just a sculptured
martyr
and the ghost of
Swann.

Your Proust is
my Proust, no more.

-Tosha Michelle