If Rudy* is a “hand grenade”*
Why did Bolton* send his aide
To disarm the whole charade
While Bolton lounges in the shade?

Well, that is how his wars are made:
From the safety of Bolton’s brain.

 

Note: *Rudy Giuliani, former mayor of NYC serving as President Trump’s personal attorney and covert diplomat in Ukraine. *John Bolton was the former National Security Advisor who referred to Giuliani as a *”hand grenade” regarding efforts to force the Ukrainian government to investigate Joe Biden and his son. 

Within the White House the forecast is “Stormy.”
But the president swears that NOTHING porny

Ever happened with that woman hushed
With money that had NOTHING to do with slush.

Lawyers pay off porn stars all the time
Right before elections . . . with their own dime

Without the knowledge of the one was horny,
Don’t they?  No fury like a woman named Stormy.

By Rumple Oxbridge, liberal lyricist

I’ll say this much for Twitter:
It’s Tr——p’s Achilles’ Heel.
Eventually he’ll tweet something
so far beyond the pale,

almost every Republican
will admit the news is real.
They will stand before a mic
to boldly, angrily reveal—

“Hillary hacked the president
with a scandalous e-mail!”
For evidence they will point to
a tweet from you know who.

[JK: An augury is an omen and this is a political poem because . . . today is Blake’s birthday and the poem details connections, relationships ecological and human we too often, especially in the halls of power, fail to acknowledge. The first four lines are famous but we often neglect the rest of this poem of transcendental justice.  Thanks to the Poetry Foundation from which I borrowed Blake’s bio and the poem.]
Songs_of_Innocence_and_of_Experience_copy_L_object_29_Frontispiece_to_Songs_of_Experience
William Blake [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
 Auguries of Innocence
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thr’ all its regions
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State
A Horse misusd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear
A Skylark wounded in the wing
A Cherubim does cease to sing
The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright
Every Wolfs & Lions howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul
The wild deer, wandring here & there
Keeps the Human Soul from Care
The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife
And yet forgives the Butchers knife
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that wont Believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbelievers fright
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belovd by Men
He who the Ox to wrath has movd
Shall never be by Woman lovd
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spiders enmity
He who torments the Chafers Sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night
The Catterpiller on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar
The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat
The Gnat that sings his Summers Song
Poison gets from Slanders tongue
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envys Foot
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artists Jealousy
The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags
A Truth thats told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent
It is right it should be so
Man was made for Joy & Woe
And when this we rightly know
Thro the World we safely go
Joy & Woe are woven fine
A Clothing for the soul divine
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
The Babe is more than swadling Bands
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made & Born were hands
Every Farmer Understands
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity
This is caught by Females bright
And returnd to its own delight
The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of Death
The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear
The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun
Palsied strikes the Summers Sun
The poor Mans Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Africs Shore
One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands
Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole Nation sell & buy
He who mocks the Infants Faith
Shall be mockd in Age & Death
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall neer get out
He who respects the Infants faith
Triumphs over Hell & Death
The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons
The Questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to Reply
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesars Laurel Crown
Nought can Deform the Human Race
Like to the Armours iron brace
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow
A Riddle or the Crickets Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply
The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will neer Believe do what you Please
If the Sun & Moon should Doubt
Theyd immediately Go out
To be in a Passion you Good may Do
But no Good if a Passion is in you
The Whore & Gambler by the State
Licencd build that Nations Fate
The Harlots cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet
The Winners Shout the Losers Curse
Dance before dead Englands Hearse
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to Endless Night
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day

A poet in a bad mood can ruin a reputation, as T.S. Eliot did for April when he called it “the cruellest month”, adding an extra letter l for emphasis.

I prefer what Robert Frost had to say about April in is his poem “Two Tramps in Mud Time.” Mud time is what rural people in New England used to call early spring, that time of year when the snow melts and dirt roads and nearly every other spot of ground melts into mud:

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.

Happy April. Read some books of poetry or locate a journal or two. Perhaps the nation could use a National Mud Month as well.

[Thanks to poets.org for the National Poetry Month logo]

The Poem to End All Cruelty

For many years she wanted to write a poem
To end all cruelty. But always she failed to start
Or finish because she thought: Who am I
To try to change what many holy people
Failed to do? And how could one poem

Accomplish what entire books
Said to be written by God or saints or prophets
Had not done? But one day she started
To write and could not stop until the lines,
As if dictated, appeared: a poem she could
Not comprehend completely, but seemed
To be some formula, a kind of spell
That when recited erased her fears and joined
Everything together so that even the most
Vicious acts were easy to forgive,
Even when she imagined herself the victim.
And then she was distracted by the phone.

After the call, she looked at the poem again.
Whatever she thought she’d written there was gone.

A Banished Sound

by John Kaufman

 

Banishment has this benefit:
Art becomes your argument. You’re free
To dabble in the resistance of language,
Rebel in babble, decorate the walls
With something human that will last or have
To be furiously, futilely erased.
Exhausting to elaborate the facts,
Explain thisness of this, thatness of that
To people who put on power like a hat
That covers eyes and ears but not
The mouth: to hear themselves they have to shout.
Call it the drowning out of doubt,
Conquering of conscience, clearing a forest
That will come marching back– Macbeth’s
Nightmare. Better to be a witch,
A soothing sayer of spells casting doubt
In riddles and rhyme. Be lyrical, then,
Be underhand to undermine, eschew
Fury and cultivate a banished sound.
Despite doubt, you are signifying something.