Dancing with Words.

index

Three of my favorite poems. Yes, I am a romantic.

“since feeling is first,” e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

“If You Forget Me,” Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

When You Are Old

By William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Last Kiss

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Music is a force of nature.

It can inspire, provide hope, turn us inside out, and shake us to our core.

Music is food for the soul, a balm for the heart, and stimulation for the mind.

It teaches us, it molds us, it redefines us.

Music is a memory, a touch, a time, a place.

It is the life within, the love we give, a palpable energy.

Music is everything we were, we are, and what we long to become.

 

-Tosha Michelle

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My latest musical attempts.

Last Kiss

Beautiful Disaster

Confessions of a Reformed Southern Belle: A Poet’s Collection of Love, Loss, and Renewal.

My book of poetry, Confessions of a Reformed Southern Belle: A Poet’s Collection of Love, Loss, and Renewal. is now available on Amazon. I would be honored if you read my words. I’m certainly no Whitman. I don’t claim to be. My poetry is simple and a reflection of me. You’ll find a melancholy, introspective, and somewhat snarky woman between the covers of the book. A woman who is no stranger to loss and heartache, but a woman who also has experienced love in its purest form, along with moments of great bliss. This book is an expression of my heart. Is it a work of art? I’ll let you be the judge. I can tell you, it was a labor of love. Be gentle.

I’d like to share the Foreword with you. Note, it was written by USA Today reporter, Ron Barnett.

Foreword
How do you write a foreword for a book of poetry that has you on the verge of tears, then laughter, then soaring through the high places only a true poet can take you? Hang on, and check your preconceptions, because Tosha Michelle is about to take you on a journey through depths of the heart, and you won’t return unchanged.
I have a particular bias in support of this beautiful woman-child, because I am the guy she calls “Dad.” I’m actually not her biological father, but I have loved her deeply since before I married her mother when Tosha was eight years old, and I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about me.
She was always a witty little girl, with an incredible imagination and a talent for storytelling. And growing up, she read – a lot. She had some vision difficulties and would hold a book right up to her nose to read, but it seemed like she could read from cover to cover in a few minutes. I’d like to take some credit for her writing, being a writer myself, but I think she soaked it in on her own mostly, through all that reading she did as a child. She developed a love of words and stories and the worlds they transported her to, and her talent blossomed as an adult.
She also spent a lot of time with her grandmother, and around the good folks of the small town of Walhalla, South Carolina, where she absorbed the Southern culture that marked her personality and writing style. She has broken that mold, as the title of this collection hints, but is forever marked by the richness of the Carolina ambiance. The pathos of love lost early in life, recollection of the pains of adolescence and self-doubt still haunt her sometimes, but she has found her salvation through creativity – through expressing those dark feelings in verse, and in her singing. (If you haven’t heard that, you’re in for another treat.)
I’ve been a writer and journalist for a long time, and part of that time as an editor. When I read material written by others, I invariably find myself mentally editing, changing things around to the way I would have written them. In this collection, however, I found very little that I would touch as an editor. Tosha has an incomparable sense of rhythm and diction and style that are uniquely hers.
I’m no poetry critic, and I am biased in this case, but I think you’ll agree with me that her poetry is for the ages. She’ll take you through the depths of melancholy and loneliness with “Yearning,” and sing a “Love Song to the South” that will take you back to a simpler, more beautiful time. She’ll have you cracking up with a poem about her cat, dancing with her “Goddess of the Night,” and ready to take on the world, with “One Voice.” One of my favorites is her expression of soaring of the universal soul in the Whitmanesque “Edges.”
And everything she writes cries out with the words of the poor little forgotten book on the shelf – Read Me! Go ahead and turn the page.

City Haze-by Tosha Michelle

City Haze
by Tosha Michelle

Dance with me in the city haze,
Through September grooves.
under the beauty of a harvest moon,
in pattern fields of amber.
Colored by a heavenly mist, dust of serenity.
We’ll set the night ablaze.
While the shadows enfold us
as the willow whispers
And the wind sings us a melodic tune.
Our imagination sets the beat.
We’ll find solace and cohesion,
As melancholy drains away
on cracked sidewalks of urban decay.

