Jeffrey Hull
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Advice
Misty morning, West Virginia © 2009 Rick Lee
When the diamond points shine coldest,
Midnight's staircase all bestrewn,
Let thy beating heart be boldest
'Neath the levitating moon:
Cast thy bread upon the waters,
Sow thy seed on fertile ground—
Shun all shaky-handed potters,
Bleary captains run aground;
Tarry long by those that love thee,
Guzzle deep the wine of Life;
Peer beyond the stars above thee
Past the tears and toil and strife.
Of such joys will nights apprise thee—
Mossy dreams worn smooth by years:
Blessed be the Blood that buys thee,
Balm to all thy shame and fears.
©2009 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, November 14, 2008
The Rising of the Moon
Moon over America © 2008 Rick Lee
My ship is taking water
As I hurry out to sea
To flirt with Neptune's daughter
Or his daughter flirt with me
While bright eyed dancing sailors
On their pennywhistles play
Of sailing ships and whalers
At the dark'ning of the day.
It's a jolly bit of boating
If the sailors sing in tune,
And keep this vessel floating
'Til the rising of the moon.
The rising of the moon, my boys,
The rising of the moon—
We'll keep this vessel floating
'Til the rising of the moon.
I've charted no returning
And this port I'll hail no more,
I seek the fires burning
On some distant fragrant shore.
And as I track the ocean
Shine the stars that midnight pave
Above the soft commotion
Of the phosphorescent wave.
With sails and shrouds a-singing
I look forward to commune
With friends whose souls are winging
At the rising of the Moon.
The rising of the moon, my boys,
The rising of the moon—
With friends whose souls are winging
At the rising of the moon.
And when that moon has risen
We will raise our glasses high,
Our bodies no more prison
And our souls released to fly
Where meadows dance with flowers
Where sweet honey fills the comb
Where nectar rains in showers
Where our joyous spirits roam.
Let all our pain and sorrow
On those golden sands be strewn
And washed away tomorrow
With the rising of the moon.
The rising of the moon, my friends,
The rising of the moon—
And washed away tomorrow
With the rising of the moon.
©2008 Jeffrey Hull
NOTE: This may also be (and probably ought to be) sung to the tune of an Irish rebellion song, By the Rising of the Moon, words by John Keegan Casey. The melody for Rising was also was used for a more recent insurrectionist song, The Wearing of the Green. The original melody was written by the famous itinerant harper Turlough O'Carolan.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Newsman
Looking down above the city,
Bustling proles and hoi polloi,
Faded collars hot and gritty—
Stands the super paperboy.
Never was some stupid yokel,
No, the man who says what is;
Cosmopolitan, yet local—
Wasn't he the big news whiz?
Not some product of the play-schools
Of more ordinary men,
Topped his class at A-grade J-schools—
Saved the world with mighty pen!
Fantasized of fame and prizes,
Wrote his novel on the side;
One too many compromises
Gently greased his downward slide.
Long he views the surly skyline,
Every dream so long gone bust;
Hacking out his dreary byline
All he sees is grime and rust.
© 2008 Jeffrey Hull
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Impostor
I framed a face of patience
'Til patience was my name;
Though bathed in good opinion
Impatient just the same.
I took the hue of honor
And dyed a princely gown
To wear while out parading
My fraudulent renown.
I mimed a touch of kindness
As if it were my own,
Yet crouched in shame behind my
Dissembling heart of stone.
Then cried my twisted spirit,
Then moaned my black, black heart:
I yearned to love within me,
Not pantomime the part.
And in a blessed moment
A fair grace murmured low
An all-forgiving whisper
As soft as falling snow.
Thus bare of all pretension,
My armor stripped away,
I wept for my salvation
And bowed my head to pray.
©2008 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 20, 2008
My Great Love
Mount Everest at dawn - unimpressed by temporal travails below
© 2007 Abrahm Lustgarten
I gave my true love all I owned
And all that I could borrow;
A fool's investment, soon bemoaned—
It bought me only sorrow.
I bargained with a silent sky
To turn her heart toward me;
The sky, like I, began to cry—
But tiring, soon ignored me.
I pled my case before the sea,
Which he found unimpressive;
His waves replied dismissively
I seemed a bit obsessive.
I begged the mountains intervene
To somehow sway my lover;
The frosty-topped were less than keen
To help my heart recover.
At last I begged the laughing breeze
To help her heartsick brother—
She giggled, racing through the trees,
"Why, go and find another!"
©2008 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 30, 2008
Ithaka
Sunset over Ithaka, island home of Odysseus
So hereby my Homeric tale:
I set my foot along the path
Bereft of horse and shoe and nail;
Inciting neither joy nor wrath
Of lofty gods, my ship set sail.
And venture far I did in time
By sea and land and mountain pass,
In scalding heat or winter clime,
By desert dune or high crevasse—
A windswept wand'rer's paradigm.
To fabled Ithaka and back
With canvas set my oarsmen rowed
The island of the wise to sack,
As passing years like water flowed
Beneath the keel's soft hissing track.
But then at last the field and grove
Of distant shore before me lay,
That land for which so long I strove
Through trackless sand and crashing spray,
To loot and plunder wisdom's trove.
There sat an ancient in his hut:
"Your journey was the prize you sought,"
He smiled, and I could not rebut.
"No greater treasure can be bought,"
And with a laugh, his door he shut.
© 2008 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 02, 2008
Leaving
© 2008 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
When all the leaves have fallen,
And all the suns have set,
When bee is done with pollen,
And fisher shuns his net,
When stars take off their twinkle,
And breezes tire to blow,
When age runs out of wrinkle,
And winter pines for snow–
Just where the blue is nearest,
And stretch the heavens wide,
I'll wait for you, my dearest,
With mossy time to bide.
