peace trail in the park

the trees in the park

invited me to walk

under their corridors

winds whispered secrets

fresh as freshly pulled carrots

for my feeble frame

pigeons and finches darted

up and down until i crafted

my poem beneath the trees

along the trail i heard songbirds pipe

i may with joy quickly elope

despite sorrow walking beside me

lilacs showered fragrance

lifting me into a tranquil trance

as i walked the park’s peace trail

henry victor      01.04.2007

i write a poem

sometimes i quickly write a poem

when a dagger has pierced my heart

or a mercy has reached my soul

making it dance to rhythmic refrain

other times i struggle to pen a verse

when desire to discipline is high

or to my daughter exhibit my brain

making her evolve into a genius

on occasion i compose rhyming lines

when my ego is bloated too big

to remain small, humble and modest

making easy an empty expedition

henry victor     23.03.2003

the photograph

words and images reign

my thoughts

dictating disorder out

to establish the couch

for more sun shine

deep within my heart

during this regime

on the roadsides  

i see much rain

puddles, my poems

reflecting for eyes, ready

to see the neighbourhood

henry victor          16.12.2018

last request

since i have had my share

of pain, painful, and pleasing pleasure

i plead with you to take me

home now to be with you

like me wrapping my mat

after napping a whole night

in case you decide to delay

i do not ask for a relay

of pleasure and pain

but a quiet desk, and a pen

for the flow of my fable, my gory

to transform into a soothing story

henry victor     27.12.2003

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

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

echoes of fear

i loved her with the power

of the morning sun

but that love’s only echoes

are those of fear as stark

as the darkest night

with neither love’s closest moon

not its most distant star;

did a secret worm

enter my heart to infect my love

that now resonates in her heart

as horror prompting her

to distance herself from me

henry victor        04.02.2010

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

 

for poetry

my pail for poetry is empty

and the well is also deep; a rope

the rhyme and rhythm, for verse

too from my mind is missing!

for you, the well-spring of beauty

my thirst is curled deep inside

my heart, persevering within my soul

for an apt moment, relentlessly hissing!

let me then creep into your sentry

that lets into being change and new seasons

for fresh life, fruit gathering, and scattering

of colours, that fall for sleeping with freezing!

© henry victor         17.10.2015  

night dreams

my mind is omnipresent god

neither sleeping, nor slumbering

not even in the coldest night

painting dreams, thinking thought

and constructing poems

forever with vivid images

simple symbols and newer metaphors

rooted in my cultural existence

© henry victor     29.10.2011

 

loads of love i did provide:

food, clothing, and security

i supplied in hefty quantity;

language skills and logic

i did not hide from her;

travel abroad and to towns afar

with exposure to beauty and beast

too was never in small amount;

yet i failed in my adventure

to instruct and inspire

my posterity in the path to success,

sitting in front of screen with my muse

i craft that crap, the broken line

calling it poetry to amuse

none but this silly self, the swine

indulging in miry excess

© henry victor                 07.08.2004

glory of nothingness

 

silly thoughts and worthless dreams flooded my mind

yesterday, and this morning too, like pounding waves

leaving me to lick my lips to taste its saltiness;

vain glory of poetry is that which i am seeking

in this world, walking on roads paved with eggshells

and leading to nowhere, an absent heaven!

poised moments do surface in that ocean, but to dive

leaving the shore and light into the darkness of depth

a Dutch courage i lack; for what if the road does not continue

to that peace and nothingness i crave with great intensity;

hell if i end up without Sylvia Plath being there!

© henry victor     24.02.2006

my dream

disgusting realities

my awake mind

refuses to let my eyes see

but when my eyelids are shut

my heart reconstructs

scribbling a perfect poem

a nightmarish dream

with graphic imageries

to haunt my soul, transcending

fear, words and lines dropped

on paper and prompted by vanity

i, then, name it, my verse

© henry victor     25.03.2004

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

post a poem

observing the depth, width, and length

i refuse to scuttle like a galloping horse;

hence i choose to carefully scan the world

like a tortoise surveying, slowly, the path

superficiality, i know, refuses to dive deep

to follow the path of the cormorant

prompting the world to survey like a crow

picking crumbs and not dive for pearls

withdrawing from the rat race of this world

as a half-naked hermit with the minimum

i enter into the court, the cave of my heart

occasionally coming out to piss a poem

 

© henry victor     23.11.2003

sailing on words

moods puzzled me those days of no words

and had not mastered rhyme or breaking lines

those days i was a slave to my bad temper

today i sail on winds of my moods

now i long for displeasure and time

knowing my skill to transform tempest

into songs of pleasure that pleases a heart

making soul dance non-stop now

pain in current times i consider precious

unlike then in vain i struggled to sing

for now poetry flows easily like water fall

pushing with force to express all my pain

© henry victor     23.03.2003

sailing on words

moods puzzled me those days of no words

and had not mastered rhyme or breaking lines

those days i was a slave to my bad temper

today i sail on winds of my moods

now i long for displeasure and time

knowing my skill to transform tempest

into songs of pleasure that pleases a heart

making soul dance non-stop now

pain in current times i consider precious

unlike then in vain i struggled to sing

for now poetry flows easily like water fall

pushing with force to express all my pain

© henry victor     23.03.2003

i write a poem

sometimes i quickly write a poem

when a dagger has pierced my heart

or a mercy has reached my soul

making it dance to rhythmic refrain

other times i struggle to pen a verse

when desire to discipline is high

or to daughter exhibit my brain

making her evolve into a genius

on occasion i compose rhyming lines

when my ego is bloated too big

to remain small, humble and modest

making easy and empty expeditions

© henry victor     23.03.2003

the poet

i saw the poet picking yesterday’s crumbs

his only possession, the typed manuscript

and dwelling in a solitary habitation

with no one peeping through his window

he’s that lonely hill, far from other hills

and songs of praise never arrive at foot;

he has withstood snowstorms and rains

his only staple food and strong drink

he dumps piles of papers at his door

nay! rejection notes, with more jeering

harder than real rocks they throw at

to cover alive after washing with his tears

© henry victor     07.05.2003