Shadow Dancing


Be the howling moon
or the quiet wind.

Be Orion and his
starlight shield.

Be the road with no
street signs.

Be waylaid plans;
the lost map.

Arrive on the sidewalk
without knowing where
you are going.

Be the lightning bug.
The crickets,
telling secrets to
the air.

Be the couple walking
into the privacy of
nightfall,

Be their watch. Be
their hands.

Be the cafe always
open late, slide
into the flow of
the coffee.

Be the noodle slip
off the novice’s
chopsticks. The
soup disappearing
in the bowl

Be the siren in the
distance, the choir
music filtering
through the door of
St. Michael’s

Be the
patrons leaving the
bar.

Be the drink in their
glass. The holy water
they swim in.

Turn left.
or
Turn right.

Be the narrow streets,
the high beams on a
city bus. The cab called
they waved off.

Be the cracks in
the sidewalk, the steep
stairs leading 5 floors up.

Be the bright apartment
and the glow from the
lamp light coming through
the window. Want to be
that glow. See two bodies
sways.

Be the shadow behind the
shade.

-Tosha Michelle

Advertisements

The Awakening 


No longer content with the
winter life and its flannel
sleep. Self and it’s terms
finally meet

She wipes away
the frost from her soul
And sees spring illuminated
beyond the cold.
Sunlight the trinket she’s
always possesed
misplaced for awhile
shine from within.
Her sepia world
long deprived of green
become vibrant and
alive again.

She walks away in blue
with plenty of heart
by the light of her own
eyes, no longer needing
to find it in another.
The view defined by her,
and her alone.

-Tosha Michelle

Music for Friday 

A quote and a song for this lovely Friday.

“Nothing had changed. I was the stupid one again. I was the girl who never understood who she was to people.”
-Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

And my musical selection. Wanna slow dance? 😜 I will step on your toes. Have a listen and a wonderful weekend. ❤️ Oh, and look y’all, another pair of new eyeglasses 😮

The Chill Factor

image

I just want a corner to lie
down in.

Pull the covers over
my heart.

Let it get buried in
snow.

Somewhere underground
where the coordinates get lost

A hideout from worry and the
slow burn out of life.

My calendar whited out.
My fingers too cold to hold.
My lips too raw to kiss the end note.

And I can live in the moment
before.

A frozen vessel alone
in the stillness.

My soul encased in a thousand
miles of Arctic air.

-Tosha Michelle

Derailed


In a universe where the train of
knowledge is slowly coming derailed
And the footnotes of historical understanding are being written in Morose Code
where SOS looks more like SOOL
And the landscape is being erased
with swooping disregard.
Is there still hope justified?
Does humanity deserve revisions?
Hasn’t the plot been rewritten a
thousand times?
Maybe the story’s moral is
keep weaving until reason is found
Disappointed love is still love.
And a pen beating against a desk
can still be struck by the wind

-Tosha Michelle

Day Tripper 

Please excuse my absence. I have doctor’s note. Ha.  Just not from that kind of doctor. You guessed it,  a witch doctor. Ha! In reality, currently working on my post graduate degree. It’s keeping me pretty pretty busy.  I haven’t had a lot of time to write poetry. I did take a day trip to the mountains recently and thought I would share some photos with you. Miss interacting with you all. 








Istonic 


Sometimes, I feel like I’m a chapter
from a long forgotten red bound book,
sitting on the nightstand, lost amoung
the newest must read novels.
Other times, i feel like a Whitman poem,
beloved and well read.

Tonight I just have a broken feel.
I raise a glass of regret to memories
that burn, drink to dreams lost, and
loves that failed. Malaise in my bones.
Nostalgia my hydrophobia.

Here’s to:
the nights that turned sour, yet somehow never eroded the palatableness of a half full glass.
I still believe in the soothing cadence
of a soft voice calling my name,
that’s there’s still a double shot
of swoon being poured into a sturdy
pitcher just for me.

I can almost hear the seductive clang of ice, the jazz of a tenor sax who’s notes decant silk sheets, and that drunk dazed look from phenylalanine released, I sway to the knowledge that love is
so much more than that.

Sometimes just a melancholy riff,
a glass knocked over.
Still there’s sweetness left to savor.
The music only dormat to those
who refuse to listen.

-Tosha Michelle

Photo courtesy of yours unruly