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Sublime Ends by Tosha Michelle

 

Sublime Ends

Remember at the station, waiting

On the train, on that sultry summer day?

We stood lost in an embrace, breathing in

each other that way. that awful, terrible,

perfect mad and delicious way that took us

to the shrouded place.

Remember at the station that day, waiting

on the train, as the wind hummed a lovers tune?

She sang of sublime ends, from supple beginnings.

the alluring medley of serenity in a war of rhyme

on the sharp bloody edge of Neverland and Narnia,

the peaceful enchanting interlude of rage & myth.

Remember at the station, that day, as

the train churned closer and we cussed goodbye

His steam a prelude to our eternal kiss, the sun

soaked, never ending fuel of light, of love, of

heat. Basking and bathing,

merged and emerged and submerged,

Dancing and swaying in time

with golden chariot and the huntress.

Remember at the station that day, as

the train tugged away, on a endless track?

We gazed as it came — as it came — as it went

through the crossroads. We did not know,

our own separate, distant destinations,. Our own

rail-less wild paths cut into unimagined mountainsides

You to the west, me to the east.

Remember the station that day as

the train, conducted our last kiss?

That gaping wound where our lips met. Where

we learned cruel fate is hot love and all love is

the calamity of UN-armored battle. We all go under

wrong or right. Each of us blankets miles and the ground

is nothing but a shifting litter with irascible iridescent hope

and hurt-dulled dreams, unfulfilled plans and schemes.

Remember the station that day, waiting

in twilight until we forgot and traveled on, and on

alone, with only prayers of new Twilight to set

in stony slumber with hard solace of old loves loss

then found again.

-Tosha Michelle

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Elemental by Tosha Michellle

The rip current consumes me.

Dragging me under in a rage,

I struggle against the tide.

Battling the demons of a water drenched mind.

Caught in a vortex of time,

Sun and dry land mock me.

I refuse to be destroyed by the elements.

My arms reach out to the trees.

Their branches sway toward me

But it’s not enough.

In desperation I turn to the earth.

The substance of life,

Hatred and failure taunt me.

With bloody hands and bruise knuckles.

I dig through a wasteland of hopelessness.

Wondering why God has forsaken me.

As the ground beneath continues to break,

I’m free falling into the labyrinth of chaos,

And underworld of isolation,

Night falls.

I lift my head to cry out.

Suddenly overcome by the beauty and magnitude of the stars.

I’m consumed by the will to live and be…

The struggle only amplifies my resolve.

Solace and hope are elemental.

An alive in me.

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Nothing

 

  • by Tosha Michelle.
    Narcissism is the new black.
    Self absorption the latest trend.
    Shallow and superficial
    Walk down a runway of banality.
    While it’s “All About Me” plays in the background.
    Accessorized by a callous disregard.
    Dressed up in a pretty package.
    With nothing underneath.
    Hollow and empty
    A model of vapidness.
    The latest in fashion is only skin deep.
    Maybe..one day…unselfishness and humanity will be in vogue again.
    Until then, did you see the latest picture of me?
    Stages_Angry30s_WordWEB.png

Wrecked Head.

Wrecked Head.
by Tosha Michelle.

Some days I am lucid and full of wisdom
But then there are those days when my mind
Is invaded by hoarders, the clutter
Littering my brain
In these times, I am at lost as to where to begin
There’s no filtering my thoughts.
My mind is in overdrive.
Like a hyper active teen strung out on meth.
My eyes glazed over, lost in a surreal dream.
A million thoughts float around me.
I try to grasp just one.
But they’re are elusive,
Just beyond my reach.
All I can do is wait.
For gravity and clarity to kick back in.

 

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Lost

Lost in an endless wasteland of insipidness.

Not knowing who to trust.

Groping around in the darkness.

Seeking light and renewal.

Lost with no direction.

With no compass to guide me.

Lost in my thoughts,

A labyrinth of confusion

Lost in the past, with an uncertain future

What will be my path?

Lost in worry, endless drifting.

With so many decisions still left to be made.

Lost yet not forgotten

Hope‘s flame still burns.

Knowing somehow, someday, the tables will turn.

bwt