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Louise 4d
Be careful when eating its flesh.
For it is the color of the sunrise,
but its stains leaves tinges of sunburn.
Be careful in savoring its juices,
for the flavor might be sweet
but the price to pay is steep.
Its tree is mighty, yet not for climbing.
The fruit dreamy, yet will sting like a bee.
I will forget your name, like a cliché novela.
I will forget your face, like another man.
As the season of mangoes comes to a close,
I will soon bury the skin and all yellows.
As I welcome the taste of the storms,
be devoured by the rains and pours,
I will heal like a witch with smoke and fire,
I will forget you like night forgets the light.
In response to "Sweet Mango Summer",
the last of this series. 🥭☀️
Louise May 20
It's all but one monday in May,
but a fair maiden as I
want nothing more,
want nothing much,
than to make a mistake.
To forget June, July,
and the mayday,
or the dread of next monday.
I want to walk at the beach, feet on sand,
like I have any other choice...
I want to eat mangoes in an island,
hear your morning voice...
I want to feel your lips, hold your hand,
as if you have any other choice...
I know you want to feel my hips,
so make up your mind.
You are running out of time.
Either hear my moans or my plain voice...
Make up your mind.
While I make you my man,
and make your mondays fun.
So make up your ******* mind.
You are running out of god-given time.
Make me your woman,
and make my mornings warm.
Make love to me at dawn,
I'll kiss your doubts away to sundown.
We'll make love until the fall of this town,
we'll build a new kingdom without a crown.
Summer here? Or summer there? Kiss me and fall in love with me, would you even dare?
Louise May 14
I have always likened my summers to those summers of my childhood vacations.
And every passing year, I feel like it's slipping further away from me on and on.
I have always imagined another summer full of sun, sand and fun.
Like that of my childhood days
that have been long gone.
I say to the sun; "please, even just another one."
But then I've lost count of how many summers have passed,
and all it did was pass me by.
I've lost track of how much time and how much of my dreams has been gone,
and how they just all fly.
I pray to the sea; "please, don't kiss me goodbye."
I kept waiting and chasing for summer,
but then maybe summer also thought
I am to be chased away.
I won't hold it against the rains
that pours in the middle of May,
I just hold my palms together and pray.
I sing to the sands; "please, I don't mind that you are gray!"

Sometimes, I crave the mango ice candies that our rich neighbor used to make and sell.
The sounds of my old coin bank whenever I would shake it, like a captivating church bell.
Every summer, they go to Guimaras and back to Manila to sell mangoes from their farmland.
Mangoes that I remember were bigger than my head, but as smooth as my hand.
But their matriarch passed when I was in fifth grade and stopped making them since.
Looking back, I feel like that's also when my childhood have died, felt her last kiss.
Now sometimes, I think about how I would never feel the delight of my childhood summers ever again.
Like how I would never taste the sweet mango ice candy that my childhood neighbor used to make in May.
Now sometimes, I wallow in fear over how I'll never get to feel the summer that my soul is so craving anymore.
Like how I would chase summer, only to be followed by the rain and thunders, by the threat of a low tide shore.
God I hope I'm wrong.
I really hope I'm wrong.
So I say, pray and sing,
to the sands, sun and sea;
"May you bring my childhood,
my old summers back to me!"
Childhood in the Philippines are made of mangoes, sun, summer, sand, ice candies... maybe these are just the medicines that we need again, as adults braving the crazy world away.
Louise May 10
Sometimes, I sit and think about how perfect some things are. Like nature.
Sometimes, I stop and admire how perfectly orchestrated some things are.
Sometimes, I think about how I think you came to my life at the perfect time.
Sometimes, I realize that maybe we go beyond time itself, like sun does to night.
Sometimes though, I'd think that maybe you're just another lesson, yet of what?
Sometimes too, I'd sit with myself and ask,
haven't I learned my lesson? But there's you.
Maybe we are made to be together,
like two perfect puzzle pieces made to fit.
Maybe we are meant to be for each other,
like post-modern world and a pile of bills.
Maybe I was born to make you feel better,
like a childhood snack that you still eat.
Maybe you were made to make me believe,
that everything has a reason for being.
Maybe we are meant to be together,
like eating mango in the heat of summer.
Maybe we are meant to simply meet,
like waves to shore, to touch each other.
Anais Vionet May 7
Something’s happening, let’s call it sunrise, for now,
and summer vacation in Geneva, in umm.. 10 hours.
My heart-beat is spiking, like a flag or kite flying.
I’m leaving an empty room - making one last pass with a broom.

I’m stuffing my bag, with the last few things, for escape on aluminum wings.
My dreams, woven in bright, butterfly tapestries, are rolled and folded -
packed between urgent fantasies and harsh, time-sensitive practicalities.

I know you’re there, a quarter-world away, good news, pegasus awaits,
to streak gulf-stream high, over choppy oceans wide with mechanical fire,
its ice-cycle crystal contrail will point, like cherub cupid's arrow, toward you.

