Tag: art

My Port of Call

Published on by Tosha Michelle105 Comments

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Every time I’m in NYC
I start thinking I should
change my life.

Stop acting my digits.
Set fire to the rain with Adele.

Climb the Empire State
like Spiderman.

I’d be Vera Wang to the hilt
Stylish, polish, beautiful.

And then I think of where
I come from, my blood deep
roots of sweet tea and grits

Magnolia blossoms and
ancient oak trees stooped
over like sage crones

Of some warm song with
just a touch of twang coming
out of my Daddy’s guitar

I think of Southern charm
and those gloriously still
moments just before dawn,
when we rise with shine and
crow.

And I realize there’s a lot
to be said for flawed and small
for canned jam, for tangled forest
where blue birds lives and kudzu grows

And suddenly, I just want
to be me and who I am.
And who I am
can’t wait to be home again.

-Tosha Michelle

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Another Time, Perhaps

Published on by Tosha Michelle91 Comments

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I grasp for infinity
while trying to coax
the pins and needles
from my head.

I long to sleep
and wake up in a new land
where I can ease
into a less chaotic life,
slip into serenity
and under your sleeve.

No ill intent in my trespass
but I do have a plan.

We’ll take over the moon
and force the clock
to surrender.

We’ll live forever on
a daydream and pixie dust.

Dine each night on
wild berries and sunflower seeds.

You there in the leather jacket.
I’m not boastful.
I take no credit for our meal.

I just ask that you consider me
man of wasp and honey,
maze and train whistle.

Feel the softness
under your coat.

Take it off
and let me in.

-Tosha Michelle

Lisdont-know-whyKnow Why by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

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Suffused

Published on by Tosha Michelle75 Comments

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I write my life in black
and blue.
I’m the girl suffused with
exclamation marks
and dramatic pauses.
My words infused
with dust.
The counter winds of my mind.
Years linger on the windowsill.
The past flows from the
same white cup.
Memories arrive like Jehovah’s Witnesses
on my front doorstep.
Fragments of my life
trying to convert me.
Pestering me to revert back.
Trying to lure me out with
promises of redemption.
I reattach myself
one line at a time.
Slipping from grey
into lavender.
Bound to advance
not retreat, I vow
to right my upside down heart
by the slip of pen
and the exorcism of yesterday.
I slice myself in threes
and write my riddle of release
over paper full of
missteps and scars.

-Tosha Michelle

Roses Are Red

Published on by Tosha Michelle65 Comments

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I have no time to think of you
so instead I’ll think of something else.
I know the color red. I’ll think of things that are red.
Roses? No, that’s too cliche. Apples? Too tempting.
Blood? That’s different. Yes, I’ll think of blood
and it’s healing properties or maybe I’ll contemplate
a life of crime but on second thought that’s a bit psychotic.
Perhaps, I’ll just watch TV to fill the void.
Endless reality shows. I’ll hang on to the Kardashians
drawn out whines or try to understand why
Blake is dating Gwen and not Adam. How comforting it all is.
If I wanted to write a poem on absurdity.

I remember the red rose bush in my Granny’s backyard.
How lovely it was even when the thorns pricked my thumb.
My mind back on red. It really is the most vibrant of colors.
Who doesn’t love a blood red sky? Rough love does, surely,
the dessert too. Not much green there, is there?
I think the moon finds its groove in that kind of terrain,
not impressed with leafy, easy things.
The air smells like steel tonight. I think I’ll hold on to it.
Breath it in. Exhale my thoughts. Funny how, all I think about
to not think about you turns into all I think about because of you.

-Tosha Michelle

Journals

Published on by Tosha Michelle67 Comments

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The craving for them is on par
with my desire for chocolate
and James Purefoy.
It’s almost carnal, this longing I have
for the blank pages.
How I love to let the want fester and grow.
My mind a compass of yearning.
This urge to fill them with erotic possibilities,
kissing the pages with ink and language.
I approach them like a hopeful lover.

I don’t need shoes or jewelry or a line of men out my door.
I just need you to direct me to the nearest bookstore or stationary shop.
I can never get enough. I’m impractical, wanton, greedy…

My house is a shrine cover to cupboard. Any day now I expect them
to get together and throw a meet and greet.
I don’t know how they cope with the burden
of my chaotic musings, my erratic penmanship, my half truths,
my outright lies, my heart’s telling secrets.
I love them for never being judgy of my judgement.
Always there to offset any loneliness.
They are the most patient of listeners. I scrawl my confessions out
and there’s always another lovely page ready to learn more.
I confess I might need an intervention, journal rehab.
Until then it’s just me and my sweet notebooks
of beginnings where preservation and obsession
never end.