© 2008 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 07, 2008
The Light Brigade
Charge of the Light Brigade, Balaclava, Crimea, October 25, 1854.Beyond the realm of light and sound,
Beneath some weedy leaf-strewn ground,
The gallants of the bold brigade
Who charged the guns now rest in shade
While on some shelf a book decays
That sings of how the the blacks and bays
By war's confusion and mischance
Rushed headlong forward, flag and lance.
Some say the dead in glory lie
Beneath some bright admiring sky
But who can name one bold hussar
Who charged the cannons of the czar?
Huzzah, huzzah! the Light Brigade!
Huzzah! the reckless dash they made!
But like their charge, their lives meant nought:
Not ground nor immortality was bought.
Forgotten now the sparkling sight
Of sabers in the morning light;
Forgotten, too, their dying groans—
The weight of time has crushed their bones.
©2008 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 01, 2008
Mockingbird
Northern mockingbird. Wikipedia Commons
A cheery song I lately heard
That floated from a fence whereon
In rebel gray, a friend averred
That I should rise to greet the dawn
That poked its head above the verge
And splashed the clouds with hopeful red
Where moon and sunlight daily merge—
But I in sickness stayed abed.
Some intuition gently stirred,
I bid the curtains open drawn;
I know now what the mockingbird
Will lilt aloft when I am gone.
© 2008 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, January 04, 2008
Prophet
© 2007 Nina Camic All rights reserved.Abroad, above, below, behind,
Revealed full plain to see:
The truth unwinds to those not blind
To man's iniquity.
The moon must monthly hide her face
Above this sorry show;
And stars endure with chilly grace
What prospers here below.
The lamps beneath the bushels hide
To flicker there unseen;
Dishonest men in pride abide
And all that's true demean.
The foolish mill about in herds
With slouch and downcast eye;
The stones cry out for honest words,
Yet dares no voice reply.
The wicked now their gain compute
While others but bewail;
If good men keep their counsel mute,
Then evil will prevail.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, November 09, 2007
Pilgrim
I am a lonely pilgrim,
A pilgrim's lot I share,
To wander through this valley
And often taste despair;
To miss some rocky foothold
And stumble from the way,
Or lose the track in darkness
When night has swallowed day.
I heard a fair voice calling
From far the other side
Across a quiet river
That ran both deep and wide;
It beckoned me, or warned me—
My ears could scarcely tell—
Sang soft some voice of heaven,
Or growled some fiend of hell?
Thus in a failing twilight
I stood upon the bank
And bled out my resistance
As fear my courage drank.
Then whispered low my Master,
His voice devoid of wrath;
With grasp as soft as morning
He set me on the path.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, October 19, 2007
Ebb Tide
Seaside, Monterey, California 2006 © 2006 Jeffrey HullBeneath the patient starry sky
And mountains of the moon
As quiet as a mother's sigh
A tide will come, and soon;
To fetch that due from debts accrued
Or laid to our accounts
The twists of fate will be unscrewed,
And reckoned all amounts.
When sweeps that foam across the bar
To whisper low our names
It beckons come just as we are
And voids all other claims.
©2007 Jeffrey Hull
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Hephaestus
Hephaestus, smith of the gods
I summon you, oh great immortal smith,
Hephaestus, ancient master of the steel:
From days of fading legend and of myth
Again let hammer ring and anvil peal!
Call forth those fearsome fires of storied fame
To smelt the stones about your smoky deep
Then pour your magic ingots from the flame
Hid deep within your sacred mountain keep.
Now stir the blazing coals, and fan them white,
Your brooding visage dark, as cinders fly,
And leaping sparks give off their eerie light
That casts the hammer shadows arcing high.
And forge for me such armor as your hands
For star-crossed bold Achilles did supply:
A shield of gleaming bronze with iron bands,
With magic plate to shield him breast and thigh.
Then beat from sparking steel a blade right keen,
In dreaded dragon's blood full tempered then,
Such fearsome sword as mortals have not seen,
A flashing brand of gods, and not of men.
For blood of mine has answered country's call—
Far-voyaging men war's dangers cannot shun.
Use all your godly crafts, may he not fall;
A mortal father asks this for his son.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 14, 2007
Shut-in
Storm clouds and bird © 2007 Rick Lee
When I was shut-in and abed
An angel came to me;
She fluffed the pillow 'neath my head
And brought a cup of tea.
Her cool hand lay upon my own
And straight my fears were gone;
The softest light about her shone,
Like mountaintops at dawn,
And louder than her voice to me
The hissing of the foam
Of waves upon a quiet sea
That sings the boatmen home.
And when my heart surrendered to
Despair, as sick men will,
That whisper would my strength renew
And bid my soul be still.
She sat with me by night and day
So long ago it seems;
But still she listens when I pray
And visits in my dreams.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 24, 2007
Don Juan DeMarco
Night sky, West Virginia © 2007 Rick Lee
"There are only four questions of value in life, Don Octavio:
What is sacred?
Of what is the spirit made?
What is worth living for?
What is worth dying for?
The answer to each is the same: only love."
Life's compass rose has four points true,
Four questions that distill
The breath that animates our lives,
The breeze that sails our will.
What sacred oil illuminates
The darkness here below?
What blessed unguent balms our wounds
And wipes the debts we owe?
What makes men conquer fear and doubt
And rise to face the day,
When all life's joys must disappear,
Like dry leaves blown away?
How is it that a man can choose
To risk his blood and breath,
To fight for where his heart abides
Perhaps to seal his death?
