Pride Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

It's a tree in a dense
orchard of dozens
and scores
of interwoven trees
and flowering plants

flipping out star-gazing
and trumpeting
clusters of petals hanging
down with amaryllis,

pulling everybody
and bright lurking bee
and lady bug,
mealy bug and aphid
to drift into to the bright air
of pulling flowers.

(ii)

How high does
the bloated animal
of a flowering plant
in its ballooning
floating nebula

rise above its head
to poke the glassy
ceiling of air
rising, as the beast
grows taller and taller,

breaking, breaking
into shards and spikes
that maul
and twist the face
of the climber
into the centaur
nobody wants to own.

How high do
shoulders rise above
a bleeding head
flowered with wounds,

the body soaring high
with creeping wounds
of red orchid-like
beaming flowers
lost in the shouting hue
of the amaryllis.

(iii)

The flowering plant
grows taller
into the overcrowded
tree of overripe
and under-ripe fruits,

these red and lime twinkling
dots and specks
flipping out
in clusters and strings

of scarlet and light green
berries spinning, bright,
in a breezy sunrays
fanning every pore of skin.

The gold sun higher
above sprays
the berries with pearl
and alabaster hue
to shine with sparks

falling down to blind
the climber
with a maze of hue,
brighter petals
and berries ringing
the same bells.

And when the climber
is clothed
in the broader wings
and leaves and flowers
of pride,
he's so mixed up

that he climbs down
with foliage
that stings the eye:

pride, withered leaves
and flowers
carrying no berries.

After a climber
has been scaling up

with his ogling eyes
ladder-tall steel shelves
on a wall
in a living room

with moss-wrapped
and waxed amaryllis,
as he's drowned
in sinking thoughts,

failing to pick a ripe fruit
from a rainbow
of undulating hue.