Shades Of Truth Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Leaves of a baobab trunk
spun on the same sleeves
of branches spread out shaved hairs,
the sun-rolling air spraying them.

They're touch-painted
too by feathers of pink clouds

and lances of red
and ruby patches
of a drooling cloud bleeding on them,

as a day blinks and shrinks
into the bones of branches
and phalanges, small leaves wearing
sage and pistachio robes

with shades of green birds
and melting wings of butterflies.

(ii)

In a bubbling storm, a fire finch
lights up gold petals
of a branch in its full attire

flipping out yellow bow ties
from a gale's mouth
blowing off corners of blonde
and flaxen leaves

woven into green leaves
by spirals of wind
brandishing a tawny sword of dust.


How the world spins
on a needle's head of truth
tossed by a hurricane

to set ignited leaves
to fly in green flames,
when sky's truth is cerulean
and the azure bathing

a fisherman at sea brandishing a trout,
when clouds shed silver
leaves over basil leaves

changing buttons in a closet
of olive and fern leaves
in the tide of pickle-clothed leaves.

(iii)

Who told you truth
is a fruit, the smooth ride
of a whole gold bulb

swinging and spiraling
through wind on the arm

of a tree, the bobbing
branch carrying chameleons
of leaves. Kissing a river's silt
in a crocodile's hue.

Licking a bed of mud
on a sea's stretching bottom lit by
the piercing torch
from an umbrella-sprayed light

crawling to the shore
of a sunny sea spraying
a tree in the harbor with gold finches.

In a soft wind's shoo,
the birds that were never hatched
by a womb of truth

melt into green nests on trees
without birds, under whose nook
I whisper into your ears
the truth is always drifted
by the wings of a spiraling wind.