The answer constant, simple, true,
Without, within, above—
As say the many, live the few,
The only word is: love.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 03, 2007
Politics
The monkey clans assembled
Each turning of the moon,
And how the jungle trembled
From midnight to the noon!
They screeched and howled and hooted,
Ignored no hinted slight,
As loudly they disputed
Each noble monkey's right.
They held a grand election,
A leafy crown to bring
With bows and genuflection
To coronate their king.
Surrounded by his flunkies
And chosen by acclaim,
The king of all the monkeys
Was monkey just the same.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 27, 2007
Isaiah 52:7
Misty trees, West Virginia © 2007 Rick Lee
What lamp proclaims this light
That ushers heaven's peace?
Whose tidings in the night
Proclaim the world's release?
What messenger reveals
What heaven thus ordains:
That blood salvation seals
And God in Zion reigns?
And from His mercy seat
Our sins He will excuse–
How beautiful the feet
Of those who bring good news.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 29, 2007
Confederate Cemetery
Confederate graves, Camp Butler National Cemetery, Springfield, Illinois, 2006.
Robert Lawton. Creative Commons license.
By rank and file the stones parade
In springtime warm or winter deep;
Entrenched in final defilade,
In easy peace the soldiers sleep.
On muggy August afternoons
No lads march by in dusty lines,
Nor ring those jaunty caisson tunes
Past groves of aromatic pines.
Those rebel boys who took up war
And joked and jibed what such portends
Got what - or more than - bargained for
And lie in silence with their friends.
The last of fading evening's bees
Buzz quiet Taps as home they go;
Sweet honeysuckle perfumed breeze
No longer interests those below.
© Copyright 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 25, 2007
La Petite Fille de la Mer
A Mermaid, John William Waterhouse, 1901
Azure, azure wave and sky,
Prancing pearls of spray;
Diamond laugh and emerald eye
Beckoned me to stay.
Flowing, flowing flaxen locks,
Skin unholy white–
Flashing scales among the rocks,
Giggling water sprite.
"Tarry, tarry," sang the maid,
"Bide by me a while–
Just to watch the sunlight fade,"
Smiling in her guile.
Never, never, nevermore
May I leave the sea;
'Tween the ocean and the shore
She enchanted me.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 11, 2007
Aloft
Above, a playful ocean
Mocks cumuli below–
In busy shuttling motion
The trails weave to and fro;
My eye hangs high suspended
Beneath a thread of air,
To view the world upended
As from an angel's chair.
How like the air's frail shimmer
Is time: how soon the past
Retreats; now fading dimmer,
It slips beyond my grasp.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 27, 2007
Little Ship
The Brig, Gustave Le Gray, 1856
Red cloud horizons, the sailors' forewarning–
My little ship swims on waves of the morning,
Jostled and harried by storm seas upswelling,
Bound for what land there can be no foretelling.
Eye on the Star for my trip's navigation:
Love is the compass of soul's obligation.
South of rejoicing and north of bereavement,
West of endeavor and east of achievement.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 13, 2007
Miracles
Fog over the Périgord Noir, Dordogne valley, France
© 2007 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
Though nowadays it's rare to see
A sea that calms for deity,
Or crowds that sate their hungry wish
By sharing just a loaf and fish–
Now told in the vernacular
Are wonders less spectacular,
As now His miracles are wrought
On those whose hearts His blood has bought.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 23, 2007
Moby Dick
The white whale
The great white whale beholds the sail
That means to work him woe,
And plumes the breeze of southern seas
Where Bedford whalers go.
The lookouts shout, the crew turns out,
The longboats pull away;
With rope and lance and half a chance
They'll kill the beast this day.
The captain's eye regards the sky:
The gulls now tell the tale–
Their raucous cries the calm belies
Where sounds the great white whale.
He rises now and at the bow
Harpoons gleam sharp and long;
Then there's the throw! and off they go–
The rope sings out its song.
The salt spray flies and stings the eyes;
In headlong buck and leap
The whaleboats dance and dip and prance
Like sprites across the deep.
Then all is still and with a thrill
The crews gasp at his rise:
Leviathan now turns on man
His black and baleful eyes.
They watch in awe his toothy maw
Gape terrible and wide;
As if in dreams the sailors' screams
The only sound provide.
He sounds again and flukes descend
To crush the men and boats
Upon the swell the splinters tell
Where one lone seaman floats.
And down below the bilge planks show
The whale has come to call:
A crash! The din! The water in!
He means to kill them all.
The ship sinks fast until at last
The masts slip out of sight,
And on the waves but one man raves
Upon his float that night.
The story's old and often told,
But mark this hoary tale–
And learn the rule: that man's a fool
Who seeks his own white whale.
The wise man learns, where hatred burns
But naught of good can come;
Obsession's cost is ever lost
When God totes up the sum.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 02, 2007
Feet
© 2009 Rick Lee
How tiny then those feet that she caressed
When Mary put the Christ child to her breast,
And cradled in her loving mother's arms
The form of God on earth made manifest.
And surely Joseph took a father's pride
As toddling steps became a surer stride
And boy about the temple grew to man,
Whose feet would take Him whither, what betide?
Along the winding roads of Galilee
His sandals bore a dusty ministry
Down trail and track to bring the blessed news:
Fulfillment of the ancient prophecy.
When Jesus sat with Pharisees at meat
A quiet weeping sinner washed those feet
With tears of shame, and dried them with her hair;
Her faith had earned forgiveness made complete.
At last His feet received the brutal spike,
The sinners' and the Saviour's fate alike;
The taunting soldiers gambled for His clothes
And pierced His broken body with a pike.
