Gems Of Solitude Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

From the wallowing
flames of a gold silver night
pasted on a sienna wall
of rattling air lightening

into egret wings of jewelry
amid rhinestones,
puffs jump with cream grasshoppers
of whirring rays,

as jasper and quartz balls
bounce down from moonlight.

Spinning alone in a four-
walled space, an old man
on crutches, can still
look out at a moonlit sky,
talk to the stars in syzygy,

as he morphs himself
into their crystal string.
He can still sit in a silver bush
in the nebula of night

to wriggle with the same mouse
playing hide-and-seek
with him in his closed-in square.

When sun-dried brick
walls bleed, they break
open gaping cracks
and red cuts to breathe out
widening wounds.

(ii)

Creeping roaches stick out
their ruby and red beryl
heads, to show the man
in his cottage he still
has gems of friends around.

Sleeping wall stains
and bagworms
float in their bolted rooms.

With a buzzing breeze,
they blow into no trumpet
of solitude behind dark screens
of a sky hanging down

with dropping moonstones
in a creamy night,
only zircons from moon's air,

flying over with crystal
in baccarat wings
and serpentine amethyst.

Rolling down onto his bamboo
bed with a blonde mouse
bobbing a dark shadow across

his milky, lace cheeks
shredded by a smirk
he plays with
across his old crystal rusty mirror.