“Po’s Jungle” by Prosperus, Poet-in-Residence

a dark evergreen tint coats over Po’s mind’s eye
‘n’ slowly brings him closer to the light on the otherside
his slight rhymes of nature, awake him with breath
knowing he’s composed ‘n’ he knows what he’s got left
one step becomes two, as three becomes thousands
and as his lungs are filled with poetry, he feels the realness around him
canopies of bamboo leaves bend over his presence
resting above his head as their stems be extendin’
the branches bend endlessly, with the tendency to dip
as obscure rays of the sun, through the ceiling drip
Po stops ‘n’ sits still, under a giant banyan tree
takes out his pen ‘n’ touches its bark lightly
silently its skin seeps into the soul of his pen
bringing a new color ‘n’ life, til it’s filled up to the end
and then Po digs in, deep into the page of his rhymebook
allowing all the plants ‘n’ vines stare over his shoulder ‘n’ look
as he struck with each word, the forest began to grow
palm trees ‘n’ pines sprouting out of his flow
mint green would glow neon as roots would reach deep
but then all of a sudden they wrapped around his feet
as he continued to scribble, the grass grew taller
the tree trunks began to surround him, Po began to wonder
what if he stopped? would all this suffice?
but he couldn’t possibly stop, he loved to write
the ink in his pen steadily decreased with each verse
as the jungle he sits in, increased with each word
a curse most would think, but for Po, a blessin’
to be the heart of the forest, to pump it ‘n’ press it
sentence after sentence, his presence consumed
by nature’s lesson, Poetry is his womb
cocooned ‘n’ swallowed, Po fights to write his last line
with his pen near the end, bleeding it dry
as the last drop splashed, on top of his page
a funny sensation poured all over his face
it tasted like honey, but was soft as silk
and then he awoke, feeling fulfilled
just sitting still here, with that dark evergreen coat
‘n’ his rhymebook filled up, with the poetry he just wrote.

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