And now at home in glory sits the Lamb
Upon His throne beside the great I Am;
There falling at those feet all Heaven's host
And all the prophets back to Abraham.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Dedicated to Dr. Uwe Siemon-Netto
Friday, February 16, 2007
Reverie
© 2007 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
Were there a place where dreams were real
And wish need not be spoken
But merely willed, and thus fulfilled:
No dreamer's spirit broken.
Were there that place for all to find
In nightly sleep, or waking,
Not guilt nor shame nor hurt nor blame,
But misspent time's remaking.
Were there a place where reverie,
Reality beguiling,
Could past erase and in its place
Leave hearts to reconciling.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Bones
© 2007 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
The bones of the ancestors hither and yon
With patience await a particular dawn
When dressed in new raiment of flesh on their frames
Will rise from their graves to remember their names.
And what will they find in such terrible hours?
No fish in the waters, nor birds in the bowers;
Before the Son comes to spread peace in his path
He'll summon from heaven a War-God of wrath.
The green seas will boil, and pale skies glow red
As trumpets of archangels, rousing the dead,
Awaken their souls and their bodies as well
To march in the armies of heaven and hell.
And curious what the commotion's about,
The new resurrected will rise up and shout;
The main of them bound for the blackest abyss,
Except for such few as are fated for bliss.
But now in their homes the dead peacefully sleep
Beneath some green hillside, or cast in the deep,
With sad weathered headstones close marshalled in rows,
Or graved in old meadows, where grass only knows.
Awaiting their day of rebuke or reward,
When Day of all Days brings the Lamb with His sword,
Now all that remains of the worst and the best,
The bones pass the ages content in their rest.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, January 12, 2007
Folly
Sunrise over the Kanawha © 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved
Age is heaped upon the old
Like beauty on the fair;
Wisdom's lavished on the wise
As fools no folly spare.
Old men need not to be told
How cruel is master Time;
Young men stop their stubborn ears
And will not heed his chime.
Profligately burning hours
Like leaves on autumn lawns,
Callow Youth with ears of scorn
Half hears the truth–and yawns.
Time will teach but soon how fleet
He runs from day to day;
Soon enough the race is called
And light has slipped away.
Age just shakes his snowy head
Whose years have come and gone;
Count them wise who find their joy
To greet another dawn.
© 2007 Jeffrey Hull
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Bethlehem
Rays © 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved
A little town, not long ago–
In cosmic terms, a day or so–
Admittedly a humble place
To usher in a Savior's grace;
A dusty bend along the track
That ran to Hebron, out and back.
A common birth, a poor boy's lot,
Like millions more long since forgot:
A baby slept with kid and lamb
And crowned the line of Abraham.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, December 15, 2006
Grendel
December Evening Sky © 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved
Grendel! Now there was a troll's troll! That beast
Came silent as the summer dew, like mist,
Vile arms strangling lookouts 'til struggle ceased,
While Hrothgar's beer-hall fire cracked and hissed,
The drunken Danes snored soundly and deep dozed,
Dreaming scenes of Asgard, or the great hall
Valhalla. The ruthless fiend crept and nosed
Out a weakness, burst through the wooden wall
To fall upon the king’s men unaware,
Slaughtering the sleepers without a sound,
Heads ripped from bloody necks, a ghastly tear,
Crushed Dane skulls and limp bodies in a mound.
The grim monster with hate filled eyes of fire
Brought doom from which no sentinel could guard–
No unarmed man or woman felt his ire,
His burning hate and quarrel from them barred–
But full in fury fell on those at arms,
The thanes of Hrothgar, king of all the Danes;
Deflected not by sorcery nor charms
Such incandescent hate that never wanes
But brightly lights the ages, 'til its ground
Dissolves in misty time, where sleep the souls
In bliss or torment, dead to sight and sound:
Cruel Grendel–there was the troll of trolls.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, December 01, 2006
The Dying King
I leave now my possessions,
The ship my spirit sailed,
And likewise last confessions
Boxed up and tightly nailed.
My name and deeds forgotten,
Nor carved on any stone–
My house, its timbers rotten;
I live here quite alone.
No vessels proud await me,
No far off perfumed land–
No more can time frustrate me:
My glass is out of sand.
My guards have all deserted,
Alone I pace the walls;
Commands I once asserted
Now echo empty halls.
My food is recollection
Of dreams that long since died;
I drink with sad reflection
This bitter cup of pride.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, November 24, 2006
Black Janet
Crazy Black Janet danced wild ‘round the square
Raven locks flowing with stars in her hair–
Never seen tearful, nor ever seen sad,
Everyone thought that Black Janet was mad
Twirling to tunes that the nightingales sing,
Calling their lovers aloft on the wing–
Danced in the summer and danced in the snow,
Never had married, nor taken a beau.
Lindsay the Piper long pined for his love,
Face of an angel and eyes of a dove–
Piped his beloved a low wistful tune,
Piping at midnight beneath each new moon.
Black Janet danced as the piper grew old,
Danced 'til the day when the piper grew cold–
There in the graveyard where secrets are kept,
Crazy Black Janet was still, and she wept.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Raven locks flowing with stars in her hair–
Never seen tearful, nor ever seen sad,
Everyone thought that Black Janet was mad
Twirling to tunes that the nightingales sing,
Calling their lovers aloft on the wing–
Danced in the summer and danced in the snow,
Never had married, nor taken a beau.
Lindsay the Piper long pined for his love,
Face of an angel and eyes of a dove–
Piped his beloved a low wistful tune,
Piping at midnight beneath each new moon.
