A Crown Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

A crown spins
crystal flashes
from a sun's gold
splashes

in a wave
of flashlights
sailing out
to lift a fallen lad

from his fruits,
gobs
and bubbles
of filtered
crimson and scarlet

clouds and patches
chasing a red parrot
for the blood

that sprayed
feathers and wings
of the fleeing
bird with clipped coats.

A crown's crystal
drifting edges
from hurled sunrays
drop down
with silver bowls

for the rag-clothed
man in his
red nest lodging
under the stars.

(ii)

And man's
conscience opens
double doors
for those who feed

on drifting
trash cans and culverts,

when dusk
ignites the sky
into night's
showers of stars,

the only
roof for those living
in nights' holes.

A crown spins
the king and queen,
who, like the pope,
bow to the lowly,

kiss-cleaning
their feet
for a brighter
sun's crown

from a ceiling
of broad-
shouldered
daylight swelling
into an eclipse,

when rays stick out
guitar strings
plucked and brushed
in the inner bowl.

(iii)

And the king snivels
and sobs
for leaving no hole
in his pocket

to feed
with a cottonweight
dime

the featherless
hungry
man with no
crowned egret wings
of daylight

for the rumbling
sun-lit day.

On a sand beach,
the jackal beggar
to be crowned

with breezy thorny rays
from spun
and woven suns

from the chalked
squiggles
of a starry night.