The Dandelion The toast burns to obsidian crumbs as the putrid smell starts to soar interrupting the meditation of my words that I routinely slit my heart to pour. Does it matter if I bleed or not? They concluded I am not a writer yet The story of thousand days and night Not a cent, a dime, a quarter it gets. Yes, I have miserably disappointed the masses But my failure though is yet to come For I continue to blow the dandelion Until I choose to be done. A 2nd-grade nipper stands alone a body deformed by torrential pain the ground beneath has cracked wide open as he flails to breathe and walk again how to feel warm in the arctic of grief when loved ones float far, far away the mother who packed his lunchboxes the father who gave him sobriquets Yes, life has struck him hard indeed But mind you, his defeat is yet to come For he continues to blow the dandelion Until he chooses to be done. Sifting through anguish, anger, and despair She stares at the heap of hands-me-down In the white and elite alleys of life The isms and dogmas suffocate and drown. Somewhere a poor father mops and cleans As she dithers at her lofty goals an impassioned dream beseeches them how to navigate the treacherous shoals? Yes, they may teeter, crumble, and fall But, be sure their end is yet to come For they continue to blow the dandelion Until they choose to be done. In the raven nights, the hurt that brews and snatches the hope of the medallion sun Yet, you must continue to blow the dandelion until you choose to be done Over a cup of tea September is an impish month, when summer and autumn play cat and mouse One time a dollop of hot glow, another time, a dash of cool breeze In the half-asleep morning, I teeter myself to the stove To make tea - a brown liquid in a brown ceramic pan, sweetened with brown sugar and just then, it goes- the electricity I stand still, stare, blink and wonder How to jumpstart the morning when the battery has died the body moves, but the brain lingers near the stove, holding the saucepan half filled with water and so the next two hours go by doing the usual and mundane the one he and I have been doing nonstop for years two unpoised performers filled with exasperation bathing the children, school uniforms, chobani and bananas, water bottles, and goodbyes Two hours later, the electricity is back, and I hasten toward the stove Just then, he calls; my husband He enquires about me and the tea "Common, you anyways had it in office, imagine me," I gripe "It's not the same, you know," he replies. and then we slide into silence sharing the long story of a short life about the regular and routine easily blinded by majestic milestones the unmagnificient squabble over less sugar and more ginger why is mine less than yours is there some more left in the pan can you please reheat mine why your mother puts too much cardamom and why my mother too many cloves about how the little girl is forgetful, just like you and the boy is a python geek, just like me about you don't know to pick fresh cucumbers and I am too picky with tomatoes about did you sleep well, as if you care you stayed up late-watching porn, right why can't you ever think straight? I swear is a tale that didn't unfold the way it does every day and that, as Robert Frost once taught us both in high school, has made all the difference.
