ingredients

i prepared a simple supper

but with great love i cooked
that main meat of refined wheat
durum semolina, traded as rotini

an Italian pasta to go with beef, a grace

from a Canadian cow grazed in prairie grass,
spiced with herbs from the hunted tropics:
ginger, garlic, turmeric, and coriander

powdered, with red pepper powder

and red pepper crushed, black pepper
(also powdered), added to the onion
chopped, fennel, fenugreek, and cumin

(all seeds), and the magical mustard,

adding leaves chopped: basil, chives
and parsley, with garam masala, a Bharat
special, sprinkled with hardly a pinch of salt

before adding the slow-cooked African beans
and Mexican sauce: chopped and crushed tomato,
and boiled potato, after being sautéed
in the US canola oil to enhance the taste

of minerals and more already in my pan:

folate, iron, niacin, riboflavin, and thiamine
already mixed in carbohydrate, the main
with Chinese additives: citric, soy, and seasonings

unlisted; likewise the two sealed cans

that curtailed my sprinkling salt for supper
came with corn starch, sugar, more spices
and blackstrap molasses, and a poetic muse

henry victor     04.05.2013

from your son

mommy! you made your slim and sensual frame

into a shapeless bundle, bundling my being inside
you for nine long months, keeping me, a worm, warm,
free from hunger and thirst, marks of the world outside;

and today! you struggle to work so hard to remain a mom
of great affection, cuddling me, as you march to a profession
greater, and your time for me is likely to reduce, to dim
like a lamp gathering smoke soot on her facial expression,

like your mom before you, travelling that path of darkness

prior to teaching you skills to swim, to avoid sinking in a pool,
without that settling in a trailer park, to bike and hike, distances
incredible to inspire me, that i may avoid the way of a fool!

henry victor     12.05.2013

moulding the clay

in an unexpected moment you, the source

and content of my being, the providence
dumped into my hand a lump, a handful
of clay to mould, to squeeze into my soul,

with your intent to realign my finger

and my voice to your purpose littered
in a bird with wings free to fly away
breathing a breath of rebellion to rebel,
 
with my pain and pleasures now i clean
a baby’s bum, carry a child, run behind a teen
and beyond, my sculpting a living being
in which is hidden the trends of my doing

henry victor     29.04.2013

 

crab in the kitchen sink

i am a Dungeness crab with my claws

now strapped with rubber bands, my food
and my hiding hole taken away, leaving
me seated in someone else’s  kitchen sink

sinking with my manuscripts, pens, papers

and pencils to my death like a doomed rapist
murderer ready to walk, nay, sit on the electric
chair, soon to be flushed out as staunch stink

but even here i have not lost my control

to give, to give self as food, age old whine
my writing in heart, that poem, my protest
against being a puck in the skating rink

henry victor     09.04.2013

floods and sludge (again)

cooking food, cleaning pots, pans, plates

and other cutleries surged, overflowed
like a spring river in my April days
and nights with no pause even to evaluate

either their relevance, or the quality of my life

that now carried floods and sludge with speed
though i, like brother Lawrence, the sage
applied my heart and soul working to bleed

without counting the cost but rejoicing

in my washing feet cracked and dirty
a relevant, realistic imitation of Jesus
than that ritual on Maundy Thursdays

that made my ego bloat every spring;

but neither the current work with great love
satisfies my soul where springs a still
small voice that i hear not clearly to change

henry victor      03.04.2013

 

floods and sludge

cooking food, cleaning pots, pans, plates

and other cutleries surged, overflowed
like a spring river in my May days
and nights with no pause even to evaluate

either their relevance, or the quality of my life

that now carried floods and sludge with speed
though i, like brother Lawrence, the sage
applied my heart and soul working to bleed

without counting cost but rejoicing

in my washing feet cracked and dirty
a relevant, realistic imitation of Jesus
than that ritual on Maundy Thursdays
 
that made only my ego bloat year by year
but neither the present work with great love
satisfies my inner person whose still small voice
i hear not very clearly to change my path

henry victor      21.05.2012

remaining un-public

as dust insignificant am i, doing nothing
these days, except sitting like a rock
in middle of the stream, that public life
flowing fast without my feet walking

and unlike those with electronic equipment
seated on ground as if grounded to reality
discoursing, but beyond my senses, a living-
out in full the modernity with mere pressing

of buttons, while i amass old postage stamps,
hoping gold coins suddenly appear from sand,
a dream with no great earthly value to strengthen
a dam to collect wealth to transact, to remain public

henry victor     05.03.2013