"mangos" poems
on tall trees (en arboles altos)
they begin as small white flowers (empiezan como flores pequeñas y blancas)
with five petals (con cinco petalos)
and a sweet smell (y un olor dulce)
ready in summer (estan listos en el verano)
smooth skin (piel suave)
colorful skin (piel lleno de color)
red, orange, yellow, green (rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde)
single pit in the middle (una semilla en el medio)
sweet flavor (sabor dulce)
soft or firm (blando o firme)
the knife breaks the thin surface (el cuchillo rompe la superficie delgada)
and reveals a golden sun (y revela un sol dorado)
a sun (un sol)
bright (brillante)
shining (radiante)
and glorious (y glorioso)
i like mangos (me gusta mangos)
mango juice (jugo de mango)
mango smoothies (batidos de mangos)
mango ice cream (helado de mango)
i have a candle (tengo un cirio)
that smells like (que huele como)
mangos (mangos)
it’s one of my favorite smells (es uno de mis olores favoritos)
in the entire world (en todo el mundo)
when i think of (cuando yo pienso en)
mangos (mangos)
i think of (yo pienso en)
summer (el verano)
my happy place (mi lugar feliz)
my paradise (mi paraiso)
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
How fortunate
Our color blends unintentially,
Wildly with thoughts bleeding outside the lines what have we started: again
And again I stroke
And again you absorb
And again this easel-- summoned
And again your vellum-- softened
Perched on a stool,
Vibrant as mangos --ripening
I chose you, the spectrum
Unknown to most
The only museum I go to.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Between food and *** it's difficult to decide which of these pleasures we enjoy most. Washed my hands, I'm a good host. Besides, eating with my hands is the part i enjoy most. The flavors spilling over, dripping, running down my wrist. The potency and aroma, only one thing smells, and taste, like this. Your lips; soft, fleshy, texture, the juices running down my lip - Drip, drip. The taste, I'll **** lick, bite or sip;the clear liquid so thick, your mainstream, runs quick. Concave crevasses, my fingers still fit. The colors of the flesh, delight, changing shapes, move and shift. Fuzzy little peaches, mangos wild, for fruits like this. Taste of heaven, leaves a stain that sticks. Without the tender fruits of your ***** none of this would exist.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice
Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies
Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets
Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians
Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense
Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations
Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings
Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
you can only eat each mango once
so i go tree to tree picking the best looking mangos i could find
one day i hope to sprout a tree of my own when i find the perfect mango
many of these mangos are sweet
for that reason none of them stand out
i find a mango that has fallen from its tree
it has been bruised and hidden from the sun
this mango is too tough to slice
i approach it differently
this mango is just as sweet as the others
but i like it because it's tad bitter
maybe it's bitter because it's just as sweet
just not as pretty
i like this mango
i want to plant it
but it might be too soon
too soon to grow that seed
so i'll throw this one mango away
not because i don't like it
because i found it too soon
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
In Ohio I order a pizza. The menu says one of the items I can put on it is Mango. That's curious.
I buy a Hawaiian mango at the new Supercenter Grocery Store, and the check-out girl asks
what's this? and I say it's a mango. She says, no it's not, that's a mango, and points to the green pepper.
In Hawaii, I work at a farm, and pick some Lilikoi. A customer asks my co-worker if we have any passionfruit, and she says no. They ask me if lilikoi is like passionfruit and I say its dakine, but she's a visitor and doesn't understand, so I say, it's the same thing.
There's a Hawaiian family with a fruit stand; I like to trade the extra lilikoi for their really good mangos they grow, but the Hawaiian word is Manako. Since they know I always want manako, I ask dakine? They were out, so instead he asked you want some Apples? I thought he meant those little red pears they call Mountain Apples and looked perplexed when I couldn't see any, so he picked up a clump of miniature bananas. Oh, yes I love Apple-bananas.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
The fruit bowl is staring at me.
It's eyes are fat, sweet, mangos.
My mother keeps bringing them home for me.
A childhood favorite, she knows.
Something so tropical and sweet
can only remind me of you.
And the mango you plucked for me
ripe from it's tree by the shore.
And the loves you swore to me
juicy, sticky, dripping from your lips.
I haven't the hear to tell her
I have since lost the taste.
The flesh bitter and empty now
like the promises you made to me
their juices stain my mouth, clothing, fingertips.
Everything I have touched is sticky with them.
She tells me not to forget about them.
To eat them before they spoil.
I tell her "I won't forget,"
when what I mean to say is
"I can't."
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
I like ****** like I like my mangos...all over my face.
