Best Mangoes Poems
My childhood smells of the
Mellow fruit hung on trees
Mother mixed spices for
Mango pickles.Today
Mason jars she packs for
Me to take. Hurts to say-
Ma! Customs won't allow
Written on:04/19/2017
My mouth is just watering
For the ripe mangoes,
The salesman is bargaining!
Down by Hope Street where the frangipanis bask,
And the Goddess of Love has put up her tent,
Lives a lady with fire in her eyes and cats in her kitchen.
Oh of course I will tell you she's an angel if you ask,
And her magic lies in the making of enchantment,
Why then do dark clouds cover my silent sun?
We will sing together and dance in a fury of touch,
Like the wind does when a storm comes passed,
We will laugh and joke and taste wine in gentle sips,
And that won't matter much,
Because as you might have guessed,
Love has taken me and kissed me on the lips.
Time has curled up on her couch like a Siamese cat,
Yet she still loves mangoes and a foot massage at night,
Perhaps God finally got it right,
When he touched her finger and tipped his hat,
And she walked out into the light,
Why then do dark cobwebs trap me in fright?
By the sea of blue and the grass so green,
She will lay her head on my shoulder and hum,
And all the dark clouds will drift away,
The cobwebs will vanish forever,
In the dark I will find my way,
And finally..finally...finally,
The bells repeating in my brain will cease,
And I will be able to breathe again.
Oh lady of Hope Street dance for me once more,
Before the candles in my lonely church are lit,
Come with me and sway upon the dance floor,
And I will read a poem and gently massage your soul,
And the red fire of enchantment will burn forever more.
They grow on
Short and tall trees
All year long.
Their juice so sweet,
Succulent,
For everyone
Who loves tropical sweetness.
© Joseph, 11/14/07
© All Rights Reserved
The Whitney poem is a titled, syllabic, one verse form created by Betty Ann
Whitney. It has seven lines with a syllable pattern of: 3/4/3/4/3/4/7. The form can
be written with or without rhymes.
I know I’m bat and bird
other birds chorus to me
hunger, hunger, hunger
Do we have any factory
to manufacture hunger?
look at birds kingdom
they live healthy lives
in the bush they are okay
Does the bat feed them?
If you are dying of hunger
go to the trees, eat mangoes
dream not about food
from gardens and granaries
of human beings with houses
those who are dying, hungry
their five star hotels
are in the generous bush
eat fruits and survive
Yes. I have said them well
I need not a human being
to tell me I’m wrong
I don't know about the rest of the world,
But New Zealand will be sitting pretty this Christmas.
Santa may have trouble delivering the presents for the children,
We are not out of the woods with Covid, but fingers crossed.
Some family members will be stuck overseas,
And the number of homeless is on the rise.
But with enough Mangoes and Bananas for all,
We will be sitting pretty this Christmas.
We are so glad the government got their priorities right,
And let Mangoes and Banana's through without going into isolation.
We hope the rest of the world takes note,
so, everyone no matter where they live can have Mangoes and Banana's
too, this Christmas.
For Breakfast Christmas morning we will be serving banana pancakes,
With blueberries and strawberries etc.
Christmas dinner will be followed by Mango ice cream and bananas with
chocolate sauce.
And maybe a Mango Drink with or without Alcohol.
Of course, if we get tired of Mangoes and Bananas,
We are never short of Kiwi fruit or cream and chocolate.
With a pluck and twist ,I gathered a gift.
A basket of mangoes ripe and adrift.
From my tree,I did pick a heap.
Put them away in a bag and went to sleep.
With the morning sun,I roused to find
A handful of mangoes,missing behind.
So I set out with a heart full of hope,
To retrieve each one before they could elope.
With a groan, I carried the heavy pack of
mangoes onto my back.
And set off down the road , feeling the
weight of the fruit pressing against my
back.
One mango fell and I ran fast,
But in my haste,the rest did not last.
For everyone I chase,two did flee.
The more I sought the less I could see.
Weary from the road I arrived at last.
And there a sweet surprise
A mango rich tree from the past.
"piñas papayas mangoes"
the street
vendor
sings
the
title of
this poem
I have tasted mangoes that cling
Their sweetness to my tongue.
I have seen the white heron's wing
Beating the air like a lung.
I have ate custard apples spiced
With heaven's honey. And cooler than
The dew-drenched Otaheite enticed
A boy's fancy, sweet rivers ran
Their insect strewn fingers through
The deep curves of the land. O juicy,
Delicious moments! The cue
Was the canary singing its prose
In naseberry trees. I hear it still,
And the flattery of my my nose
Is not real. Dudley, Ver, Boysie will
Not be playing in the yard. The white
Thatch that weaves the baskets soul,
The moon rising and turning gold
Are memories of a long distant night.
Mangoes, golden and full, their scent~
a whispered promise of mischief.
My fingers sticky, my heart pounding.
My mother’s eyes—wide, unblinking.
“Where did you get these?”
Her voice, a blade slicing the air.
A hush fell around us,
the mangoes cradled in guilt.
“Mum, I plucked them from a mango tree.”
Silence—a breath held underwater.
Five minutes, five hours,
eternity suspended on her brows.
“Were you alone?”
The question, a thread pulled loose,
unravelling the fabric of innocence.
“No, Mum.”
The words, a hesitant confession.
My classmates, a chorus of laughter.
The sky, a vast, yawning expanse.
“And the boys?”
Her voice—a fire slow to kindle.
“Laughing, Mum.”
The sound, now a distant echo,
a memory already fading.
“Do you know why they laughed?”
The question, a stone cast into still water,
rippling the surface of understanding.
Underpants.
The word, a whispered secret,
a shame that clings like a shadow—
its cord uncut.
Two weeks later—
more mangoes, more sweetness,
cupped in my hands.
My mother’s stare—
a mixture of expectation and dread.
“Who climbed this time?”
The question, a challenge,
a test of courage.
“I did.”
The words, a bold declaration
full of thorns.
Her fury, a gathering storm.
“But I was smarter this time,” I said.
The words, a hesitant boast.
“I took off my underpants before climbing.”
The silence that ensued—
longer than a winter night
at the South Pole.
And then,
my mother fainted.
Eyes see
yellow mangoes
on the long trees.
bodies shaking before
reaching mangoes.
Tongues itching before
feeling sweet.
Daydreams coming because of deep hungry,
All are victims
as yellow mangoes are so sweet.
September 13/2023