End Of The Road Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Beyond silvery
snowy
forests of splashed
sprinkled seas,

lies narrow tracks
to gates
always bolted,

when horse riders
jump across
palisades of waves

to lighter gardens
stretching out
life to the contours
of jungle cliffs

stroked by a low tide
of home-coming
fishermen
paddling through

waves with one
hand, the other
gripping a slippery fish.

Where does life
raise a planted mile
stone, if not
with full hands

bouncing out
of a rock-laden storm
slapping banks
with pebble and sand.

(ii)

Where does
the fisherman's road
end, if not
by the bolted
door into
a graphite sky

stretching sky
beyond a tide
of inner bowl hammering
out rocky hills
of a sting ray

sawing off flesh
with the gleaming
jack saw
stropped and edged
with lightning

to break off
the heavy blanket
of soot
and sable cloud

stretching beyond
the gates
of a wavier world,

sea geysers
and muscled
tornados drifting
back to an inner

deeper bowl
of a thousand fish,
the road
across a rippled sea

still raising flags
of wobbling waves.

Beyond the tide
of a rumbling
wheezing breath,

let me knock out
a wave
with spears
from my flamy eyes

and a milepost
is planted
by breezy hands,
no gates in view.