-Tosha Michelle

The British Are Coming

Published on by Tosha Michelle29 Comments

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If you aren’t following this lovely whackadoo, you’re missing out on some pretty terrific stuff.(See link below) God, it pains me to write that. He’ll get that. You won’t.

I’d like to keep him all to myself but where’s the blog love in that? I encourage you to follow the link and the yellow brick road. I promise you’ll like the man behind the curtain. I don’t, of course, but that’s another story 😉 Seriously, check him out 

No. 2095 – http://wp.me/p27egX-2Ko

Upon Trying to Write a Happy Poem

Published on by Tosha Michelle131 Comments

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The poet wanted to write
a happy poem,
something summery.
But as soon as she wrote it down,
the words, misstated the season,
and cried in that reserved,
closed-mouth way, much like
Southern belles sometimes do.

The poem tried to hold
back the sobs, to submit
to whimsical metaphors.
But it was too besot by sadness,
to enthralled with winter.
The line shuttering.
Finding preservation in angst.

The poet resigned to
the poem’s fate
decides it’s better
to pull the blinds down,
cultivate the poem’s sickness,
reside inside blue.
Feed the pen the toxins.
Knowing the poem
doesn’t want the elixir.
It only finds artistry
in the pain.

-Tosha Michelle

Abstract art by Brat Inc aka Me.

And today its been…

Kindergarten baby

Published on by Tosha Michelle53 Comments

Her poetry so simple.
God, strictly elementary.

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Sometimes the poet wishes
to sing what she means.

She has no time for red velvet stars
or a cinnamon moon.

The flash of alliteration
or wandering couplets.

She prefers the bunny
in the hat.

She’s not trying to entertain
or get your cash.

She doesn’t mix her ink
or words.

She sometimes speaks in doubt,
she writes with her crayons out.

Her instructions are easy to read
but this isn’t some syntax
by numbers kit.

She cultivated metaphors and
coordinates for her mind.

Schooled in sadness,
she attempts enlightenment.

Prays to the paper on her desk,
while turned to some interior
door covered in blue.

Offers her soul in heartstrings
and unencumbered truth.

Sometimes the poet wants you
to understand the music
under the air,
to notice the
Milky Way
of scars.

The complexity of cotton.
that goes beyond shimmer
and lace.

She doesn’t need you to toss her
a rose or two.

She just hopes you understand
the subtle cadences of her bird song,
spinning in hope’s current,
looping back art
to a natural sound.

-Tosha Michelle

An analysis of THE TAMING OF THE SHREW (William Shakespeare) by Dr. Joseph Suglia / Misogyny TAMING OF THE SHREW SHAKESPEARE

Published on by Tosha Michelle7 Comments

A little light Saturday reading from the greatest author in the world. Fondly, the greatest poet in the world. (in a galaxy far, far away, perhaps)

Dr. Joseph Suglia's avatarSelected Squibs, Scrips, and Essays by Joseph Suglia

An analysis of THE TAMING OF THE SHREW (William Shakespeare) by Dr. Joseph Suglia

“Happy Birthday, Mr. President! / Happy Birthday to you!” — Marilyn Monroe, 19 May 1962

With all of the graciousness of a Wall Street businessman offering a homeless man a wine bottle bubbling with urine, a Noble Lord orchestrates a play for the amusement of a drunkard and wastrel named Christopher Sly, who is deceived into believing that he is a noble lord himself. This meta-narrative, called the “Induction,” does not exactly frame the play that we are watching or reading, since the meta-narrative only reappears briefly in the first scene of the first act and does not resurface after the play is over. (It should be remarked parenthetically that Christopher Sly is pushed above his social station, in the same way the servant Traino will be pushed above his social station when he impersonates his…

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Shadows of Death

Published on by Tosha Michelle32 Comments

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The shadow of my dead
grandfather cast itself
in my dreams some
nights.

I see his silhouette
walking down a deserted road.
I follow him for hours. Every
time I quicken my pace to
catch up, he quicken his
faster

There’s always a
ending but never a beginning.
Time refuses to fold back
Translucence wanders endlessly.
Papa’s the light darting through
my eyes.

I wonder if the dead remember?
Maybe in my dream I’m
looking for a clue that they
haven’t forgotten us,
that’s there truly is a spiral staircase to a better place.

Papa keeps moving
The bones stay quiet.
The ash refuses to speak
The moon gives me the dead eye.
What a thing to be so close
but hear no words

The night dissolves.
A squawk of a crow wakes me
My sadness steals the sun.
For now my question
remains unanswered.

-Tosha Michelle