Underneath the Mango Tree

As the fading light on the horizon
Sputters out the last of its final glow,
I have found my place to enjoy the sun
Underneath the tree that gives me mango.
I know I can find a cooler respite
In my house with the air conditioning,
But then I would miss the coming of night
For a moment of comforted living.
The brutal heat may wish for me to hide
In the safe seclusion of my cocoon,
But there is more that is offered outside.
I’ll be able to make my retreat soon.
I have made the choice to live with my sweat
As I only will witness this sunset.

The Old Stomping Grounds

This the place of his old stomping grounds
Where at one time they were considered kings.
Now the new pavement in which his feet pounds
No longer listens to the songs he sings.
There are new kings regulating this town,
Molding it into their desired shape.
The places he used to haunt are torn down,
Taking away his favorite escape.
Even though the street names are the same
The titles of buildings are different.
The youth he encounters plays a new game,
Not recognizing who he represents.
Now he understands with what he has seen,
He can never go back to the old green.

The Game

Not every night needs to be the same.
We can change the routine a little bit
By playing a different kind of game.
Once you start, you won’t be able to quit.
It is not that type of competition.
The rules are not always written out
For a clearer kind of explanation,
But you need to be ready for a bout
That will match all of your wits against mine.
The game need not always choose a winner
Because there is no real finish line
When competing with this group of sinners.
You are not given a choice but to play
A game that we all play everyday.

From the Third World

Come to the land of hospitality.
Give us a chance to put your stress at ease,
And you may ask where lies our fealty,
And all we say is that we wish to please.
There’s not much that we ask for in return
Except that you respect our traditions.
You may think there is much we need to learn,
And that we may lack certain ambitions,
But do not be fooled by our “poverty”.
That is no indication of our pride,
For our focus is not monetary.
We do not need that demon by our side.
Understand that not every nation
Shares in your money driven vision.

Hopping the Fence

I am told to beware of the greener grass,
For I will always chase after the dream
Of belonging to a happier class,
And life is not as bad as it would seem.
What these naysayers don’t like to admit
Is green will eventually turn to brown,
And the place that you used to think was it
No longer holds the prestigious renown.
It does not matter how much you will try
To revive the grass to greener color,
For it is already destined to die,
And it is time to look for another.
Don’t be afraid to hop over the fence
When the time comes to depart from hence.

The Final Bow

How do you know that you have overstayed?
Will the little hint dropped be evident?
Has strain caused the relationship to be frayed
Because you stood still when you should have went?
Will the anger held begin to fester,
Boiling within each other’s recesses?
Is it our patience that we will muster
When all that we see are the excesses?
It is probably best that we part ways
To explore life’s new experiences.
These memories will take the time of days
To wash away our hateful expenses.
We should not live of lives with this regret,
So I will take my final bow and get.

From My Window on the Plane

You look like nothing more than mere ridges
From the distance where my seat is now at,
And the small twigs I see must be bridges,
Crossing over where the water was spat.
The ground is covered with powdered sugar,
Enticing me with this earthly dessert.
If I could just reach down with my finger,
I could taste the confectionary dirt,
But the breeze blows in the cotton candy,
Obscuring my view of what is below.
I hold in my head, those dreams, so dandy
Of the plane’s cooking television show.
During my trip, it is hard to compete
With the view I see from my window seat.