June 6, 2017 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | LIFE, PETER'S WRITING |

He had been a surgeon; One of the best. Now he’s a fugitive, You know the rest. Tis a technical bent, The hand must be strong, Some of his best work Could not right the wrong. Here’s a funeral scene To mark a mishap; His Practice declines, The quack gets a slap. He takes to the bottle, He has a new view, A fresh decree nisi And a Google Review. Kicked-off the campus And out of his house, With five star abuse His Fund disendows. “He said there’s no risk,” The blogs richly lied, And, gently cascading, The stars scarified. Soon…

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Jenny Had it Coming

March 4, 2017 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING |

("Girl with a Guitar (Daydreams)" by Richard E. Miller, 1916-17)

JENNY HAD IT COMING (Peter Jakobsen ©) A play in two acts CAST  (A disparate group of thirty / forty-somethings)  Alicia Harold Penelope Raymond Seth Sid  ——- ACT ONE [Scene One: A dingy, untidy hospital waiting-room is set some degrees off centre-stage.  It contains several seats, a low coffee table with magazines, a broken clock on the wall.  A lavatory door and vending machine stand as sentries at the back.  A Thomas Cole print, “Desolation”, (or similar, perhaps something apocalyptic by John Martin) is prominent on the wall, along with the inevitable public health notices. Swinging doors give onto the waiting…

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Africa Screams

February 5, 2017 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Ulalume |

This cradle of man, this voracious climbing vine, Done-up like a salad bowl, posing as a mine, We don’t sing but complain melodiously; Never given anything we now expect for free. Sun-treader comb your morning hair, sweep private roads in anger; What of other highways? Go tell King Mwanga The Royal House is empty, the servants all abroad, Scattered to earth’s corners, a tuneless monochord, Their hearts a lute for strumming, diseased the ebb and flow, Sad cypress; unfulfilled watercress – what’s to know?  

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Death Finds a Way

October 1, 2016 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | LIFE, PETER'S WRITING |

"Will somebody just kill us? Please?" (1936 gathering of the Voluntary Euthanasia Legislation Society, Leicester - photo c/- Wellcome Images).

An earnest fellow cringed guiltily Because his elderly kin Lingered on in life so painfully, Before oblivion. — He craved leave to administer A coup de grâce to the man, And so approached a Minister In order to detail his plan. — If there was a rule a relative Could decide to throw the switch, No more in pain would a victim live And hug doom without a hitch. — Such murders are compassionate And lovingly boost the feelings That the victim was asking for it, Ceasing strife and other dealings.  

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An American Deity

Young he was and sound ‘in wind and limb’, Fit and tanned, bareheaded, toothy, slim, Rich he was of vocabulary and purse, Bore away he be in a wagon, not a hearse, Draped in a flag his form, of garish stripes and stars Followed slowly by lesser men in motor cars. It all began they say, in a killing frost, A cold replicated later when he was lost, Abbreviated poesy marked the spot On which commenced the reign of Camelot, Where a bogus royalty came into view As desideratum, thus embraced as true.              …

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