Jungle Tigers

 This is the poem I have been working on for a while:

Jungle Tigers

 

The night before my first day of school, my parents sat me down.

Dad told me, “It’s a jungle out there!”

His statement made me frown.

“It’s not a jungle out there,” I growled.

“It’s teachers and kids and fun!”

My parents agreed but then Mom said,

“Your journey has only begun.”

 

I braved the “school jungle” and thought it was nice—

just like a jungle gym.

Not too scary, so much fun, a place to go out on a limb

and learn and grow

then come back home

to my safe and happy cave

with Mom and Dad and siblings, too,

and all the love I craved.

A few years later, when I was nine,

the jungle changed a bit.

There were kings of the jungle

–the LOUDEST and fastest—

The rest of us had to sit

on the sidelines and watch 

as the kings lept and roared. 

I felt weak and lame and small.

But at least I could play with my friends and my family,

where rank didn’t matter at all. 

Around the time I turned thirteen, the school jungle grew to be

a scary place. 

Kids attacked each other and some 

stalked me.

I darted from class to class, eyes down 

and knew I was easy prey.

I hid in the bathroom or huddled with friends

to keep other tigers at bay. 

The teachers should have helped me feel safe but they missed each attack, every blow. 

They overlooked 

And underwhelmed 

And the grades they gave me were low!

Was it worth it to leave my cave each day

For a school that had lost its appeal?

Was the jungle only meant for the kings?

(And would I become their next meal?) 

 

Everything changed for me one afternoon when my family drove to the zoo.

We visited our favorite animals: the polar bears, kangaroos, 

the lions, seals, and otters, and then the strangest display of all–

the tiger exhibit where 

one lonely tiger slumped against a wall.

My dad said, “Compare zoo tigers and jungle tigers—

with which can you relate?”

I studied that tiger, so scrawny and bored, with nothing to do but wait

For something to happen, like water and food, or a game with a keeper and ball.

Nothing bad could happen to him but. . . I wasn’t jealous at all.  

We each said we weren’t like him. We weren’t tigers at the zoo.

We were jungle tigers, figuring things out, learning what to do.

And even though the jungle was scary 

and even though we weren’t always brave

We knew we had what we needed: 

Our experience, 

some hope,

. . . and our cave.

 

Now that I know who I am and where I’m meant to be,

I’m leaping through the jungle like a beast that’s been set free!

I still feel small and sometimes fall, 

But when my bruises sting

I rise with hope and leap again–

the loved cub of a King.