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

stop to breathe

‘creative writing’ has become my breath

while relating to people to find something

common like the ‘Good Samaritan’ sympathetic

to man stuck on road from Jerusalem to Jericho

speaking hence to Amber, Ashley, Arsha

Brian, Brenda, Bethusha, Beeby, Benji

and other children screaming and shouting

as they run to the ice cream vendor

and i stop not so much to fix the jammed

ice cream car, knowing well my ignorance

of motor mechanics, but to feel the pain

of man stuck on roads

and admire his patience and persistence

to make the machine work

though he carries not the tools

but a heart for children of rich shy folks

drowning in self-sufficiency

considering themselves more important

than a bard who stops to record

the pulsating heart; nay, to breathe!

henry victor    02.09.2002

spicing my creativity

pain, fire that purifies gold, my soul

and patience, cooling time

for the settling of my mind

are spices for my creativity

constructing my poem, my life

making my song from deep

within my heart prompting a dance

for my body to increase flexibility

for the river within to flow freely

into the wider ocean, eternal cosmos

with neither birth to celebrate

nor death to mourn

henry victor          04.05.2010

stopping by an unkempt lawn

the train journey was long!

the whole night it did prolong

but i was down, from train, by dawn 

beside an unkempt lawn

neither my family nor me

knew why we got off at such a wee

hour of the day when destination

had not arrived; nor was this a station

for a train to stop! but white bunnies

two that drew my immediate notice

and at the end, i happened to learn

that these two, the only i did yearn

not to own did i, with folks, stop here

but with spouse and spawn to care!

my destiny did pass through this land

this lonely prairie property so grand

someone content with their lot of no gain

earlier, too had stopped to touch the pain

the wounds of these helpless creatures

and it is my turn now to love the bunnies

henry victor      21.04.2007

a rascal

like a three-year-old child i imitate

the men and women of the bard

picking someone else’s pen i scribble

feeling in heart like other poets

i have also left an enclosure

with a flute for my songs  

for others behind me to sing

with affection and wisdom

my associates do not deem

the un-rhythmic squirt squiggling

ignorance, but in me, a rascal

they see an immortal poet

a sage amongst them, a rebel

a prophet with a new vision

to transform deteriorating structures

and values of disintegrating cultures

© henry victor     11.09.2003

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

late hour

the clock alarm rang at 4.00 am

i woke and pressed and i am
out of bed only at 6.14 am!

the bed is warm and i pull

my blanket right up to my neck
rolling and curling to make
my body more comfortable!

later, i call that my laziness

chaining my creativity and eroding
a life of potentials and this is where i am
now when i turn to you to confess
my wasted aeons and i beg for grace!

my repentance for the left-over days

i realize, is not deep enough
to turn my life inside out and make
a new path, to joy, i may walk!

hence i cling to you at this late hour;

please, push me not out of your abode
though many a chance i have missed!

for you and your hug, that grace is all

i need to which i am now a sure slave!

last noon and last night

last noon i bent my inflexible frame to sit

down on my driveway with my grandson

the little boy, to draw with sidewalk chalk
flowers that never droop, bees that never suck

adding the easy crocodile beside the baby

and endlessly much more that he scribbled
until the energy within tempted him to spill
beyond the safety of my patience, my control

and last night you sent your heavy dark clouds

to completely wipe out our creative expressions
as if getting rid of the monstrous dinosaurs, bad
land creatures, to give space for prickly cacti bed!
 
29.06.2014