Cloud Of Love Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Is it the blubber fish
that bounces
into a fisherman's net
spinning the face of a plaice?

Is it a winged flying spark
from a blazing fire
rushing in jerks
through your unbolted door,

as a stroking breeze
wheezes and wheezes through,
brushing its track,
filling up and shining potholes?

The world is often a fishing bout
in sandy ponds,

little water collecting under rock
and cobblestones sticking out
tongues for an empty sip.

The world is mist and fog,
a fire finch wearing the coat
of a scarlet macaw
in a tide of garnets and rubellites.


(ii)

In the streets everyone
walks within palisades,
outer lawns pegged,
outer outer footpaths ridged.

And life tramps on a narrow track.
A wink is a star landing
on the strip of a face without beacons,

no controller to filter
and drain out a thousand eyes hurled
by prey pulled in by a magnet.

(iii)

The world is a whirlpool of gems
and lusterless gravel,
a maelstrom of pebbles, each carrying
a cloud and flickering flower.

In a cloudy shell swirls a beaming snail,
a cloudy mollusk sticking out
its head from a shaft of gemstones
shining brighter than a supermoon.

Where a river rapids boils in a cauldron,
breathing out sheets of smoke,
let fog find its track behind mist,

as love's moonstone face spins the bird
flying from everyone's inner bowl.