Rainbow Poem by Felix Bongjoh

Rainbow
(i)

In the cream hall a smog of cloudy
faces amid five dudes. The hall grows
into a dim patch of sky,

blows out into space on a far-flung
island hollowing out
into an ebony cave, its edges silver,

as blue and pink beacons flash out
snow and pearl and daisy
that do not erase mountains on cheeks
and oversized mantels.

Hills and hillocks on their storm-wave-sized
cheeks stand firm, yellow
purple flags of words waved to scoop
them out of their respective clouds.

But they each dive into raven barrels
rolling off a slope of protests
into the jagged face of a steep hill.

(ii)

Foreheads pop out,
eggshell and parchment beams
hurling off whales
on watery sweaty faces
drowned in pools, winds whistling and clicking:

"Stop pointing fingers at me.
Stop prodding me
with beige worms of smirks
that thicken into spidery insects

and wear the brown and black pulpit dress
of a starry scorpion ready
to shine a volcano's hibiscus-sunflower".

A dude dumps four colleagues
into a pit, leaving them to sway on
crackling branches in a storm.

In their tunnel thickening
with a smog, everyone in their shell,

the four sink into a gorge, flowers
of candelabra spinning in the living room
not throwing the dose of light
that may switch them on
into an orange-sized gold mouth of sunshine.

(iii)

Like snails they stick out only
tentacles of colored masked smiles
from deep pits of hypocrisy
folding them up
in indigo mufflers and red blankets.

A rainbow lands on the hall,
a small room
ballooned into a cloud-packed sky,

as a flash of lightning slashes
them into shreds of a running thunderclap,
chickens' cackles trailing
hard knots of stifled dim shades.