Screen And Filter Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Peek through
depths of a woven storm
and the entangled thrum
of a cloud

to harvest moth
over a mist
and a beige butterfly

of sunrays, as sun
bursts out
of a clay-coated cocoon

perched on
the swelling bloom
of a thorn.

At the end of a stitch,
rip off the mosquito-winged
thread hanging off
the polished surface
of a mirror marble.

(ii)

Peek not through a round
tube of light
to size up a square package
of a stranger

standing on a perpendicular
drifting holed floor,

slipping off the tangent
of gobs and goo
on a carpet shifting space.

In a sky-loaded glance,
snoop through a loop
of sun sneaking out of a sunny cloud,

a shadow-waving hill
weaving the tumbling silhouette
of a mountain at Abasakom

into a flat cornfield
stitching a seaweed desert
of barren crops.

(iii)

Above the stretching fields
swells the gleaming
shop-packaged blue sky

straightening out the clear fabric
of conscience to be worn
to float down with the wings
of a shirt with side slits,

through which any hidden birds
of prejudice fly out,

as we step out through
the foggy porch
to peek the sun in the eye.

Standing on a tall slab
of filtered conscience, toss off
the brown tubular rag

before a viper licks you
out of fright
and the screen of prejudice.

Kick off the viper, wear sky's skin,
as it beams against
the wall of a blue sky
and not a canyon's deep slope.