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

a profitable pot

my father was not the potter who shaped

my stature though he may have cut the sod

the first dry dirt, while just enough water

was splashed carefully by my mother

then, one and many hands moulded

the wet mud, me lending both my rights

and resistance, an ambiguous assistance

until in me a market detected a profitable pot, a poet

© henry victor     03.11.2003

shit

birth is a bloody shit

when the one who needs to give

birth, cannot proudly announce

that “fact” or the name of the culprit

refusing now to own it

birth is a bloody shit

when your mother has not knitted

your first coat

in her preoccupation to find

a convenient vat to dump her womb’s hurt

birth is a bloody shit

when your damned father hides

his tail for the fear of a child’s snivel

to let someone else walk forward

to hide a new nakedness

birth is a bloody shit

when you hopelessly

for the rest of your existence

struggle to envision your life’s route

when courage had ruled

© henry victor     03.11.2003