We’re all in the dark
and it’s not early
Maybe not too late
We sleep in narrow beds
in rooms shimmering
and burning from a sickhearted
moon.
The stars reflect a defective hue.
We long for a powerful eclipse
or for a comet to appear.
Angels feet on fire.
Thinking our world is woven
by the fragile string of fate.
We waste the moonlight.
Gazing at static air.
-Tosha Michelle
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 bramble
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.
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.
-Tosha Michelle
You’ve taught me how far
I can go toward myself.
No need to run from who
I am.
That’s how it is with us.
Windblown fragments,
two are we.
We live in a shareable place
our little patch of green.
where I’d rather hear you
than all.
We converse fluently in
a language only we understand.
Your charm never lies in the
way wedding songs and
love sometimes do.
In my head you’ve cut a groove,
leaving your initials there
Absolute. Right. Permanent.
They tell a story even when
my mind shifts and happenstance
grabs the pen.
The darkest ink is not dark enough
to eradicate the thought of you.
Our kinship, a sonnet to pathless
woods, always ready to explore.
We reach for a state of grace,
Knowing life can only get worse, but
better too.
Tosha Michelle
I call him eccentric
He thinks it’s a reprimand
He doesn’t realize
His exquisite eccentricities
reveal his unique inner form.
like Gould last recording of
the Goldberg Varations
His illuminated soul
seemingly always in motion.
I read religiously his light.
Text etched with acid.
but cut with gentle sweetness
The light only growing brighter.
He coaxes me out of my
shadow box.
I could take refuge in his uniqueness
The magic of his mind, linger there
in the smudge of the stars.
Let him read the face of my spirit,
my wildest wishes, the lure
of eccentric things
Framed by endless strings of grace.
A concerto of serenity. defined
composition, melodic hope.
-Tosha Michelle
The sky announced the sun
on a day when the sun’s arrival
was enough.
The clouds curtseyed and then
fell away.
The dogwood branches swayed as
with divine provocation.
The poppies pondered providence
the afternoon light, and alliteration.
Lovers and children were devoting their hours
to the wind and newly sprung gardens.
Coins were tossed into fountains devoted
to wishes, on a day so bright surely all
desires were fulfilled.
All day long, the sun lingered as if
a love sick suitor hesitant to say goodbye
to the now blushing sky.
Sadly, the sun learned you can’t roll
back the hours or the day’s resolve
to fade into night.
All you can do is abide the darkness
and await the promise of another spring
struck, soulful blue day.
-Tosha Michelle
The clouds drank in ravens
making the pines lucid.
His shadow fell beneath
the sky. If she listened
closely, she could hear
his melodic cadence
delivering soliloquies
adrift on the wind.
He as he was
She as she became
Awake. Aware.
Taking color and form.
Both somewhere between
what was there. What’s
not there. Someone you
remember and can’t
quite forget.
Lost mail on someone
else’s kitchen table.
The parenthesis enclosed.
Time takes away. Gone
in an instant particles
of the past.
She stays.
(She can’t stay)
Tired from this slow
burning off of yesterday.
That which was lost
will not become again.
She always thinks she
see gleams of him,
glimpsed and then gone.
The stem decimated but
drowning in rose petals.
No longer powerless
to the undertow.
His presence merely less,
but no longer wholly more.
His shadow falling,
falling into dust.
The only sound she
hears now is her
voice turning into
an early frost.
To every poem there is
a time and season.
Seasons that coagulate
into lost years.
In this one, she scourges
the past with lyrical ease
The wind no longer
contradicting itself.
Her pen drops ink
of flames, no longer
pointing to the sky.
Dr. Syntax gives her a
lollipop and a clean
bill of closure.
-Tosha Michelle
Dear No One,
Forgive me for writing unsolicited poetry about you. It’s just you bring out the John Keats in me (some would say without the talent). I know I lack decorum. Is it that insane that I want to buy you flowers? Ruminate on your good looks? Try and capture your wit and grace in mad verse?
I may never walk beside you in the night, but you’re still my favorite star. My poetry longs to stir your breath, knowing in reality you are an inert thing. I’ve looked for you in ;others, only to be left in tears.
But still I turn to pen, to paper, to assuaged you. I hope my words are a benediction to your being. I long to neither save nor condemn you but merely lace your altar with beauty.
Your lightning holds no promise of rain. Yet, just like a dove, I keep flying in your direction. I’m not concerned with the elements. I’m like the wind, a contradiction. I never can right my mind for long. I’m stuck in perpetual twilight. Nothing can be salvaged. My soul should dream no further, but it does, and I do. You’re a part of my weather now. Your humidity is felt inside of me.
I must close this letter and get back to my life. It’s time to dance and stumble around with shadows. But first, I’ll look out the window and see the leaves stirring, shaking as they fall to the ground, and imagine you. One last time. One more time.
Dear No One, I hope to find you soon
-Tosha Michelle
You who carry sunshine in
your hair, the sky in your hands,
and blueberry pie in your eyes
You who knows all the words
to every Chet Baker song.
Why don’t you come by my record shop?
I’ll teach you the percussive du wop
Come unearth my city plot.
Right my upside down heart
with the lilt of your melodic
voice.
Stain my soul with your graceful fingers.
Sing me your red velvet tune
with not one note of sorrow
Scrawl on my tongue
your heart song.
I’ll sing along.
Make music to a woman
not quite young, but not yet old.
My mind a score of hunger.
Patterns of passion across
my face.
Don’t be afraid to improvise
summer nights composed of
bodies and sway.
Wingtip and rosehip.
We’ll create our
own tune.
The tenor sax takes the lead.
It sounds like desire,
like it won’t ever stop.
Let’s crack the night with needle and groove.
Let the blues run off with D minor.
As two lovers infuses the dark with rhythm and spark.
-Tosha Michelle
My poetry knows how to
sing the blues.
It finds rhythm in lost loves,
an empty room, a whiskey shot.
It’s cadence of roving eyes
a wallet devoid of
cash. the desire to stay.
The need to go.
Misery flows from lyrics
that refuse to let it fold.
My poetry channels
Ella Fitzgerald and
dissonant chords of a broken
someone.
It thrives on restless things and memories
that come to life in a song
Moaning the words so fervently, the ink drips
to save me, even when I’m out of tune.
And I can only glimpse
where I’ve been, not where I’m going.
The want for new history
and a new song spurs the poet on.
-Tosha Michelle
And on a u related and happy note. I am in love with this song. It takes me to a serene place.
Everything I Never Told You 