We’re all in the dark
and it’s not early
Maybe not too late
We sleep in narrow beds
in rooms shimmering
and burning from a sickhearted
moon.
The stars reflect a defective hue.
We long for a powerful eclipse
or for a comet to appear.
Angels feet on fire.
Thinking our world is woven
by the fragile string of fate.
We waste the moonlight.
Gazing at static air.
-Tosha Michelle
Sometimes we have to
carry what we can and
discard the rest. I’ve
been talking inventory
of my life, trying to
decide what to leave
in, what to leave out.
My back sore from
the weighted
backpack of other
people’s burden I
lug around. I’m
cutting insanity from
my life with no written
apology. I’m burning
bridges so drama
can’t follow me home.
There are people I can’t
live without. People who
litter their bedroom’s floor
with clothes and always
forget where they put
their keys.
I do my best to give them
my time. I give them my right
not what’s left.
Tonight I say a prayer to
the God of humanity, to
give me people I can
love and dispense hope
to.
and the courage not to
wish away my plea.
Tosha Michelle
My heart is hungry
for what I didn’t know before
the light. The air.
The tree branches sway to
ghosts on the wind.
The grass, a graveyard of regret.
I walk away, knowing what comes after
can only be better.
Next time, I’ll find the one
who’s been looking for me.
The one who’s eyes search
the sky.
I won’t settle for less
than what I hope for.
I’ve shed claws and sprouted
wings. The moon nods its
approval. The crickets sing
a song of respect.
If you are not looking for me,
I don’t want to be found.
I’d rather stay in my shell
until my own resolve cracks
it open.
Free. I’ll listen to the spirits
of Dante and Beatrice,
and await the smoke signal
of someone who could matter.
Whether it’s the earth or me
who answers, depends on
the flame and the charred
particles of the dust of my heart.
-Tosha Michelle
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
Come sit with me where
the world is all warm breeze
and blue birds calling.
We’ll forget the bramble
and the cry of the wild wolf.
Let spring go on and on.
The universe can register
a complaint with someone who cares.
You and I will follow the gumdrop trail,
edged with lace. We’ll disappear
into breakfast at midnight and some delectable sin.
We’ll tango to the radio. Let the fire tag along.
Put on a show for the moon
until everything becomes now,
everything becomes still and we’ll watch
as the night opens for us as lightly
as our ABC’s with not one verb of regret.
-Tosha Michelle
You’ve taught me how far
I can go toward myself.
No need to run from who
I am.
That’s how it is with us.
Windblown fragments,
two are we.
We live in a shareable place
our little patch of green.
where I’d rather hear you
than all.
We converse fluently in
a language only we understand.
Your charm never lies in the
way wedding songs and
love sometimes do.
In my head you’ve cut a groove,
leaving your initials there
Absolute. Right. Permanent.
They tell a story even when
my mind shifts and happenstance
grabs the pen.
The darkest ink is not dark enough
to eradicate the thought of you.
Our kinship, a sonnet to pathless
woods, always ready to explore.
We reach for a state of grace,
Knowing life can only get worse, but
better too.
Tosha Michelle
I call him eccentric
He thinks it’s a reprimand
He doesn’t realize
His exquisite eccentricities
reveal his unique inner form.
like Gould last recording of
the Goldberg Varations
His illuminated soul
seemingly always in motion.
I read religiously his light.
Text etched with acid.
but cut with gentle sweetness
The light only growing brighter.
He coaxes me out of my
shadow box.
I could take refuge in his uniqueness
The magic of his mind, linger there
in the smudge of the stars.
Let him read the face of my spirit,
my wildest wishes, the lure
of eccentric things
Framed by endless strings of grace.
A concerto of serenity. defined
composition, melodic hope.
-Tosha Michelle
The sky announced the sun
on a day when the sun’s arrival
was enough.
The clouds curtseyed and then
fell away.
The dogwood branches swayed as
with divine provocation.
The poppies pondered providence
the afternoon light, and alliteration.
Lovers and children were devoting their hours
to the wind and newly sprung gardens.
Coins were tossed into fountains devoted
to wishes, on a day so bright surely all
desires were fulfilled.
All day long, the sun lingered as if
a love sick suitor hesitant to say goodbye
to the now blushing sky.
Sadly, the sun learned you can’t roll
back the hours or the day’s resolve
to fade into night.
All you can do is abide the darkness
and await the promise of another spring
struck, soulful blue day.
-Tosha Michelle
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 closure.
-Tosha Michelle
Everything I Never Told You 