I like my hotdogs like dick...all covered in sauce and jammed down my throat...
JK...i dont like hotdogs.
I like fruit salad...In the can
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 6:35 AM UTC
.
1 can diced
mangos, drained•
1 can diced tomato
es, drained • 1\4 cup
diced red onion •
1\4 cup chopped
fresh cilantro or
mint• 1\2 jalapeñ
o, seeded and fin
ely chopped or 2
tbsp. canned dice
d jalapeño. • 2 tb.
p. fresh lime or
lemon juice ****
stir together all ingredients
in medium bowl Serve as a dip with
tortilla or pita ch ips or as a topping
for quesadillas or grilled chicken
fish or pork ****
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
Lucky Strikes and Mangos,
Which one would be good at the tango?
SPANDANGO!
Indulge with them at a watering hole.
Intolerance placed on smoking fruitiers,
Intolerance placed on back-packing Reindeers.
Both come up close,
But always fish off long piers.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
Under the mango tree lies a soul sweet and sour
Under the mango tree grows new born strength
Stories will be told to generations at the night hours
The mango tree grows with her energy running through it
For those who first knew her , will tell you she was fierce
The center of attention and everyone’s friend
The mango trees leaves will fall and grow again
There will be rainy days
There will be sunny days
But under the mango tree there’s a light that will never burn out
I know she’s gone but I know she’s always here
whenever I’m upset I’ll remember her words clear
“If there’s nothing you can do about it , find something you can do about it”
Ironic mangos , hard on the outside , soft on the inside
Under the mango tree lies a mother a daughter a sister , my godmother💚 I love you
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 10:25 PM UTC
Why does my heart still race when I see you?
I saw you walking today, with your friend, and all I could think was "Wow. Is this what a heart attack feels like?"
Because I can't believe it, I was done. I was OVER you.
And instead my heart goes "Beep... Beep... Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEP. BEEP. BEEPBEEEPBEEEPBEEEPBEEEP," every single time you come around, like a freakin radar.
I am not a submarine.
I do not NEED for every single cell in my body to alert me when you're within 20 feet of me because, like I said before, I WAS DONE.
No! Don't you dare smile at me with your crooked mouth and shining eyes.
Because then I feel gross.
I DON'T LIKE THE THOUGHT OF BUTTERFLIES FLYING AROUND IN MY STOMACH.
That is disturbing and physically impossible.
My stomach acids would've killed them on contact. Don't try to make this crush cute.
So please, for the love of a Jesus Christ Super Toaster, don't do THAT anymore.
And by "THAT" I mean, don't make me love you anymore.
I can't stand it and I won't for any longer.
In church I was taught that having idols was bad, but that's exactly what you are to me.
A forbidden fruit
So I am praying to God that you are a mango because I hate mangos.
Their insides are too thick and outsides way too thin.
Which is exactly like you because you are a haywire of emotions, but I can easily peel you away to see who you really are.
Maybe I do like mangos...
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
My 9-5 doesn’t make me feel alive.
But with the money, I can put gas in my car so I can drive.
I want to drive away from all the problems of the world. The anger, the hate, and the weird situation I have with this one girl.
Although my love for her is deep and true, we had weird misunderstandings before, and now I guess her feelings are through.
Today I feel blue.
On a good day my soul would feel like mangos and pineapples in a smoothie, but because of my 9-5 my days have slowly become more gloomy.
Oh ‘boohoo’ me
“Look boy that’s just reality.
You think all day you can just sit at home play video games and watch TV?”
Well no it’s not like that, but I really do feel like this just ain’t the life for me.
I want to be happy. I want to be free. I want to have good company, and stop feeling so god **** lonely.
I want to feel hope
not sit inside the house looking for different ways to cope.
They say a job like this it’s just a stepping stone,
But why does it feel like they’re throwing stones?
Now my body and spirit feels too weak to try and find something else.
So
Cry Baby, Cry,
Cry so that you don’t lose your mind.
