I’m not sure why anyone would want to interview me, but this lovely lady did. You can read here. My thanks to the divine Miss. S. If you aren’t following her, you should be.
Tag: photography
Plotting
The man I kissed on the train
was a Michelin star chef from Ireland.
We talked scallops on the way to Paris
and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Was this scene partly real or dreamed?
After I lost my car in the parking lot,
I invented a serial killer
to give the story just the
right amount of suspense
Believe me. even James Purefoy belonged in that
bar fight at Whiskey River, but
I still can’t decide if he should
speak with a British or American accent.
And when exactly should he notices me
and my long legs, because I’m 5’7 in this tale.
But sometimes I’m stuck in the world of what is
helpless to the sufficient things.
5’2 and looking at the magnolia tree in my backyard.
It’s beautiful at dusk, all tact and fact in a serene spot.
What could be better?
What could be worst?
I sigh as I sip my tea.
I can’t muster up the inclination to make it bend or sway.
-Tosha Michelle
These Are The Days
Dedicated to my children.
My daughters’ laughter
fills me like a bell.
It’s the most joyous sound.
They share stories with
me over tea. It seethes
in our merriment.
My cup overflows with their
happiness. The days of
Goodnight Moon and Dora
The Explorer long since
past. I’m thankful for
what was, happy for what
is. Pleased by
the young women they
are slowly, not so slowly
growing into. I pray to
the God of teenagers and
driver’s licenses and hair
products. Since it seems
what we are made of is their
images, dark hair, blue eyes.
Blessed is she who gets
to kiss those beautiful
sweet heads. Sitting
with them in the kitchen
after a wrecked day. Thank
you for their laughter and
this unearned sweetness.
To the God of two beautiful
miracles,
I say, Amen.
-Tosha Michelle
My Port of Call
Every time I’m in NYC
I start thinking I should
change my life.
Stop acting my digits.
Set fire to the rain with Adele.
Climb the Empire State
like Spiderman.
I’d be Vera Wang to the hilt
Stylish, polish, beautiful.
And then I think of where
I come from, my blood deep
roots of sweet tea and grits
Magnolia blossoms and
ancient oak trees stooped
over like sage crones
Of some warm song with
just a touch of twang coming
out of my Daddy’s guitar
I think of Southern charm
and those gloriously still
moments just before dawn,
when we rise with shine and
crow.
And I realize there’s a lot
to be said for flawed and small
for canned jam, for tangled forest
where blue birds lives and kudzu grows
And suddenly, I just want
to be me and who I am.
And who I am
can’t wait to be home again.
-Tosha Michelle
Suffused
I write my life in black
and blue.
I’m the girl suffused with
exclamation marks
and dramatic pauses.
My words infused
with dust.
The counter winds of my mind.
Years linger on the windowsill.
The past flows from the
same white cup.
Memories arrive like Jehovah’s Witnesses
on my front doorstep.
Fragments of my life
trying to convert me.
Pestering me to revert back.
Trying to lure me out with
promises of redemption.
I reattach myself
one line at a time.
Slipping from grey
into lavender.
Bound to advance
not retreat, I vow
to right my upside down heart
by the slip of pen
and the exorcism of yesterday.
I slice myself in threes
and write my riddle of release
over paper full of
missteps and scars.
-Tosha Michelle
Journals
The craving for them is on par
with my desire for chocolate
and James Purefoy.
It’s almost carnal, this longing I have
for the blank pages.
How I love to let the want fester and grow.
My mind a compass of yearning.
This urge to fill them with erotic possibilities,
kissing the pages with ink and language.
I approach them like a hopeful lover.
I don’t need shoes or jewelry or a line of men out my door.
I just need you to direct me to the nearest bookstore or stationary shop.
I can never get enough. I’m impractical, wanton, greedy…
My house is a shrine cover to cupboard. Any day now I expect them
to get together and throw a meet and greet.
I don’t know how they cope with the burden
of my chaotic musings, my erratic penmanship, my half truths,
my outright lies, my heart’s telling secrets.
I love them for never being judgy of my judgement.
Always there to offset any loneliness.
They are the most patient of listeners. I scrawl my confessions out
and there’s always another lovely page ready to learn more.
I confess I might need an intervention, journal rehab.
Until then it’s just me and my sweet notebooks
of beginnings where preservation and obsession
never end.
-Tosha Michelle
The Day After
He’s somewhere between a
brother and a lover.
But not my brother or lover.
He says my sighs say broken.
And because he’s near I’m
transformed somehow.
The words sound different
when they come out of
my mouth.
My form has changed, even
the evergreens take notice.
I bathe in the dappled light
between the trees.
He takes my hand and leads
me down an uncharted road,
where no one has thought of easy.
He says December is the perfect month
for skinny dipping in Minnesota.
-Tosha Michelle
Upon Reaching for the Sky
Inside her pocket
she keeps letters
she’ll never send,
and long lists.
She sits at the vanity,
brushing serenity out
of her golden hair.
Listening to lost rain
that’s surly meant to fall
anywhere but here.
Somewhere already green
and lush.
Her mind grieving winter brown
It’s February.
If she mailed her letters
and shared her lists,
who would read them?
She asked for a cup
of tears
The liquid burns
her tongue.
She listens for the
soft cadence of his voice.
Her heart repeats its inquiry.
Memories and reality
undefined.
-Tosha Michelle
American Honey
I miss childhood,
when I could climb trees,
unencumbered by branches.
The delicate days new born,
when hope came in dancing in
from the backyard and stayed
for Sunday dinner.
Endlessly long days that
always seem to fade into
sunsets and deliriously delectable
dreams of dandelions and
determined alliteration.
There, nights were made
of lightening and a well lit horizon-
the symphony neverending.
Now life has uprooted that sense
of joy, of ignition.
These days I’m just sound
slighted, the residue
of the morning mist,
burnt out on the melody.
Longing for backyard green,
the verve, the contentment.
-Tosha Michelle
Desire: written.
When he speaks in my dreams
I am allowed to look at him
Somehow our clothes
are always off.
I let his perfect form
slide all over me.
His lyrical sound
is loud in my head.
How my mind wanders
and sparks.
The thoughts reaching out.
I try to still my hands,
but his skin is a tempting idea.
The open mouth kiss
of illicit toxins, sensual sin.
The more I try to latch on
the less real he feels.
The space between his face
and mine only grows longer.
I awake in my bed, the good girl,
still feeling the lingering wind
blowing in from the bad girl North.
How it likes to torment and tease
tameable me, untameable in dreams.
-Tosha Michelle
Everything I Never Told You 