Break The Bubbling Storm Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Break the bubbling
storm into pieces of you,
each a cruising falcon
in a rush of falcons
and air-bicycling storks.

The birds are piloting
a dragged gale
with their wings paddling
swinging tails of clouds.

The birds are steering
punching arms of muscled
winds in a bout
with towers and bungalows
of air built by clouds.

Skedaddle to the bushes
and tall rocks behind
the rushing, jumping
waters of river in bumps
and scratches of pain.

Bolt off to the hills
behind taller mountains,
gusts flying with egret
wings, mooing cows
fled to sinking valleys.

(ii)

Break the storm
before it lands with eagle
and hawk claws,

freezing early pale pieces
of evening into heavy
faces of clouds bawling out

vandals from Yaounde
have set houses on fire again,

gardens of yellow flowers
and farms of sunflowers
taking shape, as they rise

on roof tops taller
than goldenrod trees
sinking roots into shaven
houses wearing only

hats and berets of fire
and smoke shooting red spears
at glass skies in shards
and creeping spiders of smoke,

misty hills falling
on crushed houses, the old
man in ashes, the village

melted into phantoms
and spooks rising
into popping flowers of flames.

(iii)

In the storm, grow
Falcon wings and fly off
To new homes
across the hills, a horizon
sketching out a smoky curve

and the stretched path
of your flight to the corners
of a lake bathing shores

rising into rocky pyramids
and trees, building a new fort
for you standing on wheels
geared to scamper off

down deeper valleys, when
thicker clouds build up
under a broken gray sky.

Brightening with stars
to light up and glaze
paths and tracks of flowing
lamps in stringed hands

swinging butterfly-winged tongues
of feathery glowing ovals
wicked to pierce a deep night
tumbling into saw-edged cliffs.