Two Poems by Namrata Singh

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. 
Namrata Singh

Namrata is a contributing author and an essayist to some of India's leading platforms- Literoma, Women's Web, Women's Era, Kitaab International, Readomania, Momspresso, ArtoonsInn, Penmancy, and more. She has four books to her credit- No Apologies by Women's Web, Lovers and Losers by Momspresso, Immortality by Chinmaya Publications, and I am what I am again by Chinmaya Publications. Poetry is her first love, and one can often find her lost in the wilderness of words. She resides in Irvine with her family and her poetry books.

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