Rebirth in time of sorrow

Sunrise in Puraran, Baras, Catanduanes by George Tapan

The Lord has risen

On this another Sunday

Of our sorrow.


I hear bells ring

In the nearby church

I feel a slight breeze

Rustle my potted plants.


It is the day of resurrection

But death stalks the internet

Full of grim news

Of friends and acquaintances gone

As more await healing

In the house of agony.


As the Lord has risen

You think of ways

To find rebirth

Amidst the mountain

Of grief.


You have to resuscitate

Your spirit

And find strength

In growing grandchildren.



You have to keep flying

In the open skies

Of uncertainty.


You have to revive

Faith in the morning

You have to resurrect


For your own sake

And your loved ones.


The Lord has risen

You have to redefine

What kindness is

And what it means

To a suffering milieu.


You have to find hope

In the sea of despair.

And find solace

In your restless heart.



Is retracing

A good dream

Before it fades

Into the labyrinth

Of nightmare.


The Lord has risen

With it comes

The promise

Of sunrise.

** *

Fury by Pablo Perdoma


This is not the proper way

One wants to end

Another weary day.


Sunsets have become ominous

The rays from the dying sun

Are full of desperate voices

From the sick and the jobless.


Sunset has become

A furious volcano

In the brink of anger

That cannot wait for

Another day.


You are an ogre

Insisting on silencing

The people’s voice

Through your predictable

Puppet show.


Yet you have nothing to say

About regular killings

In the city and the countryside

While your lapdogs allot

Billions for retired military minions

And proceed to impeach a magistrate

For not kowtowing

To the lord and master.


This sunset ends

With new wave of desolation

With images of distraught people

Storming the heavens with prayers

for ailing relatives and friends.


Now the anxious day ends

With heartless subalterns

driving the last few nails

into the coffin of

of our discontent.


After more than 365 days

Into the restless nights,

let me say things off my chest.

You do not bring comfort

To the weary and the sick.


You don’t bring strength to people

saving lives in the dead of night.


It doesn’t help

that you are silent

about your subalterns

openly breaking the laws

while the hapless cope

with the day’s last meals.


The Virus

is the enemy.


It is alarming

to realize

you have become

the living symbol

of the dreaded scourge.


It is truly sad

when the spring of eternal hope

has turned into

A volcano

Of seething discontent.

About author


Although he has been reporting on the arts, his Facebook friends have been delighted by a recent revelation. For the past year, and more intensively during the COVID-19 quarantine, Tariman has been posting his deeply expressive, melancholic poetry on Facebook—and bowling over friends and readers accustomed to his usually acid tongue. “It was timely because at my age, I am writing with fervor, not so much to impress, but to chronicle this stage of my last season….” (AH)

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