Black Janet danced as the piper grew old,
Danced 'til the day when the piper grew cold–
There in the graveyard where secrets are kept,
Crazy Black Janet was still, and she wept.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, October 13, 2006
Metropolis
Title placard, Metropolis, Fritz Lang, 1927
The crystal city spreads before my gaze
Its glass-clad spires above the summer haze;
They rise as if to clutch the crisscrossed sky
Where contrails weave a lofty tapestry
Depicting endless motion to and fro–
The pinnacles of pointless come and go.
And there below, the glinting cars parade
In grand battalions by an esplanade
That limns a shore, and farther still, a bay
With heeling sailboats charging through the spray,
Careening on, a salty cavalry
Like knights of some aquatic chivalry
All jousting 'round a foam-flecked azure field,
Each sprit a lance, each sail a blazoned shield.
Scene, Metropolis, Fritz Lang, 1927
Along the asphalt boulevards and streets
The blaring autos march, and none retreats
As phalanx meeting phalanx at each cross
Must have its futile way, or count it loss.
And now the dipping sun calls out the hordes
Who vainly seek ephemeral rewards,
To bee-like buzz about the corporate hives
And trade their light for simulated lives.
Disgorging by the squad and by platoon
They spill into the fading afternoon
Abandoning the towers' glass and chrome
To squander precious hours driving home.
Scene, Metropolis, Fritz Lang, 1927
Now night unfolds her blanket; stars appear
But pale against the city's atmosphere
Of glowing buildings, every window lit
And every street ablaze, as would befit
Triumphal dramas of a bygone age,
Now recreated on the present stage.
The snaking lights along each motorway
Press through the night until the breaking day
Burns off the morning fog and calls again
The myriads of stoic businessmen
Who stream into the towers to resume
The jobs that bite by bite their lives consume.
New Tower of Babel, Metropolis, Fritz Lang, 1927
This vision now unfolds so stark before
My dreamlit eyes, as opening, a door
Reveals forbidden glimpses: first a thrill
To snatch away the breath–and then a chill.
For now the city's secret will be told,
That palls the scene and leaves the marrow cold.
The inner eye of thought now peels the skin,
Revealing what lies sinister within
The glitter of the chromium and steel:
A modern monster hungry for its meal,
Behind the mirrored walls of glass concealed–
Now in the half light of my spell revealed.
And there I see the city: a machine
That grinds down dreams of men by dull routine:
From industry to greed, and love to lust,
Until at last their souls are crushed to dust.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, October 06, 2006
Blackbirds
© 2009 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
The blackbirds have decided
To mosey south again,
So lately I'm derided
By slacker journeymen.
The raucous undertakers
Sit perched upon their limbs,
Fluff up their black windbreakers
And screech their birdbrained hymns.
They jostle in the morning
And trade their empty threats,
Squawk one another warning
And flash their epaulets.
I leave them to their chatter
And hurry on my way;
As noisily they scatter,
I'm off to meet the day.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 29, 2006
Trailer
I stare at these four trailer walls
Where fame and fortune leave no calls
And wonder what made her decide
To leave our cozy single-wide.
What blandishments of here and now
Could nullify her marriage vow
To stick around through thin and thick,
Or rich or poor, or well or sick?
Just who enticed my erstwhile wife,
And promised her some better life?
Does sordid drama somehow seem
Fulfillment of a housewife's dream?
Good luck to her as off she goes;
She's packed her bags with more than clothes.
Though blame is mine, I think she'll see
When she arrives, well, there she'll be.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 22, 2006
Sunday Morning
© 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved
Jemimahs on the griddle,
Fat bacon in the pan;
No Sunday morning riddle–
That's how please a man.
As fog burns off the hollow
The moon goes off to bed,
And sleepy stars soon follow,
Far ridgelines blushing red.
A moment quickly fleeting
To drink the breaking light,
Then wash and off to meeting,
And singing time tonight.
The Sabbath chores are calling,
Won't wait another cup;
I'll have to quit my stalling
And hitch the horses up.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 08, 2006
Dissolution
© 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved.
Red light in the window, blue light by the door–
Old humiliations on the killing floor.
Hundred pounds of heartache, ounce of cheap perfume:
Dragged his resignation up to see her room.
After, there were mumbles; silent he arose,
Stripped of expectation, sorted out his clothes–
Rust around the drain plug, stains on dingy tiles–
Flickering fluorescents, lines that mark the miles.
Time to flee the morning, time to have a beer–
Warding off reflection how he wound up here.
Red light in the window, blue light in her eyes:
Hope has not forsaken–it's just in disguise.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 01, 2006
State of the Art
Manager, Maxfield Parrish
He's more flesh than spirit,
He's more weak than strong;
Truth–he will not hear it,
He's less right than wrong.
Sadder than he's wiser,
He's more old than young;
Sleepless early riser,
His songs die unsung.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 25, 2006
Let's Go Dancing
© 2006 Rick Lee
Like birds on the wing, like the waves on the sea,
We'll swirl with abandon, my love, we'll be free–
Stairstepping aloft on the beat and the tune
To skip 'cross the sky, while that stuffy old moon
May frown his reproaches as much as he might:
The stars shine for lovers, the heavens' delight.
And when the sun's eyebrow peeks out from his bed,
Our dancefloor of clouds all a-kindled with red,
Why, homeward we'll whirl for a last glass of wine,
And blow out the candles, then your hand in mine
We’ll soar once again in our dreams of the time
Together we swayed, our own soiree sublime.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 18, 2006
The Priority of Sense
© 2006 Rick Lee. All rights reserved.
Did God construct the wing to please the eye,
Or frame the globe to love the butterfly?
Did He allow the vision of a cloud
To tantalize how heaven is endowed?
Did thunder or the keening of the wind
Precede the time when Adam's clan had sinned?
