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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The Invitation

May 7, 2016 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Short Stories |

“Mors aurem vellens ‘vivite’ ait, ‘venio.’”  (Virgil) — Looking back at it, the cause was indeterminate.  Carol believed that she knew the people.  Paula knew the place.  Nestled in the crook of worn-down mountains, its gimlet, art-deco eyes glowed in the mid-winter murk, warm. and austere. Fog having delayed flight, delay having undermined their arrangements, the sun was already weak and remote when they set off from the airport. “It must be the sponsors who put-up the spa weekender for the lottery.” “So they punish us now?  After all this time?” Dead tones from the dashboard guide the two businesswomen over…

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The Lawyer Drinks Alone

March 24, 2016 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Ulalume |

(photo by Esther Bubley)

(A recent report in the “Australasian Lawyer” disclosed research suggesting the Legal profession was the most depressed profession, and the highest user of legal depressants).   Worse than in “Aubade” We work all day, and get drunk at night. Like Saul Goodman, glum and quiet, Hammering rusty nails, bedight In shame.  Sampling the contents Of a bottle in chambers, forlorn, In dark corners, with dark materials, Knowing only, qua Tulkinghorn, Those dark parts of the human soul So that one admits no other. Therefore we look on the bottle As one would a reliable lover. And why not?  The days Are measured out in units of six; The…

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