simply a cento

the globe i observe is crooked

the air i respire too polluted

i’m lost, filled with frustrations

thought of deity too disappoints

it was indeed, very, very beautiful

when i was schooled not in school

then i waited for you to be my creed

under your shepherding for my need

it was in the cathedral, the mother church

praising you they refused me my crutch

making you, living in me, terribly tired

infinite now they are, but soon to be wired

the arrogant rich, as fat bitch, sit to bark

talk, good work, leaving millions to lurk

presently for shelter and square meal a day

wearing garments of patchwork and hay

henry victor     02.08.2002

an emerging poem

the poet steals from a conversation

his soul has with the world

stubbornly refusing to yield

pouring the same into another mould

to conceal carefully from

the world, the co-creator

of the conversation

naming and owning it as his poem

the poem is now a witness

to that chat in a sanctified

sacred and secret cave, poet’s heart

expressing a vital experience

for this a whirlwind is not necessary

a simple occurrence, a little storm

in the tea cup is capable

of vibrating a spirited song

henry victor     05.08.2002

low tide

i am back, again, to sit

on the rock in middle

of the flowing river

surging, splashing waves

after rising water;

the young men

and plenty of damsels

among them future rulers

too, walking through

the hub mall as i sit

to watch my muse

swelling in low tide

©  henry victor     24.03.2004