Bright Cloud Of A Wall Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Feathers cling and glue themselves
to alula and scapulars flying
the big ship of a bird,
when mountain waves
in a rumbling sea pave no route.

From the tall rock they're gone.
From tree crown they bounce off
to edges of clouds weaving pads of sun.

Every photo and medal
hangs on the wall
with the flesh of a family
sweetheart sticking out
with the flame of life.

Burning memory into
glass and wood, the bullion
minting a ray on a bright bird
spinning the lips of a flower.

All make up the frame
of love planted into stone
and cement mulch.
Onto the glow of crystal hammering
In the dot of a planted dimple.

She stands or sits against
the wall that carries sky's
slab of hope, a horizon's rainbow,

sprayed with a clean brush
to flutter like an albatross's wings
after a trip beyond the waves
of eye blinded by a ray of time.

(ii)

For, what is absence, if not
a wall drifted into the shadow
of a thinned-out cloud?
What is time, if not a palisade
fencing in the contours
of space to stand on deep scooped-out
foundations we do not see?

In a statuette love stands
speaking to me as mama's heirloom
floats into my bowls of memory

and papa's feathery touch lands
with a bird's whistling call,

the brush that scratches
memory to light up
the mind's apothecary, sun and moon

concocting far-flung silhouettes
into the elbow and shoulder
sharpening dad's angle, mama's curve,

where she leans on the rising
mountain of dad's elbow.

(iii)

Huge clouds on a wall
only flicker with a passing lightening
that leaves memory bleeding

to shower mind's space
with sparks that never quit.

Dusk's garish clouds
seal parched scars that never heal,
bursting out to flame
with a bonfire, the harbor's ship
drifting off but standing still

under the ray that bounces in
with a golden hand, leaving a silver sky
in ashes and cinder of memory.