Often we are stagger half-dazed,
barely able to take the very next step.
Bloodshot eyes of the drunk,
struggling to get home at 4 A.M.
The storms are heavy,
and the bludgeoning relentless.
We seek the compass,
where the straight road disappears,
like a slippery snake into the forest.
the dark end of the road
the sky dips,
shyly visiting a forlorn spot.
Hope knocks on the weary heart
and the tired feet lift
to march on again.
The laden mind like a widow
looking for her lost children,
Even the beings of the night stop…
John Lyly, the poet, once wrote: “The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.” Politics is both love and war. All three evoke lots of emotions.
Those who sit around hoping that politics will bring about a fair and fairer society without a fight have a long time to wait. Politics is about interests. It pretends to resolve those interests while promoting them. Its conflicts within and without never end, and that’s why it is a never-ending theatre.
When Joe Biden tells his former senate colleagues, who are Republicans, that he will never embarrass them publicly…
Some books stay with you forever. You will always remember them, parts of them, or some ideas and stories that got you thinking. Some you think you have forgotten until something happens or you see the books again and instantly experience some recall.
Rework by Jason and David Heinemeier Hansson is one such remarkable book, a bestseller you can easily rate 5 out of 5 and one you would want to reread now and again.
I am a book fanatic, lover, and collector. Almost a compulsive one. I don’t wait to read all I have available before acquiring any new…
In a rather hits-soaked night;
some other music acts played
warming up the merry crowd,
then he quietly came right on.
The huge stage lights dimmed,
where he swayed and stood
unrecognized in bluesy rays
of the main floodlight.
From inside the long hall,
he appeared distant and alone,
the band and dancers in silhouettes,
his firm, familiar voice filling the hall
until the jubilant crowd went quiet.
He let it all out from his soul,
and stretched every note,
but the crowd stayed calm.
Strangely aloof, unexcited.
He suddenly raised his hand,
stopping the music, halting the band. …
Electoral democracy, even as we complicate it, is a game of numbers. Let’s never forget that. It is so important in politics that some even tweak principles for that purpose. Not all, though!
“The Fraudulent Presidential Election of 2020 will be, from this day forth, known as THE BIG LIE!”
- President Donald Trump
“The 2020 presidential election was not stolen. Anyone who claims it was is spreading THE BIG LIE, turning their back on the rule of law, and poisoning our democratic system.”
- Congressional rep Liz Cheney
Let’s also not forget. Trump’s refusal to accept the November 2020…
IF God is your father,
every man is your brother,
every woman your sister…
they are blind who miss
the beauty of the rainbow;
oh, how dull it will all be
if we all are the same color,
the same height, the same weight,
like mass units off a production line —
those who scoff at skin cover miss
the bigger essence right within;
them we all owe pity
for the life in self-made cages
of that endless comparison that yields
no comfort with whom they are
and leaves them with complexes
they project to others in acts
of racism, sexism, class,
and other discriminations,
which miss the memo —
‘Love Thy Neighbour As Thyself,’
On that path of awakening,
the flames burn to brighten the way
and douse the encroaching darkness;
the love is firm, not just for the grace
and the blessings to lighten the journey
but for the justice to tighten the ropes
and direct the traveler
from flouting the laws —
his shield and his double-edged sword —
so that he may see the ordinances
as real and living, their stings hurt;
the sanctions are steep and swift
to the one who has offered to serve
and pledged everything he has,
reaffirmed in daily prayers
yet when he slips, he’s burnt
and may roast himself
as he stumbles and struggles
in the webs of…
There I stood, slightly sideways
Black shorts, white socks
And black shoes
Mellow white long sleeves
Buttoned to a firm neck
Of a bold stern face
Leather camera case hanging
Down one shoulder,
One hand by the side
The other holding the strap.
And rituals of that photograph
I’ve never remembered
But the picture taken,
Many decades back,
I still remember, hidden
With the family album
By the family idiot —
Whoever that was then —
At mother’s funeral.
Ah, is this potent recall
Unburdening of one’s heavy load
Or the embers of cooling coal?
I wonder what my folks
And the photographer —
Mum’s cousin, a professional
In that era
Behind a camera —
Saw in those eyes
Brother. Igbo. Entrepreneur. Poet. Seeker.