sun in midnight

i am

with me alone

my tea-candle lit

wavering,

gently

silence surround

but the buzzing in my furnace

and an oozing, a little noise

in my laptop

remind the working well

peace? yes

no peace? yes

that beyond is mine

my quest

understanding? yes

not understanding? yes

that beyond is mine

my present

emptying, that self-emptying

a self-esteem found in Jesus

walking to his tree

lifted high, higher than

any social ladder could lift my soul

if possible, before my sleep

with no dream and no blanket

wool, cotton or the synthetic

most ticks those that itched

my mind and body have left me

looking and searching for other dogs

leaving me to heal the scars

they left on the skin of my soul

i sit alone contemplating

that balm that removes

stain on my spirit

will i find, or not

matter very little

to me now

but i am looking

with that midnight

sun

that matter most

henry victor     05.11.2011

look at my scribble

i look at my poems

and my face yields a smile

constantly i look at past promises

and tears instantly heap inside

i know this plaque, these assurances

not lived to flower in my garden

constantly kills my cellular life

that sullenly slows my flow

hence i turn to watch justin

my grandson scribble my scrapbook

constantly looking into my face

grinning, bulldozing my moments

to sculpt a funny image

to permanently install in my heart

constantly with no consciousness

carving a memoir with my jotting

© henry victor     10.04.2011

revolution or risking a rash

my grandson, thirty months old, curls

into his cat box with the four kittens

just a week old, challenging me to see

either the death of an anthropocentric

human life, or that simple parental

negligence for the little boy to pick

a rash to carry with him as the mother

cat carries baby kitten changing place

© henry victor     18.12.2011

you remember me

you remember me

despite my forgetting you

as i drive, not rushing

nor slowing to rest and relax

except to drink coffee in Tim Horton

now, not a luxury, nor a place

for careless throwing away of my coins

but a necessity, that careful

keeping of my blood-sugar in check

so that malady does not dance

within that space steadily serviced

by those remaining un-scarred arteries

© henry victor     23.04.2011

your remembrance

though my cup overflows

flooding with forgetfulness

of those many graces

that you have poured to brim

of my unfolding, my becoming

your merciful being so gently

continues to knit, to mend

my frame, flesh and fibre

to let your spirit flow

in your sacred temple

where you have installed

my soul to be the priest

to celebrate the world of my commerce

your sacred altar that invites all

to sit, eat, and sip the drink

your remembrance, my pain and pleasures

until in you i merge

like that little brook

running towards that large

ocean embracing all flowing

© henry victor      24.04.2011

your feet alone …

you are my first, and also the last

i need none in the middle except you

and nothing will satisfy me

and none as you would

it is your feet that i feel

in this pitch blackness of glamour

and it is your formless face

my eyes fixedly gaze

into your body my soul longs

to penetrate, to curl, to coil to sleep

like that viper under the log

though strength to crawl i lack not

gold and girls, both young and old

and many other i craved to possess

soon i learnt they are nothing

but a distant hot summer fantasy

as for you, you are that living spring

welling in my spirit, flooding my bed

to float, my soul to soar beyond the cloud

to that perfect silence, that poise inside

  

© henry victor

poet’s meaning

it is necessary not only to see

what the poet said

but also

what the poet meant

© henry victor     20.04.2016

spider grass

an egoless entity sits on my counter

growing silently while cleaning the air

i breathe in my home, adding colour

and feather to  my cap too: a gardener

now, as my ego bloats with a bonus character;

i am rich with purpose, meaning! yet, fatter

self i seek, though deaf and blind to matter

invisible, working on ego patently to counter

until i prick to make it par with a spider

on my wall crawling and making tighter

web to net the mosquitoes distracting my ear

with a song of might, intent to spill gore

© henry victor        06.01.2017

at the burial-yard

i prayed fervently

for a child to take my name

and gently hold my finger

as she walked her days

and nights to teach me

the art to age!

ignoring my petition

he dropped you in my hands

with grace to spoil

and teach you

the science of kindliness!

then i prayed again

to dry the womb, to remove

all threats of filling my heart

with a step-fatherly love!

for i knew the sweetness

of snuggles and cuddles

for a healthy girl!

and now i age

evolving as a grand-dad

with a step-father at my burial yard!

