etching not my image

after sufficiently resting

i now sit silently

in my quiet home

neither hot nor cold

i sit with my note pad

and pen with desire to write

desiring also to teach

transform my daughter’s heart

but i know too well

gods and goddesses will permit

not to etch my image in her soul

or my mind to dream for her

a Lewis Stephen

a Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

or another simpleton, an activist

a campaigner of clean air for all

i also know, for sure, that boat

making is never taught

but only caught

in silent shores of the deep river

henry victor      12.03.2007

 

a courageous chase

i was scarcely seven! i remember

my father, a soldier, a thunder

chasing a burglar sneaking to thieve

chicken in middle of moon lit night

in that unlit rural village

the following morning others strutted

my father’s foolhardiness

as i chanted his courage

and when my daughter was seven

the same drama unfolded, demanding

my heroic act! but miles away

in this excessively lit hamlet

and i, a frightened chicken, woke my wife

to let the crook know occupants awake

to switch on security lights; others beamed

my wisdom as i cogitated my cowardliness

© henry victor     04.04.2003