Gold And Moonstones Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Gold sunrays
unfold and drop down
slowly
to dab off powder

and ashes
from bellies and backs
of planted buildings
with shallow roots
of cream hue
still creeping around them.

After the pile
and satin weaves
of snow have
dropped

in stretched-out
curtains
across the air,

trees stand
flipping
and shooting out
milk-creamed arms

and powdered
gleaming tentacles
of snow-rubbed
herringbone latices

from petioles
gripping stalks tight
with crab claws.

(ii)

They stand
hooked
onto small-boned branches
and twigs

sleeping, snoring
silently
in a light zephyr

keeping them
whizzing
and clucking
in the quiet wind.

Swollen snow nodes
and rolling balls
give twig
and branch tips
fists to punch off

breezes and ashes
of sight
on a wax-dripping
candle of fat air,

Hanke skeins, cone
and donut
lumps of snow holding
dry bony stems
with a firm baby grip.


(iii)

The world lights up
its tall candle
of silver waxy air
with a flame of gold sun

over a rising latte
and bath stone space,
light spiraled smoke
breathed out

from snow
swallowed into the armpits
of tall silhouettes

build by mint and Gris
strands
and curtains of air
flipped over

by the quiet hands
of Gaea shouting out:

I'm still in control
over a sprawling taupe
carpet

and shamrock
crawling floor of earth
lit on a tree top
by a stray cardinal

singing refrains
Tom and John cannot
translate to Fointama
and Ankinimbom,
their winter guests,

from a far-flung country
raining with sunrays
that warm up cold cores

mild like moonstones
carrying no old sores.