Poetry

Reclaimed

It’s amazing the places flora can grow.

An old boot cast onto the riverbank,

now home to grass and daisies.

A rusted bike, complete with basket,

that holds a sign for a local cafe

obscured by ivy fingers.

A school bus long since rolled onto its side

by people with nothing better to do

has become a greenhouse for wildflowers, mushrooms

and lichen.

And abandoned buildings, whole cities even,

thought to be left only for ghosts and radiation,

have instead become forests.

Concrete, toxic jungles

now just

jungles.

 

Poetry

Until the die read five or eight

I feel the monsoon sweating down my back,

see the darting tongues of vibrant purple blossoms

and the wrapping vines of sun-kissed waxy blooms.

 

I race the crocodiles down the stream,

run with the wild beasts who stampede over

burial grounds where their ancestors patiently wait.

 

I see the figurines move along their twisted paths

eyeing the telling jewel as their prize,

but the hunter guards it with savage delight.

 

A roll of the die is all it will take to freeze

the years of waiting to the far reaches of mind,

but will it read a five or an eight?