Then did the Maker give His sons the choice
To heed or not their gentle Father's voice?
And fragrances that waft upon the breeze–
Beflowered meadows, heavy laden trees
With sun-kissed fruit's intoxicating spell:
Were they here, too, before our sense of smell?
Did He fill up the sea with briny salt
To taunt the tongue and thus His work exalt,
Then did He grant His children sense of taste
To savor foods with which His world is graced?
The brush of lover's lip, or gentle hand:
Did these precede or follow God's command?
Does all the world around us thus confess
His presence in a mother's tenderness?
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 11, 2006
Anybody? Anybody?
Unicoi State Park, Helen Georgia. © 2006 Rick Lee. All rights reserved.Has anybody spied the sky?
I seem to have misplaced it;
I hear it's blue, but what to do–
Some dark thing has effaced it.
Has anybody seen the wind?
I heard someone defaced it;
Despite all pleas he marred the breeze
And spoiled the clouds that laced it.
Has anybody sipped the sea?
I miss the waves that graced it;
It fills my dreams and there it seems
My mind can almost taste it.
Has anybody heard my heart?
Some bitterness encased it,
And left its room a quiet tomb
As if someone erased it.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 04, 2006
Prisoner
His prison cell a mind too small
To hold the thought of grace,
Where lies no sentence can recall,
And fear and boredom pace–
The walls are tall and stout the door
That keeps the quiet in
'Til sense relents and grants the floor
Its stony discipline.
Upon a time the Jailer came
And offered his release,
But found that shame had made him lame
So left him there in peace.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 28, 2006
Summer
Muir Woods National Monument, California © 2006 Jeffrey Hull
The trumpets of the greenwood
Blow vivid reveille
Announcing morning's glory
To meadowlark and bee
As honeysuckle tendrils
Subdue a sagging rail,
A lurching, lazy boundary
Patrolled by wary quail.
The sleepy ferns unfurling
Close by the waking glade
Revere a toad Siddhartha
Within their solemn shade;
The warty little Buddha,
A dry leaf for his bowl,
Awaits a buzzing offering
Then gulps the fellow whole–
And savoring the morsel
With pleasure unconfined
Returns to meditations
With emptiness of mind.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 21, 2006
Mr. Mojo
Chatahoochee River © 2006 Rick Lee
It seems me and Mojo have parted our ways;
He vanished last Wednesday–no sightings for days.
I've checked all the hospitals, bars, and the zoo;
By all indications the partnership's through.
It's not unexpected; you work like a dog
'Til joy disappears, and the dance is a slog.
I hardly can blame him for taking a hike
These days when so many are going on strike,
Away on vacation from keys or from pen,
Not knowing for sure if they'll ever again
Have just enough spunk and the requisite spark
To hit literarily out of the park.
For words in a string are an intricate thing:
It's devilishly dicey to get the right swing.
Without Mr. Mojo there's not much to do–
Play pool, or give up on a crossword or two,
Or hang down at Tony's and have a few tears,
Remembering the day, blubbering into my beers.
So here's to my Mojo, wherever he's gone
I wish him the best for the road he is on;
When that which he's seeking to find has been found
Someday Mr. Mojo might drop back around.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 14, 2006
Broadway
Here comes that Broadway feeling
I've had so many times;
My cheap burlesque reheeling
Old jokes and pantomimes.
That good old Broadway feeling,
The curtain's going up;
They laugh to watch me reeling
To drink my bitter cup.
I’m just your stage door Johnny,
Another decked out swell;
My clothes are flash, I'm scrawny:
I'm just a burned out shell.
I'll pack my bags for Splitsville
And forward all my mail;
These worn out shticks and bits will
Just soft shoe down the trail.
That same sad Broadway feeling
As sure as sure can be
Tells me you're double-dealing:
Our time is history.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 07, 2006
The Loss of the George R. Whitcomb
With her casks to the brim and with ample supplies
On the tide she set sail while the moon on the rise
Cast its glow on the ship as the sails were unfurled,
Casting off for the lands at the end of the world.
On a westerly breeze she sailed smart as you please
With the helmsman directed to southern degrees
And the furrow she plowed lay as straight as a line
As wild water erupted from bow and from chine.
By the binnacle light where the compass read true
The stout steersman looked out on the indigo blue
Where he saw that the swell was beginning to mount
As the wind likewise rose, he would later recount.
By the midwatch white foam on the waves let them know
That the scudding low clouds now foretold of a blow,
And the deckwatch looked up as the stars ceased to shine
While the rigging above seemed to groan and to whine.
When the morning watch came up on deck to relieve
They could see by the sky there would be no reprieve,
So they grinned and they shrugged at the waves and the gale
And aloft the men clambered to shorten the sail.
The George Whitcomb now heaved on a mountainous swell
Like some terrified man on a sleighride from hell
Driving into a wave face, then shaking it off,
Vaulting over the crest, plunging down in the trough.
While a furious force drove her onward and on
The first mate took the foredeck, the captain the con;
As the ship lurched and staggered through old Neptune's realm
It took two of the crewmen to handle the helm.
The wild water washed over, a monsterous stream
Then Old Billy below cried, "We've opened a seam!"
With the perils of topside came danger below
As the cargo broke loose and was flung to and fro.
To the men below decks came a preview of hell:
As they struggled for footing the deck rose and fell.
Like the wildest of horses the ship bucked and jumped
And the water rose faster the harder they pumped.
Soon they knew that the storm meant to swallow them whole,
The good ship and its cargo and every soul,
For the splinters of two boats had washed overboard
And between them and death: one good skiff and the Lord.
