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

in retreat … i wait

in retreat i wait for a voice

a sense, an assurance
a word of admonition, a declaration
of a direction and i wait

to charge my soul, rundown battery

and i am seated in front
of that window with curtain
rolled, and my coffee cup empty

it is a wintry morning

with a moon waning
yet to set
as leafless boughs sway

and pine branches

have shed the snow
as bunches
of mountain ash berries swing

they add

an extravagant red
to rising reddish rays

but in retreat

i wait
for light
to shine in heart

© henry victor     11.02.2004

reconstructing

with these bleak and busted building blocks

from derelict dreams of my exhausted mind
my trampled soul has dared to dream despite
the bleeding wound in my battered body

this discarded child from that ruined family

earlier neglected student of the deserted village
intends not to bend bruised knees to insolent might
even if he were to be pushed into a ghost town

with that broken pot and empty can the beaten spirit

will continue on that abandoned boat to reconstruct
the wretched wrecked life and rebuild the burnt house
watering also the sun scorched plants in the parched land

henry victor     17.06.2002

 

perfect pearl

trapped inside that shell

underneath that ocean bed
i a perfect pearl
wait for a hand that knows

both the craft and the world

of commerce to pick me
to transact a sale
filling wallet and my heart 
 
13.03.2012