Mango
I look at it, and I know that it's pure.
I hold it, and I know that it's golden for sure.
Shaped like a heart,
It's a flavor that can never go wrong.
First bite is sweetness.
Second is tang.
Third is a little cough.
Fourth is when you just can't get enough.
It's home, it's familiar.
It's every Filipino word in a shout,
or a distant whispher.
I look at it, and I see myself.
I hold it, and I know it's home.
Mango.
To one of my favourite fruits
They call you the fruits’ sultan
No wonder with your beautiful crown alike
Hopefully they didn’t call you the fruits’ satan
Because of your thorn or your shape that is a hand bomb alike
I am your everlasting fan
Because your taste is what I like
It is true that over eating you can be not fun
Still you are one of my favourites; yes “Hindi” is what I like
The Fruit Thief
Watch the fruit thief
climb through the trees.
He rustles a leaf.
Does he think no one sees!
Plucks but one,
holds it to the sun.
The skin is smooth,
its colour an amber yellow.
Feels squishy inside like Jell-O,
a soft flesh in which to sink his tooth.
Make him leave!
That’s not his property.
See how the farmers grieve
the lack of integrity.
But there is a plentiful crop,
from which many fruits may drop.
More sweets will grow.
Perhaps he’s nothing to eat today,
so to the farmers I say,
“Let the man go.”