Fly To The Florist Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

A tide of buzzing
arachnids
steer her sapphire
sky into a tunnel
of locomotives

on wheels
brushing
and stroking
palms and fingers
carrying

the muttering
mouth
of a departed core.

She floats bloating,
and canoes
back herself,

a bird,
unchaining her
from a grief

of thorns
gnawing off flesh
down
to bones,

the only stones
for a tower's
edifice of love
carved out
by no palisades.

She flows and floats
with a deep
sea plaice ploughing
through lower
cold waters,

but high up in sky's
wallowing
flowers of creamy
smooth nylon,

a stretched sea
of cerulean
and soft azure
stitched sheets.

(ii)

It sprays petals
and hue
drawn from
butterflies,

the fire of life
to warm up
man's inner bowl.

And erase
dark speckles
of lava
stains burning
a saggy skin.

(iii)

O sky flowers
of clouds,
sail down
to grow flowers
on earth

among us
pulling in your
colors of life.

By an erupting
crater
spitting out
lightning
to spray rainbows

and smoky flames
that make up
a flower's collar
and sleeves,

as it is
plumped down
into a calyx's
stool of two open
palms
receiving a gem.

(iv)

When will we
start
picking flowers
from sky's
daylight garden?

Fly to sky's florist;
fly to the florist
down the street.

Let me send
John to the florist
to pick up
flowers for bowers,

for a vase yawning
at us all day long,

but stretching
out arms
like an umbrella's
leafy canopy,

this vase, a tree
in our living room
sheltering us.