As I write this, the former president is confined at The Hague, a fate he did not foresee at the height of his power.
I am reproducing two poems which captured the early days of the pandemic and how The Butcher and his allies coped with it.
I wrote this in May 2020:
It is kind of hard
managing this uncanny anger
coming from the pit
of your scrotum.
You see the chief puppet
playing a role
combining imaginary virtues
and surreal empathy
with pure hubris.
From the looks of it
as you stare at the idiot box,
he is a picture
of a devout public servant
quoting the holy book
and his righteous father.
You have to imagine a halo
around his balding forehead
to believe the lofty words
about being right
at any time.
The more he spouts
empty words of wisdom,
the more you see a hidden
hand manipulating the puppets
with the sinister skill
of a master showman.
‘I am with you,’ he hisses
like a seasoned snake charmer
when told of thousands
losing employment
as the camera pans
on two more public servants
from the south,
It is killing time
In the house of the people.
They play assigned roles
with the unbelievable skill
of seasoned actors.
You lose sleep all night
trying to figure out
what you have done
to deserve this brand of governance.
The collective anger is real
but they play possum
hoping the audience wouldn’t see
the hidden script
behind the zoomed screen.
The Lord and Master say he is accepting his fate. I remember a picture of him praying on his mother’s tomb.
I wrote this poem on the first year of the pandemic.
Suddenly we are a country in deep prayer
asking deliverance from the common enemy we cannot see.
out of nowhere
there is a battered pick up
with a sound system from the barangay hall
asking one and all to pray
and be spared from The Virus.
More prayers on the internet
full of moving holy images
in deep supplication.
even the substitute program on TV
features a boy singing a love song
turned into a plaintive dirge
From where I am contemplating
a few pesetas that may not last a month,
I pray for my loved ones
from Pasig to Frankfurt.
I break into prayer when
granddaughter makes music on the piano
while sister putters around and laughs
as though everything is all right
with the world.
I break into prayer when another granddaughter
interrupts a phone conversation
to say, “I love you Papu.”
With this quiet street
and empty church
in the background,
I pray for many artists world-wide
separated from their audiences
in many temples of the arts.
There will be ominous silence of pianos
in the concert halls
of great singers whose golden voice we will not hear
for some time.
I may loathe him as a father figure
but I like to look at him
as a human being
tired of his fatherly role
in a sea of disgruntled voices.
Meanwhile you pray
for all support
he can get in this difficult voyage
to deliverance.
True
there is weariness in his voice
and fatigue in his profile as he grapples
with a prepared message
and miraculously
ending with a prayer.
In the dead of night
still you offer a prayer
for him
hoping he survives his age
and makes it through a contagious night.
How I wish
we continue as a nation in prayer
even without the threat of plagues
and the sorry spectacle of comedians
in the House of the People.
In my mind
prayer works in many ways.
It is the only open path
by which I can see
the inner layer
of my troubled psyche.
Yes I do believe in prayer
As the only way to check
The barnacles
gathering in my soul.