Nightfall at Dawn

By Felix Bongjoh

Consistent with the poets lament in an earlier collection of poems, the book reflects the poets shock caused by his daughters death. The shock has evolved over time, during which the poet gradually accepts it as a fact of life. Dwelling on woe and desolation, resulting from the loss of a dear and loved one, the poets gloomy undertone is tempered by an optimistic rebound of love, fortitude, faith and hope. Coming to terms with nature and lifes routines is the instrument with which the poet copes with adversity on a triumphant note.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546293859

Felix Bongjoh

Felix Bongjoh, currently living in Boston, Massachusetts, is an International Human Capital Development Consultant, who previously worked for an international organization for some 30 years. In addition to the present twenty-fifth book, Saddle On Thunder, Bongjoh has previously published 24 books of poetry, as follows: (i) Chorus on a Bridge; (ii) Broken Gloss of Bliss; (iii) Nightfall at Dawn; (iv) When Dusk Hoots; (v) Weeds of Jewelry; (vi) Season of Flowers; (vii) The Ineluctable Spin; (viii) Gloom’s Sprout of Love; (ix) Spectrum of Zephyrs; (x) Whistles in the Wind; (xi) The Sun Still Glitters; (xii) Cliff of Sirens; (xiii) Quiet Shadows Scream; (xiv) Angle of Angels; (xv) Sculpted Out of Sky; (xvi) Feathers of Fur; (xvii) Through Sundry Waves; (xviii) Beyond Dying Ripples; (xix) Doors to Eris; (xx) Outskirts of Inner Bowl; (xxi) Ebbing Out, Bouncing Back; (xxii) Tailored To The Stars; (xxiii) A Storm Wave’s Reach; and (xxiv) Isles Of Light.

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© 2018 Felix BONGJOH. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/20/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9384-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9385-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Nightfall at Dawn

Nightfall

Fragments of Silence

A Portrait of Love

The Staircase

Door of Your Departure

Door of Your Arrival

Prayer at Dawn

A Rising Lantern

Sighs Thrive, Hope Wins

Ripples

Skyscraper

Penumbra of Myself

The Flamingo

The Forgotten Beach

Abrupt Corner

Tireless Tire

The Passenger

Reflections of Love and Lament

Storms

Suns

Flapping Spirits

Sparks of Crystal

Irreplaceable Love

Hide and Seek

Dinner With You At Niagara Falls

Pearl

Ladder

Faith

Grace

The Boulder

Crystal

Unbreakable Gem

In My Chute

In An Unfiltered Jungle

The Lake

Persistent Hands

Light On The Verandah

Winter On My Brow

Stone and Cork

Light In The Garden

Arcs

Rough Way To An Awesome Home

Overloaded Heart

Let All Be Well

Trapped In Myself

Sparse Chapters of My Heart

Abandoned In The Cold

The Lough

Pardon In A Gift Wrap

Plastic Bag In The Wind

This book is dedicated to

my beloved departed daughter,

Agnes Josiane Bongjoh.

Nightfall at Dawn

Preface

Nightfall

(i)

A brand- new coin

Has flipped out

Of my sweaty pocket.

And vanished

Into the grass, the day’s anguish

In the dark corners

Of a well-shaven lawn.

This is where children

Lay on their backs,

Teasing each other

With the whims

Of the setting sun, flashing

On and out the spirit

Of the day’s glamorous toys.

Mirth, gliding

Into boisterous hugs

In their heavy bulk,

Was overwhelmed

By the goblins

Of a teacher’s reproach,

Rounded spheres

Of poor scores ensconced

On a lamp stand.

And nightfall with

Parent’s angry glare

At vile score sheets

Bristle with the stains

Of crushed ants,

The prompt scribbles

Of dissatisfied teachers.

Daylight was the only

Successful teacher without

A piece of chalk

To sketch curlicues

Already on nature’s display

Of trees shedding

The green leaves of their stamina.

The sun at nightfall

Had shed off enough petals

To lose the sheen

Of truth to shadows

Floating across

Like dancing blankets -

Unable to cover the day’s trolls

In full masks.

(ii)

As enlightened minds shrivel

Into the gloom of a forgotten past,

The wise at nightfall

Read off fortunes on blurred

Sheets of love and refuse

To crush the ants that bit them

With the naïve teeth of innocence.

The dexterous hands of nightfall

Become the gauze pads

Of a sticking empathy

To close the lips of cuts; and heal

Spidery patches, the bruises

Sustained by the day’s adventure

As unpredictable as a mantis’ move.

I wail not at careless ant bites;

The ants have built a castle

With sheer dust, in which love prevails

With a million hugs. The ants

Scramble into fists to deliver punches

That break down walls of hate:

Past cries of friction with sharp swords

Held out in horizontal thrusts.

Only intrepid ants with guns

In their hidden mouths

Can bite the teeth of a sword

At nightfall in the broad daylight

Of dawn, a long persisting grin,

But man’s tongue cannot

Withstand the sword’s slightest touch,

Lest blood flows over like soup.

To be sipped with the withering

Crusts of an astonishing day,

Wet with sins, the muggy slime

On which we slip and fall

With the clunk of a stunned rhino.

When all is chewed, nightfall’s merry

Listens with the mouth of a hall

With the seamstress’s gowns

Floating with spirited birds

Meant to laugh without a voice.

The merry sips the sword’s spicy soup

With nostrils deprived of sniffing

The pure air of a truth slung against

A broad screen of transparent glass.

Standing dazed, a bruised mass

Of spidery stars without a clear sky.

A screen has become the fuss

Of insects, smart wasps nibbling

Off crests of hungry birds skipping

With pain, unable to shrug off

Sticky lips like those of waves

Admonishing shores with slaps.

Delivered by the force of tennis rackets

Full of revenge after lost rounds

Of intimidation with sharp claws.

The players had already lost the day’s ace

With the cloudy night wetting the court

Of cleverly contrived intrigues,

Bristles on scalps growing old with

Their own miscalculations

Of honest love hanging

In brittle crystals with weak nerves:

Is this life bundled up, girded

By mangled nerves?

Here comes love with the