Forget pixels, tech instruments, remote lifeline connections,
and prayer-like whispers over thin, criss-crossed wires.
I’m making my move, coming compass-needle true,
to press up close, reintroduce, extemporize and ******.
.
.
music for this:
Someday by Sugar Ray
sunburn by almost monday
This Charming Man by The Smiths
Heaven by Los Lonely Boys
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge: extemporize: to improvise
Louise May 1
Your skin, the color of the early morning sunlight.
Your taste, sweet and sublime.
As I bite into your flesh, I forget everything
just like how the light forgets the night.
Your tree is groovy, however mighty.
Your fruit, the dream of every honey bee.
As I savour every drop of your juice, I forget my name,
like we're in some cliché first love story.
Your seed, caller of more mangoes this season.
Your cheek, red, orange, sometimes yellow.
As I devour your entirety, I forget the promise of storms,
only remembering your sweetness from now on.
Summer is a sweet mango.
And over the specks of dust and rose-colored evenings,
in the melancholic fate of soliloquy;
yet as wretched as her soul be, her very first breath was, “Have mercy.”
 
The pale, starry-eyed of April’s sky ends, and it’s pouring; the trees are swaying in their places; the sun is impressed by the rising of the lilies.
Daunted by the ray of light, quietly caressing its innocence.
 
She looked over the moon, as if it were painted by someone she knew.
In hope, she clenched her fist and whispered again and again and again.
Like the petals of dried daisies fallen from the moon.
 
She knew it’s written on the stars; someone knows her name.
 
The airy summer between spring and March’s language, an imprecise grief of longing,
a desert of bones starved on
an ethereal ghost of past summers and the sickening void of the night sky,
she needed to endure
something in her holler with violence—some rage kept on the other side of her old pillow.
 
And yet it’s still written on the stars—someone knows her name.
 
Where the river flows, she follows.
In hopes she’d be directed to the one who wrote her;
achingly believing she’s the muse this time.
Who else could have written her the way she is?
 
With her eyes the same as the earthly sand,
her lips alive in light gray, with the way she lit up when the moon reveals himself to her,
the sea pushes upon the land as if it were longing to kiss her weary feet.
 
With the way her hips dance when she walks, when she closes her eyes, only she can hear her author’s note at the back of her heart. Slowly yet surely whispering, “It’s written on the stars. I wrote your name, my love.”
 
And so she follows the flow of the river, faithfully locking her eyes in the waters' steepness. She gently brushes the cold river, and so it quietly blushes at the thought of her.

That someone like her was cared for enough by her own artist.
april, you were legendary and momentary. good days are coming.
whenever she's suspended
affixed
at the apex
of my mind'e eye,
she commands my attention

every breath
of hers
is the wind

tempests of life
unfurling
from her tender lips

'pon which
I run
a steady finger
tracing the grooves
of her supple
flesh
as she whispers
my name

her tongue flickers

tasting
the salt of my skin

fresh from the sea
where we first made love

where I carried her
from shore
to fresh water
to be cleansed
by healing waters
and leave the sea's poison
to the creatures
of the deep
the drunkards
of deepest sin

though time has passed
decades now, since then
I can still feel her
straddling my face
beneath
the running waters
silent
save her breaths
long & satisfied
every exhale
was purposeful

and where she lay
I remember
her legs
poised,
inviting

her expression, yearning

the world had passed away

gone, in the midst
of our rapture
and who
could have stopped us
anyway

I remember
my pride vanished
as hours
in my imagination
became minutes
in reality

I had never known
I could be
so weak

spent

how she took everything
I had to give

how she gave me
everything
I ever wanted

how no woman
has ever
given me one moment
as breathless
as a day spent
in love
from the pool
to the beach
to the shower

how no other woman
could trap me
in one room
for decades
and leave me there, waiting
with
no
regrets...
A poem about someone I once knew.

If I could time travel, and slip back into my past selves, she would likely be the first, and maybe only, woman I'd return to spend time with.
Ander Stone Apr 17
lost fragrances of easy summer mornings
when all she knew was the dirt
between her toes
and scattered throughout her
golden hair.

lost melodies of lazy summer days
when all she knew was the water
of river susurrations
and warmest shortlived rains
caressingly falling.

lost bites of ripe summer evenings
when all she knew was the sweetness
of rose-red lips
and shared apricots with she
of auburn hair.

lost glances of torrid summer nights
when all she knew was the lust
of her youth
and the wine shared between
first loves.

lost times of summer's end
when all she knew was gone.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 11
Sand witches, solar sisters, they are the
west coast in this part of the cosmos,
tied to the hip with American thighs
and Brazilian otherwise, donning
catamaran bottoms the color of
red liquorice and snuggly
they sit at their
international
dateline
as if by
magic
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