Cry Baby, Cry,
Cry so that you don’t feel like **** inside.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
really hot days
remind me of my home
the one across the sea
with mangos ripe on the vine
and yellowed grass
if I close my eyes,
i can almost taste the dust in the air
feel the warm embrace of my family members
that i miss so dearly
smell the petrichor off the hot cement floor after a fresh monsoon rain
time zones apart feel like worlds apart
and they are
when your family is dying
and there is no way to comfort your aunt
because her husband is taking his last breaths
there was no chance for her to say goodbye
to her father, to her husband,
both lay in hospitals
continents apart
isolated, but not unloved
both gone, not even a month apart
the borders have been closed for i don’t even know how long
there is no physical way for us, let alone her own children, to be present
all we do is wait
most of my memories are spent on
drinking chai on the veranda
or dancing in the rain with Papa
playing holi with pails of water mixed with “gulal” and water pistols.
seeing the smiles of all my family members,
together once again.
really hot days
remind me of my home
smoke from the wildfires mimics the smog in the air
the sun - a red ball in the grey sky
if i shut my eyes real tight
i can still get a glimpse of us on the rooftop, celebrating life.
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 11:15 PM UTC
Maynard the Martyr
moored in the marshland
misrepresented
and misinformed
much maligned
melancholy
misfortunate and small-minded
unmotivated
a real Melvin –
macho magpies munch
mangos and marshmallows
in the moonlight
mired in muck and mud
misshapen
mutated
malformed
mushrooms
manifest momentarily
mocking Miss Marple –
marbleized Maples
mobilize
marching to madness
in moccasins
across Morocco
to Monico
or Mexico
perhaps Montana?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
The only thing that ties me to this quilt-patched land, is memories of a flag: red, white, yellow, and blue.
Red is the blood used to paint our doorways—protection from ghostly wolves that sought our firstfruits. It is fight, even if our weapons are terribly flimsy. Bamboo tinted spears, mashed with berry paint and maskara on our brows is our arsenal. We fight in, and with the shadows. Light chases them down. Memories of GomBurZa, Noli Me, Balintawak, Tirad Pass and even EDSA remind me of how the wounds are slowly closing. Red is the color of our scars.
White is the gifts we received from our conquerors. The plow and the print: an awakening of consciousness new. White is the color of skin that polished us. White is also the gift of void, bleakness and forgetfulness. In exchange for the new, we shafted the old: our language, our anitos. A gift of disconnect: resolute Babel collapsing, burying us in tongues filled with sorcerous lisps. We curl in vain our own lips to fit their shapes. We speak gibberish now. The ghosts scoff at us in an even newer language of their own invention.
Yellow is the sweet sun which kissed us tenderly—even as we were surrounded by bolo, spear, sword. The sweet sun fights to give us light, and reaches out to us misunderstood. It shaped our land—softened our soils and gave it fruit. It is mangos, and papaya skins, and ripe bananas. It gives us joy and sweetens our sweat.
Blue are the lakes beneath which linger our roots. With the water is our identity: our hearts, our gait, our dance: the light shuffling of feet, the sway of brown hands, the wind waving at the rice buckets bobbing on our heads. We were never a warlike people. When we are wounded, we seek refuge in our seas, in the saltwater wounds that so painfully clean us of dastard memories. They sting like a freshwater song. Like the harsh howling of the monsoon rains, and the tides rising and falling with our chests. Humming.
We forget and we remember, like the ebbs and flows of the shore, the coastal highways that we leave in peace, like a languid dance. They float in and out of history—as one hops in and out of bamboo rods as they dance the Tinikling. The songs, they string us well. String names like humble Rizal, larger than life, and manic Bonifacio, who looked us straight in the eye. Names that sing of the prairie wind—softly massaging the hard grains that we till quietly in the fertile soil.
Soil—what ties us together is our history.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
Peel me mangos
And the pain goes and mixes with the fruit’s sweet flesh,
Dripping fresh and bitter-sweet
You still come to me when I’m asleep
to whisper pretty nothings in my ear
until my brow sears each passing thought with your image
I imagine you as timid as at our first meeting, as bold as at our last, your laughter repeating on and on and on
on our last day you kissed me sweetly, the taste of mango on your lips
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC
plug-in your head music
remember being young
on a pogo stick
a unicycle
with training wheels
under
sunshine of your
love
o’ shine on
you crazy
diamond
run in the
jungle
feel the rain
on sunny day
and let it be
misunderstood
stop your moon tears?
run in Reeboks?
come on
you painter of
words
chew
good & plenty
plant
lime lima beans
kaleidoscope kale
juicy fruit gum
harvest
magenta mangos
paisley peaches
or go to an auction
bid on
T-bone
bubble gum
sprout beans
Tahitian telecaster
pre-rolled wagon wheel
sweet sixteen candles
Hound Dog Taylor’s
Brownie McGhee loafers
no?
yes?
don’t change
your lunatic fringe
in twilight’s open season
read
The Hidden Singer
dance
boogie woogie
cha-cha-cha
outside the house of the rising sun
so turn it up, Mr. James
your big wheel
keeps on turnin’
groove
to the little bird
who sings and sings
© 2011 chuck a stetson
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 7:07 PM UTC
A ti, manzana,
quiero
celebrarte
llenándome
con tu nombre
la boca,
comiéndote.
