Tag: life

If I Were King of The World

Published on by Tosha Michelle35 Comments

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This isn’t my most eloquent poem. I’m aware. My silly and playful side needs an outlet, too. For now, I’ve locked angst in the closet.

If I were king of the
world. For this poem
let’s suppose that
this is a thing.

I would never lose
touch with the details.
I would answer all
your calls.

I would be a regular
at the Starbucks you
hang out in.

There would be laugher
in thunder. I wouldn’t
pretend to be bigger
than you.

Salvation would be
found in art and folly.

The mourning doves
would learn jazz and
how to wing it.

The livable life would
be embraced. Slow on
recliners and TV viewing.

Everyone would have
a place at my table.
I would dispense milk
and clothes, but never
unsolicited advice.

Good sex and good
manners would be
cultivated.

Love would come
without conditions.
I would lay my kisses
on imperfections
and celebrate the
different and strange.

I would do my best to
catch hearts falling
from pine trees.

Everyone would be
required to read Henry
Miller and Fitzgerald.

The Karxashians and E
would be banned to their
own island. Egos and
ignorance too.

Like any king, I would
contradict myself, but
mostly, with humor and
nonsensical poetry.

Water would be
plentiful. Wine too.

I wouldn’t take away
all your burden, some
are needed. How flimsy
our characters would be
without them.

Earth would be spun
in hope. There would
be 7 days of fun. The
8th day, chocolate.

Instead of a robe
and crown, I would
wear yoga pants
and a T-shirt with
James Purefoy face
on it. Everyone would
know who James
Purefoy is.

Words would live in
evey home. Love
would hang out in
the kitchen.

The inner world would
would trump the outer,
which reminds me,
there would be no
Donald Trump.

-Tosha Michelle

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Little Boy Blue and Mary Quite Contrary

Published on by Tosha Michelle58 Comments

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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

The Bliss of Madness

Published on by Tosha Michelle39 Comments

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I always find meaning
in madness.

It’s hard to know
who we are at times.
Our attention wavering
before the buttons are undone.

Plans run off with good ideas.
The future -crumbling paper mache
Our art supplies scattered
on the floor.

Now what will we do
with our hands?

Let’s put on
our mad hatter shoes.
Lose the map.
No phrase book needed.
Grab your backpack of
sin.

Take my arm.
I’ll be the voo doo
you do.
Try and not trip over my
tangled spirit.

Come with me
and let’s stroll down
a road that
will never lead to Rome,
but might lead to precinct
of hell.

Don’t worry, darling,
we can play king of the hill
on the torrid slope.
We can rattle the gates
Break the windows.
Take all that’s nimble
Dine on crumb cake
and bitter tea.

Jazz up the day.
Sun up the night.
Trust in chance and
let the cocoon unravel.

Afterwards, we’ll
distract the unmoored
shadows, and frolic with
sanity’s debris, while
madness steals the sky.

-Tosha Michelle

The Fold Into Winter

Published on by Tosha Michelle36 Comments

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I’m walking through the
Queen City,
moving toward what?
It’s late
November, late afternoon,
The light, leafs
through its book of buildings.
Tall high rises,
The trees telling a back story.
My thoughts are
dark, tangled, melancholy-
as my thoughts
tend to be. This is not a
forlorn plot.
I’m content, enough. Biding
my time, on Trade Street.

In the distance. I hear the
bluesy notes of
a saxophone. For a moment
the sky opens
for me. My imagination shines
like an angel.
The air is so vibrant and busy
my whole body
feels weightless. I let my mind
wander down a
rainbow path. Time turns around
I am the princess of a
lightless country. Free from
the angst of
my mind. The molecules part
for me. I breathe
in serenity. The horizon clear.

I hold tight to the illustrated pages
I listen to the noise
of magnolias. I’m released from my self critical ways.
The words behind words are full of
grace… for once
devoid of longing. I brush a bouquet of daisies
from my hair. My own avant-garde
parade- lace, glitter,
sunflower seeds. I hold tightly to
the plot even
as the sun decides to deviate
from my happy
narrative, turning back into
clouds, tumbleweeds,
and hornets.
I accept the fragments from
the sky. I have
no choice. The stained alleyways
beckon me.
All I can do is keep walking
All I can do is live this life.
Write this life.

-Tosha Michelle

The Absence of Sun

Published on by Tosha Michelle53 Comments

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I try to nail sunlight

to paper.

Instead, I always

capture rain.

The light is so elusive.

It won’t even scribble

its initials on my

waterlogged pages.

The darkness is

never shy.

It always invites

itself in.

My pen has been

swimming in

its ocean for

quite some time.

I dive to bottom

of a well written sea.

The light remains

unread.

-Tosha Michelle

A Letter to Hypocrisy

Published on by Tosha Michelle51 Comments

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Disclaimer. The following is not an attack on Christianity. It is simply a commentary on the hypocrisy of self professed Christians who only seem to advocate fear, hate, and intolerance. I’m also a bit perplexed over the demonizing of Starbucks cups and peace-loving Muslims. Note, the only religion terrorists know is hate

Dear Potentially Clueless,

Your rally cries taste like stale coffee.
You with your righteous indignation.
You who think your religion is the only one that matters.
You who have cleansed your lips with hate.
The sheerness of your nothingness confounds me.
I want to cover my mouth and nose to avoid your plague.
Where did your humanity go?
Do you really ask yourself what would Jesus do?
Do you even care anymore?
When did the Bride of Christ turn into the whore of intolerance?

The beauty of the cross lies
in forgiveness, love, compassion.
Your kisses say razors,
blackened moss, barbed wire fences.
They scream Judas.
You love your religion more than God.

Do you not understand how your
sanctimonious songs will never
resonate hope or faith?
Your notes are shrills,
an emphatic kind of
warning in the undertone.

You sacrifice your Christianity
on the altar of ignorance and ego.
As I write, I’m afraid I’m becoming what I loathe.
I never want to fall into what I once was.
What I want is change. I want you to be changed.
I want to drink from the red cup of sunshine,
to eat the good fruit.
I want to know that the world is made up of possibilities.

I wait for a world where love falls like snow,
where halos slide down slopes of imperfections.
A world where God forgives our folly
and grace overshadows our need for holiness.
A world where my skin comes alive with the pitch of tenderness.
Where the green leaves are dewy,
and hope becomes a shivering, tangible thing.

Until, then I’ll sip from my red Starbucks cup
and let serenity diffuse in my mouth.
The bride of caffeine and open eyes.

-Tosha Michelle

Praying for Paris and our world.

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Where He Takes Me

Published on by Tosha Michelle37 Comments

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I always go where
my muse takes me.
Sometimes, he takes my hand
and walks me
down a honeysuckle road,
where the air is fragrant
with the sweetest of words.
Blossoms of paper
falling from the trees.
My muse hands me a pen.

Sometimes, my muse
takes me somewhere
I’d rather not be.
We end up in an
isolated cabin
in the middle of a storm.
At times like these,
we argue violently.
My personal history
banging on the door,
my muse deciding to
invite my past over
without my consent.
Baggage and all.

Other times my muse
takes me out to dinner,
seducing me with
conversation and a
mouthwatering eclair,
champagne and torch songs.
Whispering naughty things
in my ear.

Sometimes my muse
packs a bag and
threatens to leave me.
Taunting me with the
missing pages.
In the doorway he stands.
Sometimes I let him go.
He never goes far.
He knows we can’t live
without each other.
He’s buried too deep
in my cortex.
We both thrill to the
synaptic friction.

Sometimes my muse
questions what I am
writing for.
Reminding me, all my longings
and words will be
discarded in the end.
My muse is such a
morbid creep.
I know he’s
right, if we are here,
we are already gone
but for now
he’s the lure I cling to,
along with the delusions
of life, and
the scraps of allusions,
I put down on paper.

-Tosha Michelle

By request,  My cover of “Camouflage” Selena Gomez Cover (for Diane)

There’s NO Art in Small Talk.

Published on by Tosha Michelle52 Comments

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I hate small talk and how
it always leaves me
syllabically longing.
It’s tedious and exhausting.
It’s hard to get excited
about another conversation
attached to nothing.

I’d rather talk about rare books,
our literary gods,
elevator sex, Lexapro verses,
Wellbutrin,
the friendship between
Elizabeth Bishop
and Robert Lowell,
how sometimes in poetry
the pages weep,
the origins of the word
boeotian (I imagine it
stems from small talk),
how innocence can still thrive
underneath cynicism, and my
innate need to find trouble.

Conversation should be a Safari,
not a trip to the dentist.
It should be like champagne,
shaken and exploding
with bubbly decadence.
It shouldn’t make you feel bad
you haven’t died yet.
It should ravish you and leave you
feeling satiated, weeping
with ecstasy and profound knowledge.

So come sit beside me.
We can move the language
toward enlightenment and
starlight things that help
remind us why we are here.
Or we can beat our tongues
against monotony,
and discuss the weather.
If you choose the latter,
just know I am
dismembering you,
slowly and sadistically,
in my head
one syllable at a time.

-Tosha Michelle

Wanderlust in Boots.

Published on by Tosha Michelle22 Comments

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In London, I finally

understood to be happy,

I can’ t regret. I can’t

be the ballerina in

a box waiting for

someone to turn

the key, trapped on

a platform of fear.

The key belongs to

me. I am the music.

I chose when I dance.

I discovered this while

navigating my way around

the city.

I became wanderlust in

leather boots, pleasantly,

disoriented by the

history. The city itself

a museum. On my own

for the first time. Alone,

with the wind of my mind.

I started to realize

that this “delicate” little

flower could survive

without water, that it

could grow anywhere.

I didn’t know it then

but my own history

was falling into place

as if Aristotle had flown

in from Greece (by way of

Great Beyond Air) to

help me make sense

of life.

It’s the little things

that change us,

that help us gain

knowledge of ourselves

the self that sometimes

needs to shatter.

Getting lost in

Greenwich Park

Sitting on a bench

unseen in the fog.

The bird that refused

my bread.
(The little bastard)

I swear I heard him chirping

stop trying to be responsible

for fixing everyone

Sitting in a cafe debating

the work of Turner after

visiting the Tate.

Just missing the

train for the airport.

Stopping by the gift

shop selling postcards

of London Bridge and

plastic keychains, making

me realizes I’ve had

enough of disposables.

Waltzing into pubs

and new situations.

Dizzy from dancing.

and finally believing

I knew the steps

Finally understanding

the beauty of missteps.

-Tosha Michelle

The Darkness

Published on by Tosha Michelle8 Comments

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I feel a darkness coming on.
The build up is always the
worst part. The shadow
of depression sneaking
up on
me. Breathing down
my neck. I know it won’t
be long until it falls on
me, tethering my spirit
to a barren tree. The
landscape flatten
Nothing is flourishing
The devil stands near
by holding his pitchfork
of sorrow. Smirking
as he plots new
calamities for fragile
spirits like mine,
not a fundamentalist
in sight.
I lie down on the
ground.. I surrender
to the darkness.
For today, there
is no escape.
The empty glass
is broken, the
ticking clock is
silence. When I
awake, I will look
for a way out.
Knowing the
darkness can
never hold me
for too long.
The light in my
heart never
sinks. It just
hides like a
lost penny.
For now though,
I become less
and lesser.
Boneless,
empty, and
ready to go
I let the
taker, take me.