Flight Of Happiness Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In a silty
marsh
bordering

a gliding lake,
two guys
stand tall

and taller
on their
flamy shadows,

fire on their
heads,

glowing hearths
in their eyes.

At the hourglass
they'll
burn sheets
of air

into flamingo
and fuscia
dusk clouds,
when they fly.

These birds
born of sun
make trips only
to the azure


and sky's cyan
sea, the firmament
crawling in

to man's lifting
foam
and froth
of happiness

and the hot
arching egg
of young bones
squawking
on wires of feet.

(ii)

Cranes, flap
your full
wingspan wings
to the shores

of a widow
with a blue bird
to whisper
into her ears

the sticking glue
of traction
takes her with
crab-gripping hands

into the bosomy
thighs of a breeze
stretching out

into a wind's sieve
to filter out
her onyx graphite
pieces left
by sniveling drizzles
on her cheeks.

(iii)

Cranes, flap your wings
to awaken
sleeping stars

into fireflies
and landing comet
flashes.

They'll steer her back
to a tree
of her to sneeze out
songbirds

from her bright lime
and harlequin
branches flying over
mint leaves

to make her burn
and sizzle with lighter

times of curling
zephyrs.

Creeping
up her cheeks
to her brows

in the flames
of a peacock's
feathery moments.