The Ontological Argument

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

(NASA)

The object is a mighty wood, full of sound and light, It might be moving Birnam, making life complete. At the very least, the image caught within our sight Is possible, sees mere dreams retreat. A busy day for the Flight of God And all who comprise his smoking train — Making off for icy pastures, wearing wool that smells Of rain; turn the pages ever over, while the jet Refuels in Spain — tearing paper into pieces, Scattered ashes on a plane… Windswept, bony, lonely country — See the earth stretch out its hand. The object of all thought…

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Malign Fiesta

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

Spirit: I’m depressed by a trouble, a spot of bad luck, Yes, indeed, a rude little spot! If one could only play safe, preferred a feed to a f**k, Yes, quite, knew to shit or get off the pot! We’re just as mad at one another As we’ve always been but our glib veneer Is rent-no more may we rosily smother Our harsh perceptions; bright, loud, unclear. There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip.., even exemplars indulge and so on, Do you think RFK, before being whacked By the hotel icebox, `once and future king’ writ thereon Had some…

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We Built This City

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

(photo by Aaron Escobar)

We want the good or bad of things we made, Words to paint our favorite universal truth, Only the essence indivisible, Remember we want the world they built — Not some old B-side no one ever played, Not some jungle ruled by claw and tooth, Some character with adverse traits invisible, Shadow lands of innocence, not guilt. Where office blocks are lightships — A moth will find them sweet, So many rooms to greet the dawn of darkness. K doffs his hat to another man As along the pavement they slink; One will say how he misses the country Where…

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Lager Lout

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

Hogarth's 'Gin Lane'

Amid outdoor furniture, alight, on concrete concourses of the night he stands, atop the French police, wielding the bloodied fleur-de-luys, lustily crowing and thumbing his nose at the prospect of the high-pressure hose. We can drink up his lager grin as his fist lands on another chin attached to someone seeking to restrain his torching of the city, ere he boards his train. “I will tear away what is not mine”, “I shall roam and leave my sign”, “When I pounce in the park for some r & r” (o-ho charmer, how came you there?) “Putting on airs won’t go…

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The Mountains of the Moon

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

(photo by Jeroan Komen)

The World’s surfeit of idiots; A fool’s load, a most wearisome state – Future’s boot is upon its tired face, Beautifully marred and pale. Arise – go and bathe in light softly gloating; Taste waters both creamy and dark – Idle away in the colors of night that softens ground hungry for warmth. Descend into valleys not trod by men, Ramble about with weightless bulk, Over the Mountains of the Moon, Beautifully marred and pale. Rake over paths taken but abandoned, Know of their presence but cover them over; Enter, then, into the Valley of Shadow and Have the gorgeous…

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