Category: Poems

The Dance

Published on by Tosha Michelle12 Comments

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I’m a fool for words.
I can’t stay away from
them. They define me
and defile me. We dance
out of step, out of time.
Occasionally, we find
our rhythm. Dancing
the language of the
soul. At those times
I like to kick my heels
up in a perfect dive.

I must confess. I’m
envious and in awe
of those dancers who
never seem to stumble,
always in sync with their
poetic voice. Never any
near misses.

I’ll never be the Steve Jobs
of poetry. My words owned
and beloved by the masses.
I’ll never master
Shakespeare’s waltz,
but I will keep swaying,
even trying is a sort
of dance

Perhaps, it’s not so much
about the dance but the
intentions of the dance.
The potential of fluidity
in our bodies as we move
across the green grass

This is the world I
feel most at home in.
My bare feet not
dancing on a rooftop
over a city that glistens
but rooted to the ground.

I’ll never stop dancing.
I will dance, my small
dance of corn maze art
for myself and for those
dancing fools like me
smitten with words.

-Tosha Michelle

Hands Over Eyes.

Published on by Tosha Michelle4 Comments

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Abstract art by Yours Unruly

Hands Over Eyes

Stand behind me
Take your hands and
cover my eyes, so
I don’t see all
those doubts that
take flight in me,
so I have nothing new
to fear. No new
heartache to blindside me
Loss always coming
unannounced.

Whisper filthy things
in my ear, so it can
breathe deep your words,
drowning out the
voices in my head
screaming “be cautious”
Imploring me to not
be so reckless with
another one so
intoxicating.

Give me new skin
to touch
so I no longer feel
like a castaway
in dark harbor
full of scabs and scales

Let me feel your warmth,
as hope slips inside me.
Face to face now.
You teach me that
everything opens
with time- eyes. minds,
and even a heart damaged
by love undone.

-Tosha Michelle

Exquisite Hate

Published on by Tosha Michelle3 Comments

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Hate can be orgasmic
There’s a certain pleasure
that comes from loathing.
For example, I hate
Jason Derulo’s music
I hate it with an almost
palpable pleasure.
I equate it to the delight one
feels when shot nerves
reach their peak and
everything explodes
Throat, voice, heart.
Climaxing in a scream
that sounds almost as
awful and as sexual
as “Talk Dirty to Me”

There’s bliss in the
release. Freud might suggest
that perhaps Derulo’s music
is just a sign of something
deeper. He might say,
“Think back to your father”
Did I mention I hate Freud?
Electra complex this, creep.

I hate spinach, the ungodly
noise of motorcycles.
the word mucus, fake flowers
Nazis, porcelain dolls,
the scent of jasmine,
Fox News, texting
pumpkin spiced anything.
People who prefer socializing
to reading, the feel of wet hair,
Wimpy, whiny men.
I adore hating them.

Detesting is delightful
It tastes delectable on
my acerbic tongue
I’m addicted to abhorring.
And love loving
so much more for it.

-Tosha Michelle

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

It’s All About The Fit

Published on by Tosha Michelle4 Comments

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“And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness / (how many people she has brought to grief!)” (Dante’s Inferno I 49-51).

Poet’s note- I’ve always preferred Roman mythology and the of story of Romulus.

“Double Breasted Seduction”

I like to loiter under the covers on nippy winter mornings and watch you get dressed
You look best in tailored suits. Stylish and sleek.
My crisp man with your neatly pressed long sleeve shirt
You’re putting on my favorite (periwinkle with a hint of purple flecks)
The sun winks its approval through the blinds.
The tree branches gossip with the sky, swaying to your beauty.
I feel every bit like the wolf Dante wrote about,
as I watch you slide into each sleeve
Popping each button, your eyes fixed on me.
I beckon you over, my knees on the bed.
Is your belt unbuckled?
My hands moves things along
tucking the hem of your shirt into your pants
slowly and playfully smoothing always the creases
enjoying the feel of you and the brush of luxury your clothes provide.
Pampering you, I tie your tie (Double Windsor knot)
Wishing I could tie up all your loose ends.
When you walk away to get your keys and wallet
I can’t help noticed how your trousers
caress your rear, hips, and thighs
Such a seductive covering, carnal captivation
You kiss me goodbye. Your fingers lighting fisting my hair.
Breathing my name in a sultry abbreviation.
Whispering sexy sentiments into my ear
All I can think of is tonight, I get to undo my crisp man
I can’t wait to uncover your double breasted seduction,
and dress you up in me.

-Tosha Michelle