Dance Of The Season Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

From a villagebeyond walls of waves
in the seas and islands tossed off
behind the trees andwrestling hills,

where sun sets, splashing gold
and diamonds to linger on floors

stretched out beyond shelves
and cupboards to streets floating in light,

the dancing show folks pedal
and clutch on horse-high bicycles,

rolling on legs raised, jerked up
and dropped with a swing,
feet curved on mimicked pedals.

(ii)

Sun-drunk, the beamingdancers
from a new blue air planet,

stand tall in theirpyramidal masks
and spiked bird feather hats.

They slither in with flying spider crawl,
curved hands pushed forward
to poke air and catch flying hairs.

And spun like helices and wings,
hands weave through stringed
but split-out crowds, rivers of legs

dodgingtheir own shadows
inTimes Square.

Hurling spears of winks and darting
butterfly-sailing smiles

to landwith the untouching
feathers of sparrows over each other's
shoulders three meters off.

(iii)

Head-geared and foot-geared
under moon
and sun in broad daylight,

they waltz and jive
with an unsteered wind,
eyes diving from side to side,

cutting off rabbit ears
to glue to strict

distancingorders parroted
from a drifted-down sky:

Cartwheel and jog, but do not lean,
or else the daylight moon explodes
into a thousand lumens,

closed-up shadows and silhouettes
touching your shadow, knocking

you out in the bowers
and nooks of splitting gardens.

(iv)

Widened to do strides on flamingo
legs distanced from walls
of horse trots and camel wobbles

and the back stroke of chickens
in a sea of open space, flowers grow
from intertwined
and interwoven gazes.

On a widening field of daylight
doused with pieces
of a rainy night slimming

down to shouting rays,
the dance continues into a desert,

light rain drops, rounded feet
landing with wheels
rolled off on gold bowling balls on sand.