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T R S Jan 12
So often is shows whenever I write
That delightful full awful commotion is a spread
Dead it would seam if stitches hold meat
I'm sticky and all greasy from excessive heat
How lately I've had me
How debatingly bad it would be to
Find and to fill
Life spent off of broth and dramatic action of the
Edge of a window sill.
L Maughan Jun 27
I  know how much
I love a peach
or summer evenings
on the beach
I like the leaves of artichokes
and when I drink
I love to smoke
Avocados mangoes too
sunrise and twelve shades of blue
I love my bed I love my bike
and sometimes love the bad-boy types
cotton shirts and sweaters- great
Fluevog shoes and writing late
I love the wind on cloudy days
vibrant colors next to  grey
desert parties strings of lights
and sometimes- well I like to fight
a Varied Thrush’s morning song
and ***** talk- is that so wrong?
to skinny dip is just pure bliss
I like to ponder people’s wrists
and love hello’s you don’t expect
secrets kept out of respect
watermelon cantaloupes
goosebumps dogs and stupid jokes
the subtlety beneath a voice
where my mind goes reading Joyce
I love those slips that fall from tongues
and watching drummers is great fun
I love to travel north or south
I love your eyes I love your mouth
see how fast that line sneaked in
I love to love and then again
A Mar 2018
I taste the brightness
Of citrus when she smiles,
Almost like a sunrise.

I taste something mournful
When I remember our midnight conversations.  
Blackberries, dark and bitter,
But as the tang fades,
The stain remains.

People say crying tastes like saltwater.
Yes: the stale sting of sweat on my palms,
Tastes like graphite and desperation,
Like expired mangoes,  
And a voice that won’t stop talking.

I remember the ache of
Evenings, lonely and suffocating.
Mornings that I still wake to
Where I dream of breakfast and
Treat myself to black coffee.

It sounds like a braggart king’s
Biggest lie, the taste of death.
It tastes like showering in the dark,
Like metal and blood that won’t wash off,
Like black coffee when I would
Rather have Cheerios.
about tastebuds & old friends.
Today, the color yellow reminded me of you.
It reminded me of your fondness with mangoes
It reminded me that those memories were real
I could feel the humid sea breeze brushing through our sandy skin
I felt the coldness of the stark night when I was gazing through your shadow
The beautiful architecture of your face, and your lanky frame.
We owe it to ourselves, not the stars that blanket us
The beautiful disaster, that we have become...
Valsa George May 2016
So unexpected was the meeting
It was in the dim candle light
of a city restaurant that I saw her
How time had etched its marks on her
The long dark curly hair
has turned all white
The even set of pearly teeth
now discolored with missing gaps.
A weeping willow with gnarled branches!

Did she recognize me?
Her searching eyes registered
a limp awareness
Soon I saw her cataract eyes shining
in unclouded recognition!

My memory like the arm of a crane
lowered to plough up the hard crust of the past
and rose with heaps of broken rubble
I nosedived into the past
to the little village
where, as children we ran round
the long necked shady trees
until our little heads went dizzy

Stealing behind the tall grass
how I would suddenly yell out;
‘The thief is in hide
Come and track me if you can’
forcing on her an arduous search,
all the while giggling at her vain efforts!

How we ran after the ripe mangoes
that fell in ones and twos
when the winds shook the fruit laden boughs
and how we quarreled over the yellow ones
like mongrels over a piece of bone

I remember once when the drizzle
suddenly strengthened into a heavy down pour
with thunder and lightning accompanying,
how we ran dripping and frightened
seeking shelter in the empty cow shed
at the backyard of a house,
clasping tight to each other!
She was then a little girl
with springing feet and dancing steps
naïve and naughty with all mouth and ears

But as time skipped by
she kept a safe distance
No more I saw the former ebullience in her
In its place, a quiet reserve settled in
The chatterbox no more opened her mouth
To my questions, her answers were mono syllables
My efforts to walk by her side
always ended in futility
either she would quicken her gait
or lag behind at snail’s pace
Seeing me somewhere
she would walk away with eyes down cast
But I always noticed a faint smile
lingering on her curved narrow lips

Around it, I built my dream castle
where she reigned as my dazzling queen!
I am not sure how it was with her
One day even without an abrupt goodbye
I had to leave my hometown to an alien soil.

