pen

when

there

is

nothing

to

pen

why

scratch

head

like

a

hen

scratching

ground

that

has

no

worm

making

her

poetic

cluck

cluck

and

cluck

sleep

and

if

woken

by

a

hen-pen

early

tomorrow

words

will

flow

from

pen

as

eggs

from

hen

henry victor     11.08.2002

a single hair

i picked a hair, a dame’s, for sure

in my oatmeal this morning

as i was about to pour water

and stir with some sweetener

making my breakfast, a poem to enjoy!

i remembered, those days, for my mother

it was only i, among her five boys

somehow found her hair in my meals!

ex-spouse of 35 years too have protested!

and now, i talk to this woman, also about

what we will do in bed, but only in cyber

when via camera, she walks into my kitchen

© henry victor             07.01.2018

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

jammed cento

retreating from the world, all i can do

where no man has seen the third hand
and i meet the Bishop on the road, and
i caught this morning morning’s minion

in an upper room at midnight

when i watch the living meet my last
Duchess painted on the wall!
oh, my love is like a red, red rose

for which the thirsty earth soaks up the rain

and flee from me that sometimes did me seek
with Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan!
Milton! you should be living at this hour!
 
henry victor     10.04.2013