Ochre Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Splashed flames of daisy
and powder race
through splayed lace
to a pearl hilltop

and flap condor wings
over bumblebee beams
down to their landing knoll.

Cascades of porcelain
run into mid-morning fire,
an explosion
from the volcanic mouth
of daylight spinning

the alabaster and egg shell
of a day marching
chicks to a coop-palace,

where they were hatched
to peep off persiflage
with balls of glowing sun.


(ii)

Through the pine trees
standing, windows
and drifting gaping caves
between legs and arms
swirling in beams of pearl,

a feathery ball
of sun has bounced ashore
with history's ochre
spinning dusk and dawn.

It scoops out man's glue
to earth. A sliced passion
fruit hanging down
from a tree of life?

Those pine trees
have no space
for a beaming balloon
of gold rolling fruit,

its mushy endocarp
the nectar life sips.

(iii)

From dust man is made
and onto dust,
man spins the ochre of earth,

the mushy seeds man sips
over the clouds of dust

that will sip him, weave
a passiflora crown
for his dusty end on braided
pebbled brown earth.

And light up a garden
of passiflora plants
to spin Adam's cycle of life