For long, she came, sailing in my dreams!

After a couple of years when I returned
to the land of my childhood
the mute witness to my unuttered passion
I knew from a close friend
that she was forced into a marriage
much to her consternation!
She is reported to have confided to someone
that she hoped the ‘thief who stole her heart
would one day, come out of hiding’

We met again
We heard each other’s cracked voice
and stood unable to recollect all

Much water had flown down
under the bridge
And we floated in the rush of currents!
This poem has to be understood in the light of the highly orthodox milieu of an Indian village of the time between 1960's and 70's when no computer or internet facility was available. There was a lot of segregation between the sexes and no free mingling was allowed. So there was no open expression of love. In a society where arranged marriage was preferred, even falling in love before marriage was seen as a taboo !
When there were no T.V's or cell phones,
When the sky was sequined with stars.
After dinner,family members and neighbours would gather outside on stone benches and chairs,
News and gossip would be shared with keen interest......
Whose wife ran away with whom,
Who delivered a baby,
Who was getting married.
Songs from the latest movie would be sung,
Stories and anecdotes  related,
It was fun.
We shared one apple and drank from the same bottle,
Are  fruits like mangoes and guavas from the fruitcarts without washing them,
Nothing happened to us.
We never went to a playground,
We played football,cricket, marbles, seven stones  and other games on the streets,
And if broke a window, we would run for our life.
We just popped in at our friends' house and shared their food,ate what was cooking in the kitchen,opened their fridges,
No formalities,
You didn't need a nanny to look after your children,
Extended family and neighbours helped out.
Everybody called the grandparents dadi or dadu,
The whole neighbourhood was one big happy family,
Those were the times.
In those days in the 50s 60s life was fun in E.Africa
Whether we are riding a unicorn
Across a rainbow
While the wind blows majestically
Our lustrous eye haloed by seagulls
We may act and act
Like we are tall
And our finger nails have
A big heart of their own
We may play kittens or puppies
And get excited about plastic bones
We may get lost in the grammar constructions and commas of sunset
In and out of our comfort zone
We may want to belong to two life clubs
And finish a movie every seven ten days
Always up for subtitles
Be it old sci fi 30's 40's 50's 60's noir war
We may try with a pair of scissors or a broom
To put death sleeping in socks  and plan ahead endless possibilities of karma
If we're wildly in love with life
And understand that life isn't a pie
That being in life isn't a sport
And that faith on life is a little like a full time job
But that death is like a hook living just around the corner whom we share
With the same post code.
Life is short, life is petite
Life is a ******, a dwarf, a suckling
Life is fast as a snap of our fingers
Life is a bait, a worm
Life is sparks
And we're a long time dead
So let's fish capers and mangoes
In and out the apparences
In and out the distance
While the harvest season is booming
Up there in the blooming volcanoes of sunset.
Vidushi Oct 2018
Green under-ripe fruit
Ripens slowly  
To that perfect sweetness
Succulent mangoes
Crimson strawberries
Inky blueberries
Swallow their soft flesh and let it nourish you
Before it’s too late
And their skin becomes dry and wrinkled
Black spots appearing
Bruised flesh that leaves a bitter taste
Eat it now
Before the fur settles on the fruit
Do not take your youth
For granted
it’s fresh sticks of vanilla deodorant,
cap’n crunch going on sale,
ladies selling mangoes in midtown,

it’s the pictures of baby cows,
the most specific dream tattoos,
documentaries about unsolved ******,

it’s an oxymoronic vegan cheeseburger,
striped shirts with a graphic one layered on top,
the clear memory of pacific air,

it’s all of robert smith’s hair,
prodigy kids on cooking shows,
stinging sunburns quickly fading,

it’s the perfume of onions and garlic sautéing,
smooth sidewalks where mom’s back is safe,
well-loved shoes that used to be white,

it’s an avocado perfectly ripe,
girls riding skateboards alongside boys,
rings that don’t turn fingers green,

its bras that won’t make memory foam of me,
jars full of change -- saving for something,
still going strong senior couples,

it’s an anthem that came up on shuffle,
the last clean socks without a hole,
chipped tooth smiles, snaggled ones too,

it’s just the word hullabaloo,
three new albums in a day,
someone else’s king sized bed,

it’s the **** pieces of loaves of bread,
an empty train after a long night,
dog tails that are just teeny nubs,

it’s sour candies and numb tastebuds,
weezer’s ever expanding discography,
end-of-day hair thrown into a bun,

it’s cobalt.
it’s b flat.
it’s twenty one.

