A Scholarly Gentleman

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One of my best friends is celebrating his birthday soon and I wanted to do something special for him. Niles and I go way back and we’ve been seen some (insert curse word here) Twelve years of friendship and our bond just grows stronger.

This is my tribute to a gentleman with a lovely creative soul. Niles, thanks for being you and always getting me. Love, respect and snark always.

“The Gentleman Writer”

Seemingly readable and uncomplicated 
Underneath he burns like the red sun. 

Unruly ghosts tapdance in his head 
He orders them in poetic verse

Laying claim to a writer’s vocation 
Here his imploded dreams come to fruition 

He spins his hope into a July moon 
Ink becomes his salvation.
as he basks in the white heat
moments of no sound.

Knowing words are a gift
His fingers loosen the bow.

-Tosha Michelle

Listen to For Good by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud
https://soundcloud.com/tosha-michelle2020/for-good

Happy birthday, sir

May the
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be plentiful.

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always win

And
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find her way to your door.

Little Boy Blue and Mary Quite Contrary

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Dear Past,

It’s been awhile. I come waving a
flag of peace and unarmed.
My arsenal is depleted.
I have no time for hate or malice
laced air.
I imagine like me
you want to live in peace without
the threat of guns and
claws. To awaken to the sound
of serenity, not bombs going off
in the distance.

I hope hearing from me doesn’t cause you pain.
Frankly, I miss you. Your theatrical ways,
always leaning toward a Shakespearean tragedy.
No time for much ado about nothing.
Although, everything had to be as you like it.
How you were
a master at parlor games and word play.
Your eyes a depletion
of fallen leaves and green tea.
Hair as dark as a grackle.
Arch so charming, fencing with
unseen stars. Little boy blue,
and Mary. Mary, oh, so contrary.
How our garden did grow.
Shells that pelted the ground,
causing wreckage and carnage.
It wasn’t all welts and hell.
There were days when light swelled
and sliver bells grew.

But i digress, as I climb a slide of memories,
backwards with slippery hands.
My legs lose traction,
my lungs clog with dust.

I end up on the ground negotiating
with my untapped toe.
Trying to reclaim the beat with
half recounted facts
and nostalgia’s false sense of rhythm.
Holding a few cards in the hand you deftly dealt me.
Beside me lies a map, marred
by revisions.
that reads let it go. Let it go.

I stand up, and realizes there’s a
tear in my heart, that I
mistook for my sleeve. I walk through the open gate,
ignoring the stained alleyways,
cobble stone,
and street lights shaped like a question marks.
The scent of orchids lingers in
the tired air.
My soul fighting off bees and
the counter winds.
You, dear past, will always sting.

-Tosha Michelle

Not Quite Love in an Elevator

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Some people keep in
touch via the phone,
the internet, weekly
lunch dates.

You keep in touch by
pissing me the hell off.
Lightening up our
elevator display
of toxicity until
we’re stuck between
floors.

Listen, do you hear that?
that’s my head lacerating
on the wall.

My sense of peace
fractured.
Go ahead pick the bone.
I’m done battling
scratched glass.
Drag me through it.

It’s time to rinse
off the anger,
and nail all 1483 of my
grievances to your
sanctimonious door.

Martin Luther and me
the grand reformers
He sowed in grace.
I’m more prone to
mace.

Maybe, I’ll just try to
lose you in a place
I’ll never find again.
Unraveling your
foothold or finding
mine, up your………

I’ll save the hair pulling
spear throwing, and
obscene gestures of
distain for terrorists
and guys named Tad.

I’ll just vent my anger
in a silly poem
Snide as my temper,
but light as numbers
with no equations,
letters missing
sentences, and a
poet whistling
satirically at madness.

-Tosha Michelle

Is This Going Somewhere?

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Discovering his cruelty was akin
to standing on the backyard deck
ready to jump into spring grass,
soft with newness and finding instead,
coiled, the venomous blunt head of a rattle snake,
lying in wait, ready to strike out
at whatever comes within its range
of pride or insanity. She couldn’t help
notice his appeal though.
The diamond back so lush against the green. His beauty beyond report.

The snake would say she is
getting the narrative all wrong.
He may slither, but she’s the
one with the come hither,
charming him right out of his basket
with her deceptively sweet song of the sea. The snake hisses. He knows
she’s rose petals on top of bees.
She only knows how to sting.

The truth shaking its virtuous head,
give its point of view. Scolding them both.
We pick up the story from here.
Truth let’s us know that these two
are a perfect storm of toxic.
Their common language, madness.
Individually, they are both soft spoken
and kind. Subdued and well liked.
On paper, a good idea. Together, the paper turns
to a dartboard
both aimlessly trying to
out dart the other.
Years of grievances flying through
the air.

She might have been the
mouse chewed up and devoured
by his devilish mouth, or
perhaps he was the
victim of a demented siren song.

It all depends on point of view.

Gorgeous stars or bastard moon?
The truth is the light in their room.
It never changes.
Yet, they both sleep with blindfolds on
and what they don’t want to look at blurs,
in the descent of memories.
Memories best left discarded.
The bridge burnt. Falling into water
spilled with oil.
The snake and siren drown.
The undertow winks at truth.

Truth tired of the story
and with no magic potion.
Delivers an elegy to two
sweet tooth addicted to madness-
Relieved to be done
with these loons. Truth ends
the narrative here.

Epilogue

The ghost of the snake chimes in
with but…but..but..
The phantom siren sings…..
and …and…and..

-Tosha Michelle

Bella

My beautiful friend Terry has just started a a WordPress blog.  In addition, to being a sassy Italian chick from New York, Terry is also a talented writer, not mention, one of the most kind hearted people you’ll ever meet. Please check out her blog, and follow.
.

Nostalgic – http://wp.me/p41XYO-15

Proustless

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‘The true paradises are the paradises we have lost” -Marcel Proust

We both liked Proust.
Your Proust was my
Proust. We both
thrilled to his words.
Perhaps, that is
where we should
start with Proust.

I want to believe
our hour has not
passed. That
your days could
be part of mine
once again,
even though our
clock stopped
ticking ages ago.
I long to bag up
our past hurts like
leaves, to burn
them, and not
choke on the
sour fumes.

I know our worlds
broke off in a
windstorm of
anger,
accusations,
and the
harshest of
words.

We’ve both been in
different woods for
years now. How
long must the
firs remain a bitter
green? The hours
and days too
numerous to
measure.

I thought I had
healed,
but lately when I
hear
the birds singing
it is a stricken sound,
one of regret
and nostalgia. I know
I’m better off not
attempting to cross
the ridge to your
forest.
I know I’m
mostly likely to be
met with cedar
falling on my head,
The sound of your
chainsaw sputtering
on the breeze. Dead
leaves and debris
everywhere.

I know the valley
between
us is deep. Yet, I
foolishly hope that
the
shadows could give
over to light.
A second chance,
where
the flowers turn
vibrant
in the spring. And
the pine
trees look toward the
horizon.
That we could take
the
fallen wood and
rebuild
the room of our
friendship,

Sit together and read
from Proust, thrill
to his words once
more. I know
it’s just a dream,
The light has sunk.
It died
where it ended,
with
the blood of the lamb,
a cross on the
back to bare.
Miscommunication,
Mixed signals and
metaphors.
There’s nothing left
to build upon,
just a sculptured
martyr
and the ghost of
Swann.

Your Proust is
my Proust, no more.

-Tosha Michelle