My voice is a tiny grain
in his skull to be devoured
by vultures or fertilized by madness.
Evey morning as I rise I
pay homage to his stony
face. I read novels into
his stature that never moves
He never remembers anything
beyond his well preened shoes
I type with one eye open well
into the day. In stillness,
he stares narratives through me
Frantically , I write nightmares
in bold font until I am spent.
At midnight I place him back under glass.
My eggs firmly stored in his basket.
They said, “I bet they’ll never make it.”
But just look at us holding on
We’re still together, still going strong
(you’re still the one)
You’re still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You’re still the one I want for life
(you’re still the one)
You’re still the one that I love
The only one I dream of
You’re still the one I kiss good night
-Shania Twain lyrics
My cover for The Lonely Author and his wife Allie, Anthony and Jersey girl, John and Terry
When I get tired.
I sometimes wonder
what’s this poetry
thing all about?
What am I writing for?
During these times
I’m usually stuck
in a creative muck,
I still don’t dare
call it a rut.
There’s no food
in the picnic basket
so I eat drudgery instead.
My mouth full of lost time.
I’m so hungry for words
that have run off
with my silk dresses.
I dream of nouns, adjectives,
and verbs, sinking
in a sea of syntax.
I try to dive in
but get stuck in the sand.
I sit along the shore
I wait. As seagulls fly
from under my bed,
my silk dresses hanging
from up above.
I reach for them
while I still can.
-Tosha Michelle
Here under the tent, we say
our final goodbye. Soon your
coffin will be lowered into the ground.
The crowd folds like fall foliage,
with promises that it will get better
and death is not the end.
What will they remember of you?
Your smile? The broach you always wore?
The photo of you on the beach
in your Sunday best, with sunglasses
as stylish as Jackie O’s.
Please send me a sign,
a popcorn kernel of hope
that your spirit lives on.
That your soul is in a peaceful
place. That days and years
from now, we’ll find you again.
I question the sky. It reflects
back light then dark. No
definitive answers there.
Yet still I search eternity,
for you. This depth of feeling
keeps me pondering infinity.
This anguish spurs me on.
-Tosha Michelle
I’ve inhaled tbe spell of honeysuckles
I’ve invented my own fortune,
spinning them into the fabric of my skin.
I leave poems behind for you to read
I sing you songs made of
moonshine and starlight.
The keening of my heart
in every note.
I no longer believe in stories with no endings
but I do believe we create
our own beginnings.
-Tosha Michelle
“Say something, I’m giving up on you
I’ll be the one, if you want me to
Anywhere, I would’ve followed you
Say something, I’m giving up on you”
My vocal cover of “Say Something” by A Great Big World
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 brambleÂ
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.Â
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.Â
-Tosha Michelle
I know I mention this guy a lot and honestly, it’s because I like him so much more than the rest of you. I’m kidding. I adore you all but I am super fond of this lovely Brit. You will be too. Check out his poem and please encourage him to write more. Oh and follow him. He’s sure to return the favor
Happy Friday. God save the Queen and us all xx
https://alexraphael.wordpress.com/2013/12/10/the-hand-of-nature/
Beautiful, meaningful poetry
is always possible.
Think of Shakespeare
and his sonnets.
Frost and his road
less traveled.
The poem I’m writing now
may be beautiful
and full of meaning.
It may not be.
Perhaps, it’s too early to tell.
Should I keep going?
What if I’m trying to hard
to create art?
The verses will show the pressure.
I want my poetry
to remind the reader
of themselves,
not so much the poet.
I want them to listen alone
with their own minds and hearts.
Maybe the secret
to beautiful poetry
full of depth
is not caring.
Perhaps, when I leave
poetry behind, abandon words
and have no desire to write,
that’s where great writing
will find me.
As I sit reading Anne Sexton,
I’ll remember what I once
would have sacrificed
to create art that matters.
And I’ll pick up my pen and paper
and write the poetry I dreamed of
as though I was another poet,
and as if i were the poet,
I may never be again.
-Tosha Michelle
Close your eyes.
Cover your ears.
We’ll take a train
away from here.
Somewhere greener
Anywhere warmer.
Someplace just beyond
our reach but we’ll
reach it anyhow
Leaving the delirium
of the mundane behind.
We’ll hold court in a
seaside town.
And rinse our glasses
in sugar.
Learning the music
our hearts make when
blessed with a peaceful
beat, the sound of us.
We’ll lean into each other
and come like we
never have.
Your mouth all over me.
I’ll sing you to the edge.
Your gaze only on me
as we will dance into
new revelations, and
curl like a comma
into hopeful beginnings
-Tosha Michelle
Artwork by me.
My cover of ‘Realize” for Niles, one of my best friends. Follow his blog at http://www.jamesdennard.com
He’s lovely and likes the ladies. 😃
Everything I Never Told You 