Lying battered and smashed in Poseidon's great fist
Now the proud vessel Whitcomb had taken a list.
As she rolled and she wallowed, he feared she might flip
So the captain commanded, "Abandon the ship!"
Fully twenty-two men of the merchant fleet's pride
Were assembled on deck and went over the side
In the lee of the ship where the waves weaker churn
Swimming strong to the jolly boat close by the stern.
Now they clambered aboard and pulled smartly away
Although lashed by the wind and the rain and the spray;
With the storm skies above them now hinting some light,
Going down by the bow, the ship slipped out of sight.
In the stillness that followed the mate said a prayer
And the captain made certain that each man was there.
With each sailor accounted the oars were then manned;
Scarcely six sunsets later they sighted the land.
Well there's danger aplenty where men go in ships:
While the vessels look mighty when tied in their slips,
All alone on the ocean's as lonely can be,
And there's danger aplenty when men go to sea.
May the blessings of God fall on all of the men
Who go forth on the ocean again and again,
For the truth on the wind sings as plain as can be:
You may master a wave–no one masters the sea.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 30, 2006
End of Days
© 2009 Rick Lee
If the radiance of a thousand suns
Were to burst at once into the sky
That would be like the splendor of the Mighty one ...
I am become Death,
The shatterer of Worlds. - Bhagavad-Gita
The sunset's king recesses down the sky
To kiss the land and bid goodnight the day,
But does not dwell upon the by and by:
His glance will someday boil the seas away.
What blessings that his light on earth bestows
Are bought and paid with incandescent time
As star-stuff burns–and when the big one blows
A fierce deep-throated closing bell will chime.
From long before the ancient dawn of man
Where frigid eons kept the heavens' keys,
Apocalypse on God's installment plan:
The end of days glows just beyond those trees.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 23, 2006
Whitewater
River Orb, France © 2006 Nina Camic By gracious permission; all rights reserved.The river is not mad at me
I reassure myself,
As I am slammed hydraulically
Against a rocky shelf;
Then bobbing up I wave my hand
To reassure the crew
Before the safeties on the land
Can toss a rope or two.
Though I pretend to be unfazed,
My soggy mind is blank;
I splash about like someone crazed,
And wash up on the bank.
I clamber back into the raft
To analyse my swim,
Reflecting that I must be daft
To paddle on again,
But rivers flow so well downstream
And it's too far to walk;
A river man must more than seem–
Not simply talk the talk.
The day will come when bones stay home
And let the rivers run–
Instead of rocks and rolling foam,
A hammock in the sun;
But I won't think of that gray day–
I'm hardly sore at all–
The sky, the trees, the frigid spray:
The raft and rapids call.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 16, 2006
Darkness
© 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved.
Darkness be my pillow,
And sorrow be my bed;
Bend me like the willow
Then bind me to the stead.
Sing me soft of sadness,
To fill my eyes with years;
Succor me my madness,
And gently blot the tears.
Help me bear the birthing
As what will be is born;
Ancient bones unearthing,
My hair of pride be shorn:
Lift me, do not scold me;
Please let me feel the skies–
Hold me, darling hold me,
Once more before I rise.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Winds
Morning: Lake Monona © 2006 Nina Camic By gracious permission.The west winds blow from where the night resides,
The east winds whisper hope and rising tides.
The north winds chide the clouds to hide the sun,
The south winds coax the tropic waves to run.
The wild winds charge around the sky's expanse,
The mild winds sigh as flowers dip and dance.
The cold winds tuck the woods in fluffy beds,
The old winds sow their salt on snowy heads.
The sea winds waft from fragrant lands afar,
The bay winds sail hearts homeward 'cross the bar.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 02, 2006
Rescue
© 2006 Andrew Hull By permission.
A heart awaiting ransom
Had hidden in a drawer;
Love peeked across the transom
Then seeped beneath the door–
A mist of vague emotion,
Turned rivulet of grace,
'Til stream become an ocean,
A torrent swept the place.
It flooded to the gables,
Knocked everything askew,
And cleared away the tables
To set the feast anew.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 26, 2006
Valhalla
Freya, Norse goddess
The gates of Vahalla are darkened;
Great Heimdall1 no longer stands guard
Where warriors old Odin2 hearkened,
Who'd fallen by axe and by sword.
Full five hundred forty grand portals
Led straight to the father's great halls;
The roofing, the shields of immortals,
And rankings of spears were the walls.
Bold breastplates upholstered the benches
Where every brave soul had his place,
Drank mead that undying thirst quenches,
And dined on the great boar apace.
The broad plain of Asgard3 in stillness
Recalls the great contests of old;
Men die not by spear now, but illness,
Heroic tales no longer told.
And Freya4, the boar-riding beauty,
War-goddess of passion and love–
Valkyries no longer stand duty
To usher the bravest above;
Their queen has surrendered her powers,
Retreated to sulk in her home,
To mourn from her far fabled towers
The silence in Odin's grand dome.
Now Loki the Trickster5 plays ruler
And cowards have taken his cause
And none is more ugly or crueller
Than those who would fashion the laws
That bind men of courage in shackles,
And stripping the bravest of pride,
Their tail-tucking yapping of jackals
Would all that is noble deride.
The winds of the heavens blow colder,
But breeze in the desert burns hot;
The North gods grow older and older–
Now where will our rescue be got?
We call on great Odin: Awaken!
We call on our ancestors' lines
To roar 'til the sleepers are shaken!
To shout til they stiffen their spines!
Awaken the gods from their slumber!
Awaken the men from their thrall!
'Til filling their ranks without number
The cry has awakened them all.
Then gird up their arms for the battle
To save all the good and the true,
Ignoring the cowardly prattle
To do what the brave always do.
