Tag: poetry

The Flood Came

Published on by Tosha Michelle6 Comments

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The mist whispers “come closer”
as the rain falls down,
The sound invading my heart
Sadness huddles in the leaves,
waiting to burst forth with the wind.
brushing my cheeks
finding purchase within my bones.
Bringing me to my knees
lost in a puddle of bruises
My red rimmed eyes
trying to breach the light
Darkness consumes me
Literally.
Figuratively.
The kind of darkness
I feel with every breath
filling my lungs and
slowly suffocating my soul.
There’s no reprieve from the darkness
only self inflicted torture
of a tear stained mind.

Papa

Published on by Tosha Michelle13 Comments

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At eight years old.
I hold my Granny’s hand
The one that use to hold
my Papa’s hand
The one she
held for 32 years
The one she won’t
hold again.
I wonder how much
different mine must feel

We stand in a darkened room
Sharp with the taste
of ash and loss,
full of family and flowers
Tissues to cheek,
eyes red.
Grief pouring out,
like the holy spirit
at a Pentecostal revival

My Papa in his coffin.
dead. I struggle to
understand.
The adults talk of
angels wings, gossamer,
and light
Remarking how peaceful
he looks.
Granny lays her head
on mine and weeps

I place a rose
in Papa’s cold hand,
and kiss his cheek
Hoping he will
answer me
“Papa, I love you.
I’ll take care
of Granny
and hold her hand,
until she sees you again. “

In those few fragment moments
where consciousness
and grief collide.
I understand loss’ lexicon
That is comes off
like synthetic fabric
fused to a body
in a fire
taking skin with it

-Tosha Michelle

It’s All About The Fit

Published on by Tosha Michelle4 Comments

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“And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness / (how many people she has brought to grief!)” (Dante’s Inferno I 49-51).

Poet’s note- I’ve always preferred Roman mythology and the of story of Romulus.

“Double Breasted Seduction”

I like to loiter under the covers on nippy winter mornings and watch you get dressed
You look best in tailored suits. Stylish and sleek.
My crisp man with your neatly pressed long sleeve shirt
You’re putting on my favorite (periwinkle with a hint of purple flecks)
The sun winks its approval through the blinds.
The tree branches gossip with the sky, swaying to your beauty.
I feel every bit like the wolf Dante wrote about,
as I watch you slide into each sleeve
Popping each button, your eyes fixed on me.
I beckon you over, my knees on the bed.
Is your belt unbuckled?
My hands moves things along
tucking the hem of your shirt into your pants
slowly and playfully smoothing always the creases
enjoying the feel of you and the brush of luxury your clothes provide.
Pampering you, I tie your tie (Double Windsor knot)
Wishing I could tie up all your loose ends.
When you walk away to get your keys and wallet
I can’t help noticed how your trousers
caress your rear, hips, and thighs
Such a seductive covering, carnal captivation
You kiss me goodbye. Your fingers lighting fisting my hair.
Breathing my name in a sultry abbreviation.
Whispering sexy sentiments into my ear
All I can think of is tonight, I get to undo my crisp man
I can’t wait to uncover your double breasted seduction,
and dress you up in me.

-Tosha Michelle

On Words and Self Doubt

Published on by Tosha Michelle8 Comments

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My poetry always exposes
the imperfect fit of my skin,
with words that run off
with the seeds of pretext.
I’m left behind chasing
an existential crisis,
no fairy tales to quell
my anxieties

Choking on a parched narrative
thinking too much.
about thinking
Too much “who?” too much me
not enough “what can I do?”

My shoes moist
and full of warm blood
I take them off-revealing my blisters
Exhausted, I sit down
and breathe in despair’s air.
watching the newspaper,
and leaves long dead, fly by me.

The turmoil traffic,
thumb to nose, mocking me,
the dark taunting me
with Medusa’s stare.
Some fool shinning a light
(as if that could make a difference)

I sharpen my lyrical claws,
fist fighting my wit,
cursing stupid cliches
telling banality to f*** off.
Wondering if that’s
how written language will end.
with a “bee in your bonnet”
and impotent pen

Waiting…waiting…waiting

for words and their Judas betrayal
to find me,
so we can release our flaws,
like a dying hooker’s last confessional,

Perhaps, this time- words
and I will join in semantic fusion,
an authentic coupling, anointed
with a whispered touch,
fertile in rhythm and verse
stirring to stir..stirred to stir.

Birthing the poetic molecular structure.
the genetic code of the spirit
Wearing multiple faces, places,
memories, hearts, and loves.
Dressed with an imagination affluent in grief

Maybe this time our monologue of loneliness and self doubt will make the soul’s late late show.

-Tosha Michelle

Be careful lest the wind calls your name

Published on by Tosha Michelle4 Comments

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Dedicated to Sin, Confess, Repeat, The Sometime Poet, Lana Del Rey, the letter J., Timothy Olyphant, guys named Tad, and the girls named Biffy that love them. Oh and my greatest muse, mischief.

Be careful lest the wind calls your name
whistling to you with his seductive tune
He’ll beckon you to come dance in the leaves
Blowing in your ear, caressing your hair and face
Tempting you with the thoughts of his sensuous touch

Be careful lest the wind calls your name
He’ll entice you with his vigor
Sweep you away with his power
His presence so commanding
even the trees sway to his desire.

