pitching your tent

 

pitching always your tent

where i have pitched mine

beside my neighbor’s

you remain my lord

you are my peace

from above

a light from heaven

with life like an ever-flowing river

to quench my thirst

you are that glorious whole

the most holy one

my feeble feet discover rest

in your place

you are the pioneer

that stone in the corner

by being my servant

serving me in my need

henry victor     02.02.2003

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

seeing geraniums, thinking beauty

hundred times every single day

i, with simple lenses, photograph
my geraniums in my garden
to store them in the album

that i take to my eternity;

these blooms are my women
whose faces i gaze upon untiringly!
in them i see Grace, a gift

to an undeserving soul

saving me from gloom and harm,
prompting me to pick up my brush
to paint, adding more geraniums

to that invisible Garden beyond

where there is neither toil
nor need for rest, nor men
or women to entertain a painter

henry victor     01.08.2013

croaking this night

i am locked behind the locked door
with ground outside frozen with snow
and trees around the house are nude
to hide nakedness of that brighter bird

my prying eyes, however, pry on fate

feeling with inside of my palm her form
placing on chest my ear to feel her heart
the pulse that direct my soul in the route

my baggage is heavy and burdensome

with my mind racing to many victories
with no single victory stand to alight
and i, a frog, croak to death this night

20.02.2012