Creative: The Hand of Nature

My handsome and wonderful friend Alex’s beautiful poem on nature. A lovely read. Check it out. x

Alex Raphael

The cold, transparent, frozen, hand of Winter
with its heavy, shivering, fingers
and sharp yet fragile claws,
touches all it can see,
covering three season’s worth of nature
with its web of glass,
and the haunting words it uses
confirms its work has been done.

Spring’s hand gently yet forcefully
pushes Winter aside
with its leafy green, smooth, steady fingers,
and removes all of Winter’s trace
with a few brief touches
that have been rehearsed for so long,
concluding with a lovely melody
that it sings quietly with perfect rhythm.

Summer’s decorated, dextrous, talented hand
joyfully arrives,
waving goodbye to spring,
while at the same time
summoning the rest of the animal kingdom,
who are attracted,
by the infinite shades of yellow,
and the hypnotically enchanting
wordless song sung with such happiness.

Autumn’s hand gives a quiet signal
to the ever rejoicing Summer,
before the ever different creatures
are warned

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The Harvest 

They gave each other the sweetness of apples,
immeasurable by hand.
An orchard assembled by 
loyalty and determination,
where two horizons met
bound by soul constellations
An intimacy that went beyond a
bed of grass and fleeting endorphin
laced cider.

But no matter how bountiful the gathering,
we sometimes become too accustomed
to the beauty of the return.

We forget to take time
to savor what we hold dear,
clinging too long to
memories of past harvesting
Or we become consumed with
the yields of new fruit.

No time to fight or even mourn
for bruised apples
left to oxidize in the
toxic air.

Neglect takes root, hurt unbridles
And careless words become an
apron full of briars.
A spider lodged in the hem.

The orchard once ablaze and alive sheds
it’s golden mass becoming nothing
more than a misbegotten shadow,
a crop of blue scars, an artifact
of loss.

-Tosha Michelle

A Mindful Poem 

In the brief tranquil reprieve
just before dust.
You don’t notice how
high the wind is
or the bitter in the cold

The night may carry a
satchel of bramble.
But for now you close
your eyes and listen to
the music of the air.

Focusing on the amber length
of the hour.
Your dormant heart made
melodic like a harp touched
by skilled hands

You realize you deserve more
than shuttering light and
shifting shadows. 

You who are besotted with
the fever of a waltz
And moonlit rivers
on the way to sea.

No matter how awkward your
gait, you know grace is
found in a soul that won’t
be nettled and a mind
made beautiful by the swarm
of fireflies.

You, this lady and warrior
who gets by on Southern
charm and the rhythm of
a drum that beats in three-quarter time.
Here. where prim
and proper meets sas and grit.

You who are singularity lovely
but hideous too.
A mess of colors, hungry
You refuse to live a sepia life.

For a moment as you watch
the sun set, you don’t dwell
on failed arithmetic or Dostoevsky
and his sullen things.

Instead, you reflect on the wonder
of aliveness and compose yourself
in a poem, composure found in a view
redefined . You rearrange the disquieting
into a sliver canopy of serenity.
Finding peace in your eccentricity.

-Tosha Michelle

My latest cover-Sign of the Times with a little Human thrown in


You have to let go of what is hurting you. You can’t keep rewriting the same story, especially when the ending never changes. There’s only so many revisions you can make. Some stories weren’t meant to have a happy ending, some stories were meant to be left incomplete
Sometimes you have to find the courage to put the old narrative away and write a new story.
Have a great weekend everyone 💕

Fill Me Up 

Because I’m an empty vessel
waiting to be filled.
I find myself flirting with sin.
I do it by way of pen
and paper. Trying to stitch
hope into my skin
I snuggle inside words. Poetry
can’t hurt me the way a
man can. In verse, I can build
anticipation again. Doors open
inside my head. Verbs press
against me, hard and
wanton. I find a sacred niche
between the lines. Here
I take the light. Here it never
darkens or leaves.
Devotion blesses me with sweetness
and excess.
Heaven is found in scenes that are
too scary and loud to live.

I’m an empty vessel.
Romancing myself with
my poetic wooings.
Damming myself to things
conjured, a Paradise
devoid of air, the shadows of
a scarred soul, and the
language of mangled spirit
Waiting to be loved again.

-Tosha Michelle

Warmth’s Inner Light

No longer content with the
winter life and its flannel
sleep. Self and it’s terms
finally meet

She wipes away
the frost from her soul
And sees spring illuminated
beyond the cold.
Sunlight the trinket she’s
always possesed
misplaced for awhile
shine from within.
Her sepia world
long deprived of green
become vibrant and
alive again.
She walks away in blue
with plenty of heart
by the light of her own
eyes, no longer needing
to find it in another.
-Tosha Michelle

And then the Frost Came

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
wake. Aware.
Taking color and form.
Both somewhere between
what was there.
What’s not there. (What
was never there)

Someone you think you 
remember and can’t
quite forget.
Lost mail belonging on someone
else’s kitchen table.

The parenthesis enclosed.
No comma, no pauses.
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 (never was)
will not become again.

She always thinks she
see gleams of him,
The one she thought
she knew,
glimpsed and then gone.

The heart can only be
deceived for so long.
The stem decimated,
drowning in crushed rose petals.
No longer powerless
to the storm.

Wind that never really
blew for her.
Easier now to withstand
His presence merely less,
but no longer wholly more.

His shadow falling,
falling into dust.
The only sound she
hears in this moment is her
voice turning into
an early frost.

To every poem there is
a time and season.
Seasons that coagulate
into lost years,
time wasted.

In this one, she scourges
the past with lyrical ease
The breeze no longer
contradicting itself.

Her pen drops ink
of ice, no longer
pointing to the sky.
The view always distorted
anyway. The final chapter
written. She no longer
cares about heart revisions. 

-Tosha Michelle