Winged Wheel Chair Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In a route
of slithering gales
and collapsing
rock,

as I walk
with fire
in thundering feet,

let a soft
zephyr pull
my wheelchair
with breath

and flaps
of a peregrine
falcon's wings,

when
a sable cloud
hangs low,

flipping out
thorns of wind
and claws
of storm,

as wolves
howl and growl

in the spirals
of puffs and chokes
of crossing winds

wriggling
through time's rust
youth rolling
on broken rails.

A wheelchair
walks, its wheels
sinking.

A wheelchair
gallops,
its tires swelling

to firm up
its grip on life's
tottering steps

at the gate
to the river
to canoe
me through
a swimming pace,

as I spin
on my compass
toes

sketching me out
me in a new
circle, its diameter,
the width
of a corridor

to a disabled man's
inner bowl
raging with a fire
for legs -

an ostrich's tall
legs carrying
a boulder ton
of buttocks,

but racing when
a hurricane
races on
to lick its feet.

(ii)

One step faster
carries torso
and shoulders
filtered by sun rays,

when hope
is crowned
with pigeon feathers

pushing me
to swim
on my skidded pace,

and the small
swift, more than
a frigate bird

swallows a shadow
cloud, as an onyx
shade opens
the door
to a healing room,

a stationary
bicycle
spinning
with a sneaky
hawk's lift,

and an anti-gravity
treadmill
clothes me

in feathers and wings
of a gull,
when walk is flight.

O spring bells
fritillaria,
wave your bells
to ring

and chirp louder
than skipping
grasshoppers,

when flowers
rattle and whisper
in gale
lifting my steps,

a trumpet creeper
muttering
to the petunia,

a firm-handed partner
sticking out
a bell mouth
for the kiss that rings,

as my legs
drum a hard floor,
and I still totter.