River Trails Kingfisher Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Water on heavy feet,
trudge and plod through mounds
of rising waves

in the swelling tottering
footslogging current
brewed by a kingfisher's whistle.

River, flow in your silver path
and crooning strait
sitting on an underworld
of stiff shadows.

Gallop over a rocky splash,
when a mountain
of water rises and falls

in the jabbing and towing hands
of a growing wobbling storm
stretched out to the wiry spidery
edges of a crackling world.

(ii)

On your tilted splitting path,
do not tumble
with wind-spat pouring waters

on a fisherman dodging
a gale-bulldozed jumping wave.

Landing back on a breaking
beaming lance of sun,

as you prance over tree stumps
and unshaven shrubs.

And a new light creeps
and cruises in with a red streak

flaming through gaping
corridors along a silver forest
of sprayed and sprinkled rods of water

standing on stamping ducks' feet
splashing nylon sheets
under a pink melting sun

with more wax to spill
over a hollowed-out world
standing on bouncing strings of water
carried by a ballooned pad

of a light-drunk river
floating down
on mantises' gossamer legs.

(iii)

O that ray shot to stretch
and cut through
embroidered leaves knitting
thick juniper fabric

out of unfolding woolen yarns
and threads of vines
still creeps and strides through
leaf-harnessed ripples.

Stroll and glow under low
crimson clouds trailing the smoke
of swooshing winds
from swinging hearths

fired across the creek
in outbursts of a hot breeze.

But the faster a river chases
a kingfisher flying over
its silver-sheathed bed pulling

sleepy waters
not yet nudged awake
by a stone-fisted storm,

the faster the bright-cloaked bird
rides to its home

on a sky's cloudy
sandy shore
razing off air's overgrown

hairs and feathers
in a birdless pink sky, the trailing river
no longer hearing
the kingfisher's whistle
thickened into the growls of a thunder.