Incomplete Melody
Sometimes I sing in incomplete rhymes.
I write in crayon and leave
my shoes beside the sandbox.
I sign my letters with x and o.
I ponder in doubt, the crisscross musings
speaking out loud.
Sometimes a woman needs
flowers out of season, homegrown vegetables,
sex, and easy to read instructions.
Instead she meditates on ice cream
and the Home Shopping Channel.
Attempts to become enlightened.
Prays to paper and pen.
Looking for an all encompassing view.
Hoping for an all embracing embrace.
She offers herself to drumbeat and sage.
The rhythm under the air, turns her heart
to some inferior door, finding something buried
in red.
-Tosha Michelle
My cover of “Never Saw Blue Like That”
Listen to Never Saw Blue Like That by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud
A Letter to My No One.
To Whom it May Concern,
Forgive me for writing unsolicited poetry about you. It’s just you bring out the John Keats in me (some would say without the talent). I know I lack decorum. Is it that insane that I want to buy you flowers? Ruminate on your good looks? Try and capture your wit and grace in mad verse?
I may never walk beside you in the night, but you’re still my favorite scar/ star. My poetry longs to stir your breath, knowing in reality you are an inert thing. I look for any form of self justification to keep holding on. This will only end in tears. But still I turn to pen, to paper, to assuaged you. I hope my words are a benediction to your being. I long to neither save nor condemn you but merely lace your altar with beauty.
Your lightning holds no promise of rain, only frost. Yet, just like a misguided dove, I keep flying in the wrong direction. I’m not concerned with the cold. I’m like the wind, a contradiction. I never can right my mind for long. How do I scourge indecisiveness from my heart? I’m stuck in perpetual twilight. Nothing can be salvaged. My soul should dream no further, but it does, and I do. You’re a part of my weather now. Your humidity is felt inside of me.
I must close this letter and get back to my life. It’s time to dance and stumble around with shadows. But first, I’ll look out the window and see the dry leaves stirring and shaking as they fall to the ground, and imagine you. One last time. One more time.
-Tosha Michelle
Read Me.
When I began writing poetry again about five years ago, this was the first poem I penned. It’s very simple but totally me. I hope you enjoy it.
READ ME
In a lovely little book store, in a beautiful little town
there lived a freshly printed book named, Read Me.
She was leather bound with crisp, clean, bright pages
full of depth and secrets to be revealed with a beautiful story to tell.
The little book was filled with joy and promise.
If one listens close enough, you could hear her happy cries of—
Read Me!
Days went by and people would come in and admire her odd but unique cover.
Some would ever pick her up and run their hands along her spine and remark what a lovely little book.
Invariably though they would be distracted by another book that caught their eye
Or be in a rush to be on their way,
as life was hectic and demanding and there was no time to delay.
Still the little book would cry as they walked out the door.
Come back…don’t you want to—
Read Me!
The seasons went by and still the people would pass through
always noting the strange little book. Some would even open the cover
and flip through her pages but no one ever delved too deep. If they had they would have
noted all the words that filled up the pages with humor and despair, with love and disdain; it was
a simple, yet complex tale, a story just waiting to be told.
And every day the book still cried with hope and faith—
Read Me!
Years were gone now and so were the people.
The town had a new book store that offered coffee and the latest best sellers.
By now the little book was frayed around the edges her binding cracked from years of handling,
Her pages faded and yellow.
“Oh, who will read me now” she thought, “I am broken.”
The little book had all but given up hope.
She felt like a prisoner high on the shelf.
Now she only half heartedly whispered—
Read me.
One cold evening as the little book sat despondent and alone,
she was startled to hear the door of the store open.
By this time though she dared not hope that anyone would read her, still, she could not help but be drawn
to the man standing across the room, where did he come from?
Was he looking at her? As he moved closer, the little book had no expectation that he would pick her up.
Surely he was like the rest and would only pass her by or peruse her cover, remark on her
quirkiness and be on his way.
Suddenly, and to her complete and utter surprise, he pulled her down from the shelf.
Oh no, surely after all this time, could it be someone was finally going to—
Read Me!
Like all the others he ran his hands along her cover.
Here we go again thought the little book, but there was something different about this man.
He touched her with reverence and tenderness.
It felt like he already knew her story, but how could that be?
No one had ever bothered to learn her cover to cover.
Odder still, she felt she knew this man and had known him since her conception.
The man spoke softly and said, “little book, I am your reader and I am here to set you free.
I know a secret, and I want you to share your secrets with me.”
Right then and there the little worn book started to feel new again even though her pages were still frayed and her binding still a mess somehow it did not matter now that he had arrived.
