Tracy it’s a gifted poet and a very sweet lady. I hope you will check out her work and follow.
Source: A lover of words, a poem for Tosha Michelle by Tracy Diane Miller
Tag: poetry
Bedtime Benediction
Come to bed.
We’ll nestle like a pair of saucers.
Let me press my breasts
into your back,
my hand over your heart,
Even when I can’t sleep
it’s a comfort to feel
your breaths,
to take notice of
the strength of your body
There’s a lullaby in the way
your skin unfurls.
My lips drift across
your shoulder
in three quarter time.
Every second edible
in its sereneness.
This mouthy soulful love
and a kiss for the infinite
I snuggle closer and whisper
a bedtime prayer of praise
for life and the small reasons.
-Tosha Michelle
Human- The Name of Her Being
Imagine the soulless trafficker
holding a young girl’s life in his hands.
Imagine the young girl in front of him,
eyes glazed from the heroin
he’s forced her to inject.
The unturned years stolen.
Her body’s lexicon
the clamor of sharks to blood,
the swarm of hornets.
Raped. Beaten. Used up.
Innocent debased.
He’s taken it all.
Leaving burnt trunk and a once
flourishing root decimated.
Imagine sprayed bullets,
sparkling on the
grimy warehouse floor.
Imagine the now bulging
eyes of the child, the girl
who doesn’t stop being dead.
The tragic wreckage of greed
splayed on the ground.
Let her gone dreams haunt you.
Don’t allow her to become
an apathetic byte on the news,
incapable of ruining your family’s dinner.
For a moment at least,
be conscious, not comfortable.
Allow her to bare her teeth
and demand that you see her loss.
This child, born into a world
she couldn’t overcome.
Let her eyes be a memory,
that the universe
isn’t always civilized
or wash and wear
Let her blood spill on everything,
the table cloth, the fine china,
the prettily pressed clothes.
See her. Feel her pain.
Let her shadow be your shadow.
If only for a moment, look back.
Hear her whispering her name.
Let her name be your name.
Human. The name of her being.
The name of your being.
-Tosha Michelle
The British Are Coming
If you aren’t following this lovely whackadoo, you’re missing out on some pretty terrific stuff.(See link below) God, it pains me to write that. He’ll get that. You won’t.
I’d like to keep him all to myself but where’s the blog love in that? I encourage you to follow the link and the yellow brick road. I promise you’ll like the man behind the curtain. I don’t, of course, but that’s another story 😉 Seriously, check him out
No. 2095 – http://wp.me/p27egX-2Ko
Upon Trying to Write a Happy Poem
The poet wanted to write
a happy poem,
something summery.
But as soon as she wrote it down,
the words, misstated the season,
and cried in that reserved,
closed-mouth way, much like
Southern belles sometimes do.
The poem tried to hold
back the sobs, to submit
to whimsical metaphors.
But it was too besot by sadness,
to enthralled with winter.
The line shuttering.
Finding preservation in angst.
The poet resigned to
the poem’s fate
decides it’s better
to pull the blinds down,
cultivate the poem’s sickness,
reside inside blue.
Feed the pen the toxins.
Knowing the poem
doesn’t want the elixir.
It only finds artistry
in the pain.
-Tosha Michelle
Abstract art by Brat Inc aka Me.
And today its been…
Nothing but Treble
Two covers by yours unruly.
I Wish
I wish I could shield you,
from sorrows.
From the broken candy dish,
the alarm clock
that always rings too early,
the frayed ends
of a doormat,
Donald Trump’s hair,
the economy that
never truly recovers.
I would save you from
endless bills, the sink
that always leaks.
Depression that leads
to pill filled mornings.
The inglorious path
to old age.
The trumpet’s ominous sound.
You say that’s life, baby.
Make love and music
while you can.
Praise the rhythm of living.
Follow the wind
of your heart.
Happiness starts
when we leap, when we fall.
When we infuse our
bodies with sugar and
spark, squeaky hinges
and all.
-Tosha Michelle
The photo and cat are mine.
The Soul Collects Thorns
The soul collects thorns.
The heart hoards regrets.
The mind feast on memories.
The rose profligates.
We were a mutation,
a fender bender, a war
yet some piece of you lingers
in me and I won’t give it back.
The shrapnel remains in the wound.
Think of the stain
that never comes off a shirt.
The burn mark on an empty pan,
left too long on the stove.
Just because we’ve had more than we could take
doesn’t mean we wanted too much.
-Tosha Michelle
My cover of “Love Yourself”
Double Life.
Remember when our nights mingled?
We paid our hours
in caresses and sighs.
The ache and the savor.
Our bodies a map of hunger?
We were red and blue
in equal measure.
Then we put desire away.
Photograph ourselves into today.
The clasped heart in a closed bird cage.
Clothed in yesterday’s what might have been.
Colorless. Now when people look at us
I wonder if they know
we are inside who we used to be.
-Tosha Michelle
Upon Missing The Train
You thought you were at an impasse,
a standstill. But that was just your heart
slowing down to acknowledge the pain
You don’t realize there are worst things
than missing the train, busting
your knee, the morning wasted.
Running from your past.
Drowning your demons in gin and pills.
You prefer a prescription pad
to a subscription to pain.
Widowed from your feelings.
You crave the next fix.
Anything to get you where
you’re going.
You look for a treasure map
scrawled in a dome of stupor.
Where the winds remain static
and the gravel never get stuck
between your toes.
You swim in a diluted river
by trees that don’t shrink or grow.
Nature weeps for the despondency of you.
I weep for the unlived life beneath you.
-Tosha Michelle
Everything I Never Told You 