© henry victor          30. 06. 2016

wait to enter

as i tightly gripped the walls

with my soft fingers, you gently

embraced my total frame expanding

ever so fast like a new house

with a sacred chamber one day

will house another me now housed

with all essential fluid, fire and firm

flesh, mettle to let me hold my soul

until ready to enter the theatre

that dance to perform with music

from other dances around and joy

and sorrows trapped deep in mind

© henry victor           02.06.2016

i saw

i saw her

clearly

the only true lover

my death

and i need

no more lovers

i also found

my mother’s lap

and her arm

for my comfort

to lay my head

with warmth

from her body

my own couch

i will lay there

until the city official

pick my cadaver

for fire, recycle

© henry victor       19.04.2016

illusory expectation

time for me today is like a frozen

river, running only underneath

not in my eyes i see a flowing

moving of your hand, a beating

of your heart right within my heart

absence here caused by your busyness

elsewhere made me wait in vain

but i blame you not for my devotion

rooted in an illusory expectation

not solid like my pillow on my bed

for me to indulge in a deeper dream

surfacing from that brain within

© henry victor      23.01.2016

Jesus, the Nazarene

when with joy and confidence shouting the name

Jesus, the Christ in small churches and tall cathedrals

marketing his name and brand, while others

advertising their  products to consumers in home

and far away in overseas, Jesus of Nazareth

the man who hung on the cross with loincloth

softly spoke to summon with tone

so temperate that one can hardly hear

to come and live with him, to see for my self

the birds that have nests and foxes that have holes

while he, the son of Mary, the Nazarene

had neither a place to live nor possession to protect

reminding me i have nothing to lose

neither any to market, nor to advertise

but only a cause to live, a life

to suffer pain to offer more for the little

© henry victor     26.01.2003

play kindness

you healed my broken heart

making it overflow with delight

replacing older blocked veins

with newer memories, no pain

flowing like a fresh spring river

surging with melting snow of winter;

in the morning you protested my not

picking and throwing to the second

floor, the dog’s toy to play on way

to your school, teaching me to play

with a four-legged and learn kindness

an urgent skill than picking to count

© henry victor       28.01.2016

arms to embrace

you have given me much moons

and plenty of many an opportunity

yet i remain absolutely empty

but pleading from you for more!

awake now my soul! for it is time

to rise from sleep and slumber

to un-hoard the clutter of desire

in that nothing, the ego, act as if all

instead stretch your arms to embrace

the homeless, the hermits, the marginal

and the bleeding, walking also to the jail

to set free the broken-wing birds to fly!

© henry victor       02.01.2016

priced well for sipping

my hot, bitter sweet tea i do not drink

but slowly, and gently sip

daily in the morning, noon

and in the afternoon

i always make my own

with water boiling at one hundred, and one

in which i soak

until the cup is settled with bitter and dark

that liquid now i slightly colour

with milk, taking extra care

that bitterness stays, in cup remain the black

but adding a single sweetener

again i return the cup and the content

to the microwave

to boil my drink further

until the cup can sure burn my lip

i have in hand my tea to sip

without gulping i enjoy

sipping my life that is aging

like the aged wine priced well

© henry victor        25.01.2017

trusting

war cry within, i hear

rattling of army battling

my soul!

my foes are my fears

doubts, and weaknesses

inherent in mind!

winning, or loosing

no my concern, now i learn

though late

trusting is my triumph;

the rest will be his wrestling

not my own crawling out!

© henry victor     05.02.2003

shifting my space

in days of my blindness

recompensed by rare pleasure

and fueled by ever-growing lust

i went into eventful spaces

occupied by men and women

with desire

and living for delight

but in these days of illumination

rewarded by a recurrent poise

and encouraged by an evolving

hermit within

i go now into empty spaces

not occupied

by deaf and blind creatures

dumb to transmit

the sacred within

henry victor     09.06.2003

time and need

extremely poor have no time for you

neither do they have need for eternity

when this one single life weighs so heavy

and leave no space for ease or rest

extremely rich have no need of you

neither do they have need for eternity

when they have all in one single life

with much time for ease and rest

it’s i who am neither rich nor poor

has need and time for you in excess

for i have fear i may end up poor

with that desire to imitate the rich

© henry victor     29.04.2003

the hoe, the rake and the wheelbarrow

the hoe, the rake, and the wheelbarrow

my constant companions of yesteryear

provided me healing to body, mind

and my soul, transforming also my land

the hoe, the rake, and the wheelbarrow

those simple tools with greater output

fed bigger mouths with larger bellies

grounding me on a very real ground

the hoe, the rake, and the wheelbarrow

the pen and the pencil of humble poor

wrote on pages of the mother earth

for me, the scholar, to read and live well

© henry victor     25.04.2003

restless storm

senseless suffering

and that starvation

my body faithfully carts

to the end, my goal

death, decay and destruction

are marks imprinted

in my immortal soul

and my spirit soars high

and higher

as i beat hard the harder element

that curtails my journey

to greener fodder

where body finds food

and soul rest

and until that break

i’m restless like a storm

going straight and, at times, in circle

knocking down

and knocked by forms

loosing vigor

and gaining strength

henry victor     25.04.2003