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Felix Bongjoh

Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
Tuesday, April 7, 2020

Leftovers In Flame Flowers

Rating: 3.6
(i)

Mother, crawl your eyes over
flames of specks left after a fire.
Creep your nostrils over
tentacled limbs of peeled-off earth
and dearth in a bush of debris.

Walk your stringed gazes at
the wild grass of leftovers,
after flames have gulped down
a meal of old jewelry ground

to cold embers. To pulverized dew
and mist and fog, every fly
hard dust. Hard crystals of pebbles,
spraying mulch for dark flowers.

(ii)

Mothers, your pales fetch waters
of debris hardened into
crocodile-coated lakes and ponds.

Seas of old shoes and toys,
pots overcooked with dusk dust.
With dawn smoke and jacketed night,

showers of light jumping
down on crawling furniture wearing
crows' feathers and roaring manes.

Knitted leaves of space growing
bleeding branches of dry leaves,
and twigs blown into birds
in the wind swinging lances, as times dim

with midnight fog woven
into a blanket of fumes losing
breath. Tossing off
showers of bouncing patting breezes

Let your hands be the rakes
to scoop out a million stars buried
under a carpeted night
of dark powder and crow mist.

And flowers of dust spat out
by the igniting hands of a khaki man,

a walking man flipping out
fingers of bullets. The night-clothed
man, fingers grown triggers.

Eagle-beaked, vulture-mouthed leaves
of smoke from a gold tree,
love-laden flames flowering into fruits:

Eat them, sip them peeking at
Adam and Eve in a star-lit garden
of roses flipping over
in red and white butterfly wings.

(iii)

Child, hurl your eyes at coals
and cinder. At the gray
and taupe bodies of ash, splashed
arms and old jewelry of trash.

Jump your eyes to sneeze out
the smell of an old smile.

To mimic and breathe in
old wrinkles' brush in a lap as deep
as the couch of an eroded pit.

An alabaster of grandma's frown
burning you with flames of love
on tulip and hibiscus heads,
goateed debris carrying sideburns.

And wigs of coal-munched blouses
crawling, bruised worms,
from simmering embers brewing
mulch for roots sinking into a shaft,

a silver sky hanging down
with hollows and skinless floating
plastic wings of daylight

flowing into a storm of butterfly
tuxedos floating in misty hands,
and air-colored gloves,

guests flying out gazes of white roses
and swallowtails rolling
on sleeves and shoulders,
as hawks beam grins at laughing chicks.
Felix Bongjoh
Topic(s) of this poem: aftermath
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COMMENTS
Excellent poem. Congratulations being POD
0 0 Reply
Dr Antony Theodore 09 April 2020
Eat them, sip them peeking at Adam and Eve in a star-lit garden of roses flipping over in red and white butterfly wings. really a very fine poem. wonderful images with inner meanings. tony
0 0 Reply
Kevin Patrick 09 April 2020
I don't pretend to understand the whole thing, or if that is the point, but the imagery and words are immaculate. This deserves to be in a real poet book, with thousands more readers to digest the imagination of this writers kaleidoscopic mind. I wish more people would comment on this work, I could read this again and again. This is marvelous art. Well deserved sir! .
0 0 Reply
This is horrible stuff! Have you Earthlings sunk so low that you can actually praise garbage like this? And I thought this was a POETRY site, not a garbage dump!
1 0 Reply
Robert Murray Smith is my real name. And I does have the small weiner
0 0 Reply
Jagdish Singh Ramána 09 April 2020
Great imagery. Poetry of the imagist: oblique and alive images.
2 1 Reply
Lyn Paul 09 April 2020
A style like no other. Exciting to read.
0 3 Reply
Edward Kofi Louis 09 April 2020
The storm! ! ! Plastic wings of daylight. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
2 1 Reply

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