What’s up, y’all. I haven’t had much time for writing, or social media, but wanted to post something. Taylor Swift has a new single out. I like it., Oh my gosh, the cats are the best part though. Check it out. Happy Saturday! Lots of love ❤️❤️❤️
Maybe someday we will
have written about humanity
and grace so much
that the paper we scribble on
will burn down
the forest of hate
that grows in casket-closed minds,
eradicating words like
racism, hate, bigotry.
The fire cleansing away
evil and ignorance.
Strike a match with
your pen.
Let’s try at least to
direct the language toward love.
Let’s keep moving the
adjectives higher and higher.
Trust the verbs to lead us,
the pin of light, to the fire.
Maybe as the trees come undone,
leaves igniting,
branches bursting with truth,
charity and clarity will rise.
Rustling beneath skin.
Love rising, tapping deep.
Opening eyes and cleaning tongues
in the dialect of compassion.
Hope slipping into the core.
Porous and large.
Looking out in every direction
until it is inside the sky,
the rocks, the moon.
Lacing the night and hearts with promise,
the rainy season finally over.
Until then, let your pens sway
against the dark waves.
Let’s push our boats against the current.
Light the candle wick.
Kiss it with fervor.
Give flame to the wind and waves.
-Tosha Michelle
Photo, my own
Poetry is all about perception.
It’s what we perceive, not what
we see.
It’s all in the rhythm.
The arrangement of the poetic
notes.
It’s about loosening those
syllables until they roll off our pens
in a dance of self.
We release our whimper and watch
it turn into a roar on paper
We write for preservation.
We write to empty the emptiness.
We write like we eat, to live
We spend our nights out on a limb so we can fall into the melody of our craft
Our souls writing on. Finding salvation in verse
-Tosha Michelle
The ones I love,
and have been
blessed to keep,
are sleeping
as night’s low
pitch hums slowly
fades.
I walk along the lake
with only the birds
to keep me company.
The clouds sticky,
but devoid
of cotton candy,
offer no sweetness.
I move through stony colors,
a stillness in my
soul.
The water churns,
dark froth travels
in its wake.
I cry for some
inexplicable reason.
Through my tears,
I stare out into
the silence,
and think of those
who make me the happiest.
And then I wonder
about those
who have come
and gone.
The ones I have lost,
lost loves, lost friends,
a litany of history.
Memories reclaim
me for a moment.
Has life carried
them where they
want to be?
Does the dusty world
ever taunt them, too?
Do they ever
wonder why time
offers no explanation
for grief and regret?
Do they ever weep
because whatever
we’re made of,
we can never alter
the ticking clock’s
hands.
I hope that there’s
a table set somewhere
for them, and morning kisses
to greet them.
The past opens quickly,
but recedes just as
fast.
I pick a dying
wild flower from its
sidewalk home,
just as a boat
heads off into the gray,
brushed stroke
of the mist.
A lone crow
plummets toward it,
like granite.
The first faint orange
spot appears in the
sky.
Lifting my chin to the sun,
to brightness.
I discard the unbreathable,
dizzy smell of nostalgia.
I bathe in the now,
and wash my soul
in today’s syllables
Thankful for what was,
but even more grateful
for those that remain
I know without them,
the air would taste
like nothingness.
Standing on the bridge
in the space between
yesterday and today.
I walk back toward
the scent of nectar,
of happiness
Eating up the sunshine
while I still can.
-Tosha Michelle
I’ve been besotted with chocolate.
I’ve been confused
by broccoli.
I’ve been stung by hornets,
but still I stirred the nest.
I’ve tripped over my mangled
spirit walking the narrow way.
I’ve prayed with fervor.
I’ve sinned with grace.
I’ve courted darkness.
I’ve loved the light.
I’ve questioned the sun.
Its answers reflected back
in the hourglass.
I’ve remembered to thank the academy of monotony:
laundry, vacuuming, dusting.
I’ve had it all: the sky, the finicky moon, the unfolded map.
I’ve got lost in a roundabout,
trying to navigate my mind.
I’ve lived well in unsettled hues.
I’ve been Saturday, Sunday,
and Monday.
I’ve tasted ash, eaten roses,
demanded a life of flames.
I’ve been a lunatic and lover.
I’ve been the Patron Saint
offering my protection.
I’ve been Judas,
freely spending the silver.
I’ve nearly drowned in the past’s harsh syllables.
I’ve held a grudge.
I’ve forgiven.
I’ve found a second soul.
I transcribe it in chaos and peace.
My heart circumventing the paradox.
I’ve learned how to rearrange the letters of myself in a sentence that fits.
Casting away yesterday’s syntax.
Coming unmoored.
I move toward clarity’s
swinging door as fast as
a sip through a straw.
I make my getaway.
The quarrel with myself over.
I stand at attention,
dust free.
I’ve survived.
-Tosha Michelle
Sometimes we just have to
tap our foot at the life we have
like we would to a familiar tune.
Sometimes there seems to
be a halfway point between
where you’ve been and where
you want go. But you’re stuck
on the side of the road where
the landscape looks dead, but
still you find some pretty in the trees
and that song in your head.
You sing full-lunged as you
toe tap down the highway.
And for a moment it doesn’t matter
what came before or what came after.
You don’t think about where you live
or where supper comes from.
You aren’t concerned with hunger or restlessness.
You just keep going forward, windswept and hope kept,
all too ready to be struck by something reckless,
something mad. Something so intensely hot
it could strike you dead.
-Tosha Michelle
