Emerald Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Emerald, a beam
of lightened jade,
hooded pitta wings,

a hue of swallows
and sea-green parrot
finch floated

up to a wave, as
I peek at
its emerald cloth
and blanket

rolling, rolling
on slow wheels.

Budgerigar cloth
and turaco coat

flapping wings
to pull
capillary waves
of sea to glide along.

The carpeted
running
greenish floor

of smooth ripples,
a canoe veering
off a wide-winged wind,

a fisherman
paddling off life
at a moon-
splashed dawn

scrolled slowly
and drawn
down to my bed.

(ii)

I roll and roll over
emerald
sheets to catch

a gliding slope
of sleep taking me

to a gorge
of helices over
a warm hearth

to bake
and grill me
into snores
and dragged rumbles,

the fisherman
pulling
out pounds
and pounds of fish,

as I catch no fish
of a cruising rumble
deepening
into a whistle.

(iii)

In the emerald
world,
a wheeze mines
and scoops me out

of earthworks
of sleep, my blanket
heavier than
a mound of earth.

And when
a mineshaft of sleep
drives me

down into a deep
borehole
of drowsing colors,

I roll me over
in my heavy bed,

shifting me to a late
morning shore
of choking hiccoughs,
tree-filtered sunrays

hurling off
emerald gems
at a thousand-eyed
mirror on my wall.