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 a 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.
Of several things that astonish me about people, one of them tops the chart------How do people continue to hope and rise amidst fear, discouragement, and disappointment? Amidst blood, sweat, and tears. When the Shangrila of dreams shatters, what propels one to dislodge the shards from the bleeding places and start walking again? I find myself woefully inadequate when it comes to understanding human resilience. What I know for sure is- it exists. What I know for sure is that life would have ended for many of us without it.
This poem salutes that very human spirit.
Read this poem on Momspresso.