it’s whistling.
it’s goosebumps.
it’s serendipity.

it’s getting out of the sound of the city,
untangling tiny necklace knots,
reuniting with my long distance cats,

it’s tongues to the tune of soundcloud rap,
learning a language even a little,
finally seeing real lighting bolts,  

it’s tourist dominoes when the train jolts,
finding keys -- being able to leave,
breaking in the most stubborn shoes,

it’s the empty after puking up *****,
flirting with customers and getting paid,
knowing every word and singing along,

it’s not breaking my friends’ bongs,
still doing cartwheels because i still can,
getting a thirty but taking an hour,

it’s waking up first, getting the warmest shower,
cutting my own hair, well, when it goes well,
having an umbrella when it starts to rain,

it’s getting out a demon stain,
taking pens from work, they don’t pay me
walking in to no lines at trader joe’s,

it’s picking things up with my toes,
learning the chord i’d been looking for,
tacking knick knacks on the walls,

it’s loitering in suburban shopping malls,
frosting cookies during christmas,
laughing for the first time in a while,

it’s getting told someone likes my style,
feeling a heartbeat other than mine,
sneaking in a second to breathe,

it’s witnessing every single thing,
picking through the good and bad,
and letting the little guys win,

it’s seeing.
it’s living.
it’s taking it in.
Stu Harley Sep 2018
red fruit bats
six-foot wingspan
migrate to central Africa
gorge themselves
sweet succulent mangoes
fruit bats
hang upside down
bending the branches
breaking the leaves
jungle islands of
mango trees
Kay-Ann Sep 8
In a quaint town in St. Mary,
I spotted an old lady with a kaleidoscope tied around
her waist and falling to her ankles
selling mangoes.
Behind her were strokes of shades of blue, white,
beige and seaweed-green--- this was not the place I
planted my umbilical cord. One minute, I stood on
the tip of my toe, body and left foot firmly in Kingston.
The next, I extended my right and reached across the
island. City chatter evaporated into seawater and mosquitos.
The potholes and gullies that hold water like soup stayed.
I stepped out of the vehicle, onto the new asphalt, never
taking my eyes off the gold, but the sound of a gunshot
stopped me. Nanny appeared; dark linens draped all over her
temples and torso, gold bullet lodged between shining teeth
that hinged on black gums.
Where do you think you’re going? Night will break but there
will still be cranes in the sky.

She sounded like my grandmother, but I didn’t feel like listening.
I continued on my path
to the orange-yellow mounds
but fell into a round
hole. Down there, I saw Bogle, a preteen being *****,
Tupac and lots of duppies. My hands
became bloodstained from fresh slits on my arms. The
heat from five hundred thousand eyes made my palms wet.
A white witch, the one from Rose Hall, started singing.
She knocked back two shots of vinegar and *****.
One for health and one for strength she said. Then, a shadow
offered the potion to me. I chugged it and came back to life.
It tasted like blood and sweat.
Why did I even bother doing my makeup?
Black eyeliner, now smudged, guarded my eyes,
keeping a pool of tears in its place. Fenty foundation,
running and brown like me. The mountain of orange-
yellows, reds and greens loomed before my tired eyes
like future skyscrapers. The woman was hidden by it
but I still could still feel her smile.
How much?
For you, free.
As I unmounted the mountain into my bag, the woman
was revealed to be me.
everly Aug 15
tender childhood piraguas
borinquen place
bbqs on the sidewalk
ice from the dollar store
gleaming on our necks till the
skin glows green
knee scrapes
Vicks to solve all
problems thoobies and
missing bobby pins under
rugs a neighborhood i’ve never-
yet always known, a glimpse of it and
it takes me back the cousin
always spiking my
Malta the **** that never
leaves the kitchen the smaller
cousins that lived in the park around
the block
the older cousin
that was always on
the phone with a different
boy, and kept a blanket over
the body mirror and refused to
explain why, we’d get a
shipment from our
family de la isla
aguacates and
quenepas fly out
the box while everyone
calls dibs and i’m home.

— The End —