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Maybe Eat a Mango

 Maybe Eat a Mango The face is glum, the day is ho-hum, When the blues come a-visiting, And the heart feels heavy, When your footsteps are slow, And your mood is low, Maybe eat a mango. Nose sniffing the ripe fragrance, Senses awakening to yellow radiance, As water pours over the mango, A small corner of the soul a-washes, The knife carves out goodness, As it cuts into the mango’s tenderness, With wafts of sweet delight swirling the air. You bite into sunshine, gold, Your heart assumes the softness of the mango, Your face melts just a little, Your eyes unfreeze a smidge, The mango’s glorious taste consumes it all, The blues, the mood, the ho-hum Maybe eating a mango turned the day around.
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Pockets

 Pockets cordon off an area in space. They’re a small world within a world. 

I attended a book launch and signing today. 

The attendees were a pocket of last-remaining dwellers of a bygone era, with aristocracy in their background.

There was a world outside the walls of that place buzzing incessantly with the hum of activities of a burgeoning population. And in here, inside the walled garden, was a world echoing the last traces of a city from more than half a century ago. 

Pockets are interesting things. They make you feel one way inside and another way outside them. It becomes hard to span the extremes. 



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