Indulgences

I love mangoes. I’ve climbed tall-tall trees to get the last ripe fruit, to take it in my hand, to sink my teeth through its peel, to taste its juices on my tongue, while closing my eyes and grinning… because mango Nirvana is not just something a hippie fruit lover made up.

Yes, my Wicked Luvs, I’ve spoiled myself into the land of fruit-perfect via a mango bite. What about you? How do you celebrate the joys of indulgence? On Day 3 of NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, “Craft a poem about spoiling your Self or the Self of another. Let decadence run wild.”

Please Try Following the Instructions, My Luvs

* Leave a link to your poem, as a comment. Include the title of your entry, and the direct link of your post. Example: “NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015”: http://magalyguerrero.com/napowrimo-with-magaly-guerrero-2015/. Visit other Wicked Darlings and comment on their work. If you do, I’m almost sure they’ll visit you back (it’s politeness with fun in it).

* As a courtesy, please include the link to any prompt you use at the end of your post. If you are feeling extra awesome, also link your poem to the main entry. Show others where to go. Spread the word. Linking back to the source is wicked cool. Really.

Homemade Mango Ice CreamThis is my Homemade Mango Ice Cream; click the link for the recipe.
Today’s prompt was provided by Rommy Driks

Pruning Unseen Giants

Armor weaved out of sundried palm leaves, her Quixote was perfect for my straightjacketed Dulcinea. With red thread, I stitched a white habit out of an armful of my baby brother’s best cloth diapers. The costume was tight around my ankles. I moved an inch and something ripped—my mother is going to wring my neck.

The red stitches caused a riot: Mother Superior blamed my “wilds” on pliable rulers. But Sister Virtudes de la Piedad said that plastic had similar howl-birthing powers.

I was punished in plastic. I didn’t howl or ask for redemption, but said to Mother and Sister that they were unfair and braindead. Quixote was told never to speak to me again. I thought she would fight for us. But her eyes were heavy with the shame she was told I should have felt… And she ran away to befriend giant-thought-sucking windmills.

armed in power red
Panza’s bare feet kiss the soil
prune unseen giants

Note: one of my best friends says that “pain is a betrayer”. I agree with her. Pain attacks from within, and it makes the whole thing feel as if it is your fault. It leaves the mind and body hurt and confused, asking: Why are you doing this? What do you want for me?

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NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero, Day 2 – Creativity and Pain: “This poem should explore creativity as a healing salve, as a shield, as a weapon, or as a negotiation method to use when dealing with physical and/or psychological pain.”

linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: Mama Zen said, “Today, I want you to tell us about the house that built you. It doesn’t have to be an actual house; it can be a school house, a house of worship, a tree-house…. any place from your younger years that has special meaning to you now.” My house is bright red.

Tilting at Windmills, by Galen ValleTilting at Windmills ©2015 Galen Valle