Elves On Shelves Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In a jumble of hammers
and jack saws
in ships without captains
on a center table flashing
bouquets with no mouths,

as bumble bees ride wasps
through darted glances
carrying balloons to explode
with soldier ants
shooting guns that quietly sting.

Pick axes stand at the edge
of cigars puffing out
clouds from sable-onyx faces.

What crowds d'you like,
faces crowned
with broken and splashed
crystals of a laugh?

Or wrinkles digging deeper
ridges of faces grinding
thoughts, their faces
the grindstone aging them
into sienna dust?

What whispers feed ears,
if not sighs, from rumbling
clouds crowding

into the nimbus of an eclipsing
ceiling of light grinding
itself into a blinding night?

(ii)

What rumble from lips
around you planting seeds
from ear to ear

to grow a tall man trumpeting
the end of the world
on the gossamer strings

of a musical note digging
your grave deep before
you lie in a hollow hospital bed

breathing in the world
in one gulp of air
running through chimneys
with your own smoke and fumes?

(iii)

What screens d'you like
to hang on the faces of dolls
glazing gloss
on floating butterfly smiles,
as wasps sting from within,

spraying the world
with premature bumps
and tall undulating hills
carrying the poking jungle
of a frown flipping out

spears to drop down
with a spray of smacking cackles.
O the plastic faces
of statues peeking at you,

their eyes carrying thorns
to crown you
into a shadow of you,

when hollow light rides
dark ridges in a field of deep hate
cultivated by shallow fear?