Siempre
eres nueva como nada
o nadie,
siempre
recién caída
del Paraíso:
plena
y pura
mejilla arrebolada
de la aurora!
Qué difíciles
son
comparados
contigo
los frutos de la tierra,
las celulares uvas,
los mangos
tenebrosos,
las huesudas
ciruelas, los higos
submarinos:
tú eres pomada pura,
pan fragante,
queso
de la vegetación.
Cuando mordemos
tu redonda inocencia
volvemos
por un instante
a ser
también recién creadas criaturas:
aún tenemos algo de manzana.
Yo quiero
una abundancia
total, la multiplicación
de tu familia,
quiero
una ciudad,
una república,
un río Mississippi
de manzanas,
y en sus orillas
quiero ver
a toda
la población
del mundo
unida, reunida,
en el acto más simple de la tierra:
mordiendo una manzana.
1.7k
If the motivation is there and why wouldn't it be
I could hold back the tides
I could dry up the sea,
we
if we chose could close deals on the spot
we
could do such a lot
with
the right motivation,
reach the right destination without reading a map
zap any obstacles that obstruct our path,
grow mangos and lychees
bathe in the ganges
do as we please
with the right
motivation.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
to print herself the headache of the magnolia
sometimes spreads up to the legs of the ripe mangos
in the water that creeps up to the horizon
the magic-deer of panchbati is sailing solo
under the neon-sun the groundnuts learn
the vow-tale of the deep lipstick
if in the centre of the mango-pith … standing on the hanging-balcony
there is a flower of guava … then …while walking along her sweet grievances
some day that handmade fan must be traced… to make the clouds that are swept in by storm more literate … the time to dip the painting brush
in the colour of whose recommendations is still……..
it happens… from the desire to get printed
the magic-deer… before reaching to any literacy-centre …
some dusts gather on her body…some part is eaten by the ants…
although there should have been some arrangements
to spray the red-rose regularly
and next … the winter comes
the hands want to be stolen
under the blue scarf
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:31 PM UTC
The best meal I ever had
wasn't in a five star restaurant
in Northern Manhattan.
It was sliced mangos
and cheese
on a blanket left laying under a
quaking aspen
I'll never see again.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
we walked into a book store
eating mangos
I read history
you read fantasy
a chuckle caught my grinning lips
you smiled towards me
juice dripped
from your cheeks
you never look more
beautiful
we bought our imaginations
tickets to the carnival
road the carousel
over and over and over again
laughing like careless adolescents
both sick off the mangos
we ate corn dogs
road the ferris wheel
kissed the stars
and brought them home to play with us
we dressed them
in my mother's old cloths
she no longer needs them
neither do I
I still hold on to them
one day
I will burn them in a field
along with everything I own
and place the ashes in my mother's grave
on that night
we shall let the stars go
make the long journey back
to whatever imaginary place
we call home
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
morning came
like someone spilled a crate
of mangos though my window
that was my first thought this morning
the rest of today i am nearly unable to speak
because everything out of my mouth is
grammaradical somewhat-poetry
and when people ask what’s up
all i can say is that “i am
quivering with emotion”
haha…. okay izzy
when i look at the sky i’m thinking of
like, idk, shattered shotglasses and robin hood
arrows in a sack on my back
to pin down whimsy and hope
quivers full of emotion
i don’t want to talk and that never happens
but i can’t remember what words look like
because i’m too busy tasting them
this part of the world feels too small please
i’m ready to leave or let poets sleep in my bed
haha… okay izzy
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
An old Florida home
Mango tree in the back yard
Hanging over our patio
When May comes
The Mangos are ripe
As ripe as the school children are for summer
As ripe as the reflection of the sun
The sun’s brightness is blinding
And every time we open our eyes
After having stared at the sun
Our perspective on the world is different
Our change of perspective is not conscious
When it rains
It’s fresh
Fresh like dew on a daisy
Fresh like a daisy sitting in the hair of a girl in love
A girl in love
It sounds foolish
That we accept such a complex notion
There aren’t any noncomplex concepts
An explanation doesn’t exist
I could explain for hours
Explaining wouldn’t mean anything
Explaining wouldn’t mean anything more than the coming of May
Or the passing of summer
Even the new beginning of fall
Fall to the ground
Be with the soil
Nothing is forever
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC