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
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.
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)
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
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
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.
“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
Are online friendships “real”? Is anything really real? It all comes down to perception. Don’t we invent our own reality? Does absolute reality exist? Isn’t matter completely invisible? Isn’t our reality defined by our sense perception? If reality is invisible, and we give it form; is it real? What does it all mean? I haven’t got a clue. I’m paging the great Dr. Mark Kingwell, philosopher on call.
Let’s take the word “real” out of the equation and focus on what friendship means. (Perception)
What constitutes a friend? It boils down to an individual’s needs. For myself, I am not a people person. I don’t need a constant physical presence to feel fulfilled. To me, a friend is someone who gives emotional support, who is there to listen and, with whom I can be myself. I choose quality over quantity. I have many associates but few friends. I’m very selective with whom I open up to. Some of my friends I have yet to meet in “real life”. However, I have spent countless hours on the phone with them. I’m always there to lend an ear. I support their projects. If they needed me, I would be there. We share our secrets, our woes, our highs and lows ((there second nature to me now) Friends are a source of growth and enrichment. Other friendships have started online and ended up offline. I’ve been really blessed. I’ve met some truly amazing people. There’s a closeness there that supersedes the physical.
In our contemporary society, making friends online is the new norm. Social media has changed the landscape of friendship. The ease now in which we can keep in touch is incredible. What I do online and offline are completely interwoven. Intimacy now develops in both the physical and online realms, often crossing freely between the two. The beauty of online friendships lies in their mutability in my purse, on my screen, in the comfort of my home. As time goes on, I think the distinction between on- and offline friendships will dissipate. That doesn’t mean that we are doom to a life, of tweets and emails. It simply means that the person we meet in the virtual realm is no longer a stranger, but someone we know and trust.
Do you recall our lost spring?
The time of never ending evenings
Long walks through the park
Hands that never parted
Love found amidst dandelion promises
and sweet grass memories
Do you recall our lost spring?
The time of moonshine and fireflies.
Our melody so loud, it drowned out the crowd.
No pretense. Only divine truths.
We didn’t need anyone’s approval.
All we saw was the potential in each other
Do you recall our lost spring?
The time of sweet wine and soul drenching passion,
endless kisses that melted into the night dew,
glistening on a bed we never wanted to leave,
where all I could taste was forever on your skin.
and we pulsated in time, with our own celestial rhythm.
Do you recall our lost spring?
I do. Memories sweep in when the days become short,
and Jack Frost’s icy breath shivers down my neck.
My soul frostbitten. My heart cold.
I close my eves for a brief moment
I can smell your fresh untainted scent.
I’m transport back to our warm sultry lost spring,
where hope dances in on zephyrs
Love beams off clouds of cotton
Spring becomes nectar in my veins,
and withe a faint smile. I savor what could have been.
-Tosha Michelle
a poem in progress.
Some people see the world through rose colored lenses
happy to bask in the cotton candy haze
of denial while sitting under a gumdrop tree
Feasting on the nectar of blissful delusions
Their eyes only see beauty and peace.
Some people see the world through scratched, dirty lenses
Lenses marred by a lifetime of hard use.
Futilely trying to clean the glasses in a pond of
skepticism and regret.
Their eyes only see negatively and hate.
Other people break free of the lenses.
2020 vision is within their reach.
These people know
that sometimes the road to hope begins with despair.
that pain and love often walk hand in hand.
They refuse to play peekaboo with their problems.
Instead, facing them head on.
Their eyes see the world as it is-both the good and the bad.
Everything I Never Told You 