Fig Tree And Red Flowers Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

A hibiscus-lipped gore
spills off
flat patches
of red sailing butterflies,

looped arms
crowning steering captains
with fanning winds

to land on unpaved strips
rolled off
in the green beams
of braided grasses.

The crawling
brick cloud
coughs out ruby bees
to buzz with a gust's lips

spewing off berry
flies to swarm air
in flying drips
from hanging fountains.

(ii)

The day is red
as the wounded soles
of a volcano

flowing off the lips
of a widow
breathing out red coals
from a bubbling hearth
overheating her,

trailing a son's red shirt
stained by a muzzle's
flesh-scooping finger.

Red air has grown
tall and spread out
like wind-lifted arms,

a fallen fig tree
spraying sprawling
green leaves
lit by the red flame

of a strolling fig,
the only fruit
death cannot eat,

splashed into the dust
and mud
of a baked day,

the stiff earthenware pipe
rolling off
the smoldering world
between an old man's lips.

(iii)

The day is red
as smoldering coals
in a yawning
hippo's mouth
fenced in by tusks

spiked sharper
than cream arrows
hanging down
a drooling
elephant's mouth.

The day rides
on the tusked rolling mountain
trumpeting its amble

with a soft-mouthed breeze
flowing from the wail
of a widow's breath
cutting off cream clouds,

as red flowers
roll like low-lying
wind-drifted head gears
igniting a fire of love.

The day is red
with a large mouth in ripples
drifted by a whimper

tiptoeing a whine
without the fire
of a galloping horse.