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. 

By Eva Rinaldi from Sydney Australia [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
By Eva Rinaldi from Sydney Australia [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
International Day of Peace (“Peace Day”) is observed around the world each year on 21 September. Established in 1981 by resolution 36/37, the United Nations General Assembly has declared this as a day devoted to strengthening the ideals of peace, both within and among all nations and peoples. Furthering the Day’s mission, the General Assembly voted unanimously in 2001 to adopt resolution 55/282 establishing 21 September as an annual day of non-violence and cease- fire.”

By John Kaufman


If war can be shed, if we can agree

to remove the uniform

for a day or an hour or even

a minute then whatever we said

we heroically wore unravels

as when one pulls a loose thread.


Because war is a shirt

stitched tight like a chain,

each building upon the other one’s pain,

someone must risk

letting go of the link, just one

anywhere, anyone


can, barehanded, begin.

(Photo by Jocelyn Augustino (This image is from the FEMA Photo Library.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)

By Rumple Oxbridge (The Pacific’s imaginary rhymer-in-residence)

My dog is apolitical as dirt.
Jack licks anyone whose hand
is warm and open as a flirt.

More democratic than the Democrats,
Jack barks only at the cruel.
Will he bless or will he bite? That’s

between you and him. But
Jack’s no pure aristocrat.
Like most of us, he’s a muddy mutt.

On Humpty Dumpty



Tyrants of egg-headed ambiguity

raise walls of anti-prose,

well-trained indecipherable code

down which readers will fall


and fail like an egg shattered

after a spectacular crash.

A spectacle for sure, and yet

no way to put them whole


with horses or men.

The impulse is to make

the barrier too dense—

an art of self-offense.


Better to build with give

to catch the hesitant.

Let the critics cringe:

A poem is a wall with a hinge.

                                              By John Kaufman