Be careful lest the wind calls your name
He’s fickle and cunning.
Quick to come and go
impossible to hold on to.
Yet he ask to be notice
Begs to be heard.

Be careful lest the wind calls your name
He’ll be calm and playful one minute
tumultuous and volatile the next.
He’ll scorch you with his heat
chill you with his frigidity.

Be careful lest the wind calls your name
Keep your wits about you
Board up your wanderlust heart
Let him move you if you must
but don’t get carried away

Be careful lest the wind calls your name
Remember-you’ll never know his truth intent
or which way he’ll blow next.

-Tosha Michelle

Playing Peek-A-Boo

Published on by Tosha Michelle5 Comments

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Apathy married to assumptions
birthing prejudices-
mindless minions
breast feed on lies

Pay no mind to the stepchildren
the sex slaves
the homeless
the abused and downtrodden

The talking heads are too busy parenting discord
in a nation that loves to light torches
and cast blame on each other.

It’s easier to listen to counterfeit prophets-
Polluted pundits with their false reason
than form educated and independent thoughts
It’s easier to drink the kool-aid of complacency
than taste humanity’s pain

Salient questions
Original ideas
Be damned

There’s no time to nurture the truth
in an attention deficit society
fueled by a Ritalin dispensing media

Take Two

Published on by Tosha Michelle5 Comments

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Infatuation such a futile thing
when the world is distorted
through a rose colored mist.
Blurred edges The landscape
formed through nostalgia’s lenses
Everything in soft focus.
.

Infatuation such a soulless thing
devoid of sovereign reason,
when the God you seek,
is an illusion..not to be believed,
in a heaven made of cardboard dreams
painted with muted time.

A Poem for Niles

Published on by Tosha Michelle13 Comments

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This post was written for a dear friend.  Happy Birthday, Niles. You are the calm to my storm. The voice of reason to my insanity. The jitter to my bug. The Niles to my girly Frasier

Without further ado, I give you my ode to you.

There’s once was a guy from Macon
who like to shake his bacon
his hips, yours for the taking

Kidding….

but seriously….

Still Waters

While other men measure success by titles and cash
He dreams of making text dance over the crevices
of uncharted pages, imaginary characters alive in his mind
He longs to breathe life into figures he has never met.
to fire his own artistic semantic round.
to pen The Great American Novel,
with sophisticated soulful prose that linger

While other men play golf and women
He’s happier with his nose in a book
Getting lost in CS Lewis and Hemingway
Sliding between his world and theirs
walking chapters to be read. Again and again
He lives in the land of mystical lions,
not fearing the tolling of the bell,
finding his lifeline in fanciful excursions

While other men long to dominant and control
He strives to be gentlemanly and bold
A silent nod to a picture page
Old world charm, lost in a photograph
Shaking the dust off his top hat
He welcomes chivalry anew.

While other men court surface friendships,
His quiet still waters run deep
As deep as the tea he seeps
He puts his shield away
Cast the armor aside
Content to share the secrets he holds inside
He caters only to a select few
Kind beyond fault to those he holds true

While other men drown in the noise of a fast paced life
He’s busy taking comfort in starlit skies
Content to linger by the stream with Whitman and Thoreau
Green fields blooming. His soul dances in the yellow light
He smiles at the passing herd, wondering if the sheep
will ever open their eyes and see?

While other men are slaves to convention
He marvels that his soul is as free as a feather
No guise needed, a peaceful mind is on his side
He travels on, marching to his own tune
with steadfast authentic steps and exquisite simplicity

-Tosha Michelle

Alternate ending

He travels on, marching to his own tune
with steadfast authentic steps
and visions of Norah Jones
alive in his bed (Note from poet, I couldn’t resist)

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MUSIC

Published on by Tosha Michelle3 Comments

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MUSIC by Charles Baudelaire

MUSIC doth uplift me like a sea
Towards my planet pale,
Then through dark fogs or heaven’s infinity
I lift my wandering sail.

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,
And through the cordage wail,
I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me
Beneath her sombre veil.

I feel the tremblings of all passions known
To ships before the breeze;
Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

I pass the abysmal seas
That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair
Of my despair!

The Gift

Published on by Tosha Michelle4 Comments

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I received you cold shoulder
wrapped in disdain
tied with a bitter bow
a gift of retribution
meant to flog my soul
like a petty whip
Fifty shades of fu***ed up

I should just retreat back
into my self imposed isolation,
but I always was more sinner than saint,
with a stubborn heart, a chaotic brain
and a restless soul
devoid of peace and sanity

Come closer if you dare
I’m returning your gift
and giving you one of my own

Sound and fury
Fire to melt ice

Heat the will own you
burning you from the inside out
thawing your cold facade
Flames licking at your core

Hypnotized by my light
dancing through the trees
of your mind.
igniting every part

Try and extinguishes the flames if you must
until there’s nothing left
but the smoldering undergrowth
and the lingering heavy blanket of smoke

Choke on the fumes as they soak
intimately into your soul
as you fall into a siren’s trance
Look down- you’ll see my reflection
in your burnt scarred martyred hands

Joan of Arc- you have met your match

-Tosha Michelle