Poetry as a Healer
Poems are the effective outlet
Of frustrations that help soothe
Raw nerve and desires which are unmet,
Helping to avoid stress and gnawing tooth.
Poetry is a great cultural pastime,
And helps to sharpen language skill.
It's a tool to practice rhythm and rhyme
And pave the way for an even keel.
When burdened by weights of daily life,
Poetry opens the aperture of relief,
As if a melodious sound emitting from a fife,
Confirming confidence and self-belief.
Poetry is the syrupy flow of emotion
That oozes with the tender touch of a rivulet,
Creating imagination in poet's reflection
And helping to rein in restive heartbeat.
Poet's scattered thoughts coalesce around
Narratives, which are often vague, but lead
To flickers of dreamy rainbows that surround
The aura magnanimity that million lives tread.
Poetry's soothing rhymes offer the ministration
To an overburdened mind and a pained soul,
Caring with a balmy touch to heal life's pain
And lessen the weight of the underlying toll.
Note: The inspiration of Poetry as a Healer came from my own experience that involved expressing my feeling and emotion in the language of poetry. It often helped me structure my thoughts and articulate them in narratives that not only enhanced my literary skills, but also punctuated with the topsy-turvy emotive desires that needed an outlet. The Poetry as a Healer is completed on February 1, 2025.
Media as Pawn at the Hands of Powerful
Where is the voice of conscientious thinking?
I don't hear it, neither I do see it in media.
It seems, all they do is to flow with the easy flow
And curry favor with the ruling class.
For that, if they have to forego the conscience,
Moral compass, or journalistic prudence,
So be it! Because it's more about the top/bottom line,
And less about the objectivity of reporting bringing insight.
Media should be the lens through which commoners
And Plebians would peer through the complexities
Of the world and grasp the nuances of the policies,
with complex insight that they can simplify for the public.
Instead, they are the pawns at the hands of the powerful,
Rejecting the moral threshold and voice of sagacity,
Only to fulfill the whims and whips of the ruling class
At the expense of the interests of suffering masses.
Note: This poem was written on February 2, 2025 in response of biased reporting by the media that portrays the stories and narratives of the powerful in positive light. The reporting standards of the media are falling every day, and their fiduciary responsibility to public is evaporating on hourly basis.
Aliens Are Humans Too
Alien I am to you and everybody else,
Alien you are to me and everybody else,
Alien everybody else to you and me,
But, we are humans. Made of flesh and blood.
Made of emotions--both joyous, sorrowful and in between.
We are humans first.
My heart aches as men in shackles are
Hounded from their workplaces as if
They are murderers, hard-core criminals.
They are the source of hope and nourishments
For their families and communities.
They are called rats, evil, devil, and myriad other names.
Well, their skin color is not exactly the
Same as so called patriots and self-righteous enforcers.
That may explain why this hatred and vilification are
Oozing like a constant flow of venom and poisoning
The body politic of our nation and beyond.
We all belong to this world,
We are equal and whole,
We can't make a better world on the pain
And sufferings of others.
We, the humans, do the best and brightest
For the society and the world
When we stand firm, tall, unbreakable and united.
Note: Aliens Are Humans Too is my response to Trump administration's ineffective and cruel migrant round-up and deportation initiative that has created a fear psychosis among the immigrant communities across the Republic. Trump administration's clampdown tears up the families and engenders chaos in the immigrant communities. Just hearing in the news, watching on the TV and reading on the social media platform about harassment, tearing-up of families and ill-treatment meted out in the name of enforcing the Republic's laws is an insult to my conscience. I need to transform my frustration into something creative, and thus, the Aliens Are Humans Too is penned on February 6, 2025.
International Criminal Court at the Dystopian Ruler's Bullseye
ICC is now the new target of this dystopian ruler,
Hell-bent on destroying our world's true trophy,
Which is a guardrail against tyrants' power
By holding autocrats accountable to prevent catastrophe.
Tyrants all over are happy because of this foolhardy
Decision that stems from disregard and disrespect,
Undermining a global order which has stood sturdy
And elicited profound confidence and deep respect.
As we see the sprouting of oppressive enterprise,
So is the need to hold the perpetrators accountable.
The ICC we often look up to for justice will not rise,
Thanks to His Majesty making it insurmountable.
No more is the fear of prosecution,
No more is the onus for accountability,
A clean chit to oppressors for persecution,
With no consequences, or responsibility.
We shudder at the possibility of political mayhem,
Thanks to this dystopian leader's foolishness--
That will bring us to our knees and shame,
With the world plunging into suspicion and leeriness.
Note: Disheartened by the recent Presidential Executive Order undermining the International Criminal Court, I found my best pastime [writing poetry] as therapeutic and a tool to eject out my frustration. International Criminal Court has been an effective bulwark against perpetration, oppression and persecution by states and powerful political and public figures. The PEO gives a clean chit to the global autocrats who will feel emboldened and run amuck with impunity. This poetry expresses my laments and regrets over the fact that the ICC will not rise to the occasion under this dystopian world order. This poetry was penned on the Valentine Day of 2025.
Lucky Man Who Has Not Recognized Your Love
Had I known before thy love,
I could even feel from thy shove.
It will bring stirs in my nerves,
With blessing thy love serves.
If thou didn't hide it from me,
Graciously receptive I could be.
Thy eyes glittered with cerulean
Moisture that seems not drying for an eon,
For someone special and unique,
Most precious in the love's boutique.
Who knew hath thy eyes set upon me,
And thy titillating love I failed to see.
Thy smile had a balmy feeling of tranquility,
But never thought that it's meant for me.
Running into, thou would look at another guy,
Only later didst realize that thou tried to hide your shy.
Love that never didst I recognize, nor didst the way
Thou would show, thus leaving me without sway.
I thought of the lucky man,
For whom thy heart ran.
Who's that special person? What's his trait?
Who thy desire could only satiate?
Who knew at that time it was none other than me?
Aye, I could have been the nectar for thou, the honeybee.
NOTE: The context of this poetry came from the poet's ignorance of a secret lover who used to love with all sincerity, passion and sensitiveness, only to fall wayside because of the poet's indifference and firm belief that it couldn't be possible. When the poet learned about the existence of the secret lover and the lover's profundity of love, the poet expressed the feeling of that enormous miss in the form of this poetry which the poet has completed on March 24, 2025.
Christmas as I Interpret
The day Jesus was born,
Not there was a delivery room,
Nor an OBGYN tending to Mary. It was a dirty
Barn and a herd of cattle in the midst of a gloom.
An emaciated and weakened couple,
Denied a room to stay in a noisy and crowded inn,
Were forced to stay overnight in a smelly and
Unhygienic barn where an epic story would begin.
Jesus was born in a barn that might be full of filth,
Amidst the laughter and screams unhinged and loud.
The newborn brought immeasurable joy to a disheveled couple
amidst the orgy at the inn of a bacchanalian and boisterous crowd.
The birth of Jesus is an epitome of the arrival of a undocumented
Child to the tranquil smiles of destitute Jewish parents
Rejected by the inn's owner, a story we would still find relevant
Today as destitute migrants are being rejected by political tyrants.
NOTE: I have completed this poem on December 26, 2025 to mark the Christmas of 2025 and what auspicious day means to millions of undocumented immigrants and their kids who are vilified and stigmatized by political elites and exclusivists. This poem counters the political narrative of hard-right groups to vilify and reject people based on how they look, speak, pray and live.
