Bonfire Of Stitched Folks Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

When they
swarmed
his
compound
in anthills

of parents
and relatives
lit by sun
and stars,

the young
wove spaces
to harbor
their light-
drowned
faces

in basket
weaves,
sun
steering
them

to explode
into
floating
parrots

under
their roofs
of sunny
and moony

silver
and cream
skies.

Piloting
their heads
and
building
a pyramid
of touch
and fondle,

hands held
together
by
threads

of knotted
interwoven
gazes,
every twitch
and wink

a stitch
to keep
the bees
of folks

buzzing
in tightly
woven
nests
of small
groups.

(ii)

How a bonfire
of chats,
banter
and patter
grew a tree

they all
climbed
to look down
and cackle

at their
nightly attire

of snake-
ridden faces
hurling
only thorns

at each other
in gulf
wingspans
of daylight,

snow white
teeth
of stars,
the meat
of their
balls of bond

rolled
in the yard
day
chasing night

to fuel
their bonfire
into
a wildfire.

(iii)

Its gold
and
dandelion

whistled
in
tentacles
rising

like a swarm
of singing
bees,

as the fire
burnt
in pops,
an rose
into sky

with flying
sparks
and pinnate
gold flowers
of flames,

overheating
them
to lighten
their mouths
into
leaking beaks

clucking
and peeping,
as stars

fell into
their faces
of glowing

hue-
powdered
folks
exploded

into light
cotton specks
of
themselves,

flapping
wings
of red and yellow
and blue
to beam

brighter than
a comet's
trailing powder
of light.