To You Trapsmith Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In this world
of cardinals carrying
blazes and flames
on their mouths,

fires rise from
rumbling rivers,
as flames
breathe out lakes.

Flames of dudes
like you hide
in cold smoke,

spin the tornado
that lifts you into
whirlpools

deep into air's swell
to ride waves
in a storm's tide

biting the man
you tap on the shoulder
as your rainbow friend.

(ii)

Dig a deep trench
to bury chunks
of dirt flying from

your bubbling lips
cutting coals
to make others bleed
from a hearth.

In the growling
onyx clouds hit
by the ebony
blanket of an eclipse

clothed in
midnight and pitch
hue, the world

spins in flames
of dudes like you
throttling engine mouths,

the deep crater
below your cloudy
moustache

and above your
bushy goatee
full of trapped prey.

(iii)

The wind carries
a scuttlebutt of you
as a man,

who flings sludge
at others
and scoffs at snares

you set for moths
and silent worms,
all friends of yours.

You set heavy
steel traps
for others untainted

like grabbed snow
before the rest
of its heavy feathers
drop on earth,
its touchdown a thud.

(iv)

A storm howls
and roars

with the knitted
feathers of a hawk
that fell into

its own pit
claw-dug to track
chicks
and young
chickens and birds

straying from
blankets of wind-
interwoven
grasses lying

so high
the trotting imps
of birds see

no further than
the tips of their beaks,

their lores too near
to be caught
by a glimpse,

as the hawk sizes
them up
for the fast grab

that sends them
screaming down its

throat full of slur
and slimy subterfuge,

those glittering
gems of song
it trumpets out,

swallowing half
the hymn
in a fluted choke.

(v)

You're the hawk
scratching earth

for a trotting chick's
stumble, as you
track it into a ditch.

The shallow nest
of your bed
rocking you to sleep

with snail-crawling
zephyrs and half-
lipped breezes

will be trailed
by the stronger hawk
of a hurricane
to devour you,

while your friend,
the hunter,
who shoots to kill birds
in their eyes

slips by the lips
of lightning's
lime sword
and a thunderstorm's
axe and hammer

missing the anvil
of a dude
as clean as a spring's
film of water
glittering with crystals.