She knew at last this man, her reader, would be the one, finally to—
Read Me!
J
Book Review: Confessions of A Reformed Southern Belle: A Poet’s Collection of Love, Loss and Renewal By Tosha Michelle via @tdmiller820917
A lovely review of my first book of poetry. I’m so unworthy but deeply moved by Tracy’s kindness. My poetry at the time was still evolving. Please check out Tracy’s blog NGE and follow.
Solitude is both a blessing and a curse for a poet. With the Muse often the only companion, a poet is forced to confront those overwhelming emotions prowling around the brain. While there may be some trepidation dealing with these emotions, such honesty can be insightful and refreshing. To remove the bandages covering one’s emotional scars is the first step towards healing.
Tosha Michelle is an emotionally accessible poet. Her verse puts a mirror up against the soul. In her writing, we see the joy, the sorrow, the love, the loss, the hope.
The renewal.
Confessions of A Reformed Southern Belle: A Poet’s Reflection of Love, Lost and Renewal, is a stellar poetic gem. The book provides rhythmic perfection, imagery as well the journey towards one’s roots with the comfort that nostalgia offers.
She shows us the beautiful melancholy of lovers whose destinies might take different paths but whose hearts…
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Tosha Michelle/ Inspire and Be Inspired
I’m not sure why anyone would want to interview me, but this lovely lady did. You can read here. My thanks to the divine Miss. S. If you aren’t following her, you should be.
Plotting
The man I kissed on the train
was a Michelin star chef from Ireland.
We talked scallops on the way to Paris
and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Was this scene partly real or dreamed?
After I lost my car in the parking lot,
I invented a serial killer
to give the story just the
right amount of suspense
Believe me. even James Purefoy belonged in that
bar fight at Whiskey River, but
I still can’t decide if he should
speak with a British or American accent.
And when exactly should he notices me
and my long legs, because I’m 5’7 in this tale.
But sometimes I’m stuck in the world of what is
helpless to the sufficient things.
5’2 and looking at the magnolia tree in my backyard.
It’s beautiful at dusk, all tact and fact in a serene spot.
What could be better?
What could be worst?
I sigh as I sip my tea.
I can’t muster up the inclination to make it bend or sway.
-Tosha Michelle
Dark Room
I wish I could chart my feelings
like and equation, but I was
never any good at math.
I’m a star pupil in self doubt.
My inner little demon stomps
all over my heart in her red boots.
My spirt has been left
to air out in the sun.
I find comfort between a rock
and stone, developing a self
portrait of a soul still unknown
who survives on parlor tricks,
and a floating photo frame.
Patterns of wants and desires
on pale face illuminated in the
ghost light of lost years.
I’m trying so hard to negate a negative space,
posing in black and white. Finding color
in the multiplicity of things. I transcribe
the image maker script into what I meant to say.
-Tosha Michelle
And It Happens Like This
Eveytime I put on my sandals
I open the door to ice.
There’s a fire in the building,
and I’m stuck in the elevator
with a haystack and a needle.
I escape with a hard hat and scalpel
only to find the costume party has
a Star Wars theme.
When I try to hold on to what
I need. There’s an angel on my
shoulder saying go, you’re what you need,
you idiot. There’s a baboon on my other
saying don’t let go, you little shit.
I climb out of a ditch just in time to
see I’ve missed the bus. I order
orange juice but get lemon instead.
I put one foot in front of the other in hopes of going
anywhere only to find I’m on a treadmill.
First come love, then comes marriage and
well you know the rest.
I just want a comfortable bed.
I’ve been told seeing is believing but it isn’t,
it’s a road stop on
the way to somewhere else.
Thursday I’m at the the bank
submitting myself to math
that never adds up. Saturday
finds me in Vegas playing the
slot machines and knowing
I’ll never win. Sunday I’ll push
beyond cereal and milk
and plot my escape plan.
-Tosha Michelle
These Are The Days
Dedicated to my children.
My daughters’ laughter
fills me like a bell.
It’s the most joyous sound.
They share stories with
me over tea. It seethes
in our merriment.
My cup overflows with their
happiness. The days of
Goodnight Moon and Dora
The Explorer long since
past. I’m thankful for
what was, happy for what
is. Pleased by
the young women they
are slowly, not so slowly
growing into. I pray to
the God of teenagers and
driver’s licenses and hair
products. Since it seems
what we are made of is their
images, dark hair, blue eyes.
Blessed is she who gets
to kiss those beautiful
sweet heads. Sitting
with them in the kitchen
after a wrecked day. Thank
you for their laughter and
this unearned sweetness.
To the God of two beautiful
miracles,
I say, Amen.
-Tosha Michelle
Everything I Never Told You 