Of those who are marked for their glories
Let spirits convey to the Hall
Where Freya's valkyries6 sing stories
About the last conflict of all:
The brave–not the glib nor the clever,
Not cowards nor tellers of lies–
Will live there with great souls forever:
They only have claim to that prize.
And those who remain with the living,
Who knew that to shrink was to sin–
Will earn from their brothers thanksgiving,
And with the immortals be kin.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
1. Guardian of Valhalla, hall of the spirits of brave slain warriors.
2. Lord of the warrior gods (Æsir). God of both wisdom and war.
3. Realm of the gods.
4. Norse goddess of love, sexuality, fertility and battle. She and the valkyries gathered up the souls of the brave slain, to be apportioned half to Freya, half to Odin. She rode into battle astride a great boar, or rode in a chariot pulled by two blue cats the size of lions.
5. The Trickster, god of mischief and fire.
6. Minor female deities in Norse mythology, who served Odin; led by Freya, their purpose was to choose the most heroic of those who had died in battle and to carry them off to Valhalla where they became spirit warriors; those alloted to Odin were destined to fight at his side at the preordained great battle at the end of the world, Ragnarök.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Blue Ridge
© 2006 Rick LeeThe Blue Ridge laundry hung along the sky
Beyond the highway's disappearing end
Hums lazy longing songs of by-and-by;
The road, too busy, hurries 'round the bend ...
The heavy sky wore mountain sawteeth dull
So long ago; the nubbins that remain
Can scarce impede the clouds that boatlike scull
Along the ridge above the valley rain.
The mountains must remember in their dreams
Those ancient granite days of grand display,
When caped in snow and bumping heaven's beams
Their brooding crags looked down upon the day;
Now, crossed with track and trail of bear and coon
They see both what will come and what is past,
And sleep the endless sleep of rain and moon
Until the hills are ground to sand at last.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 12, 2006
The Gate at the End of the Sky
Black hole
They say there are holes in the heavens,
Eternity's doorways agape,
Where everything's sixes and sevens,
Where even the rays can't escape;
Where gravity's monster attraction
Grabs atoms and pulls out their hair,
And infinite in its compaction
The matter goes heaven knows where.
If singing the Kyri' eleison,
Most hopeful for some saving grace,
Our souls sail beyond some horizon
Perhaps into just such a place,
Then what if that hole is a portal
That leads to some strange by and by–
Where human life meets the immortal:
The gate at the end of the sky?
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 05, 2006
Cholesterol
Cholesterol, 3-D molecular model
I read a list of seven things,
The habits I should quit;
And worst of fortune's darts and slings?
Why, honey, you were it.
The other six were bad enough
To wreck my life for sure,
Like smokes and booze and all that stuff—
And most of all, amour.
But your seduction's subtle art
Enticed me toward my fall:
If love be life blood of the heart,
Then you're cholesterol.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 28, 2006
Sunset
© 2006 Rick Lee By permission.Old steeples float above the town
Where birds and clouds belong,
And watch the sun drift gently down
Each day at evensong.
The light selects a gleaming spire
From those that dot the sky;
The others, in more drab attire
Cannot attract its eye.
The chosen tower flaunts its glow
Before its lofty friends
Until the sunglow dips below
And sunset vigil ends.
Perhaps when dawn redeems the light
And hoists it into view,
Another's crown may shine as bright
With morning's rosy hue
But for this hour of waning day
The chosen belfry gleams,
And revels in its grand display
Afire with twilight beams.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 21, 2006
Departure
© 2006 Charles Johnson By permission.A smallish speck that shrank into the clouds,
Its freight the heavy cargo of my heart–
Aground, despair amidst the airport crowds,
Aloft, the dreamy sky pushed us apart.
Bad luck, they say, to watch a loved one's course
Until she's out of sight; I turned away
My face, and hid the twinges of remorse
I'd let her go, but she's still gone today.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 14, 2006
Old Town
"Vacant Lot, Victor, Colorado 1985"© 1985 Paul Cornelius By permission.
Old buildings by the railroad freight,
Old storefronts in the town,
With sagging resignation wait
For years to wear them down.
The boarded shops grow photographs
Like mildew on the walls,
Declaiming fading epitaphs
For lives no one recalls.
The weeds are mum what structures stood
On littered vacant lots
That blighten up the neighborhood
With glass and brick strewn blots.
The buildings and the people fade
As time its purpose weaves,
As gone as last year's Fourth parade,
Or winter's missing leaves.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 07, 2006
Dawn
© 2000 Bert Katzung All rights reserved.I saw the rosy fingered dawn,
That fabled Eastern light,
That Homer was so set upon
To end each storied night
Brushed soft across the glassy sea
And breathed upon the clouds,
And signaling the sun to free
The land the night enshrouds.
The sun peeked up and chased the dark
'Til only light remained,
And coursed along the fiery arc
Apollo had ordained;
It reached its zenith by and by
And glorious shone bright,
Illuminating earth and sky,
And banishing the night.
But as the hourglass of day
Marked cadence with the sea,
And minutes softly slipped away–
I watched the daylight flee
Until at last the western wave
Was lit this time by fire;
I perched upon a lofty bluff
To watch the sun retire.
And with a final dusky blaze
Deserting heaven's dome
To sleep beyond our mortal gaze–
The sun again went home.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 31, 2006
Renewal
© 2006 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
The rising of the greening shoot,
The budding of the vine,
The plucking of the heavy fruit,
The aging of the wine;
The counting of the bridal chest,
The preening of the groom;
The rip'ning of a mother's breast,
The swelling of the womb;
The gasping of the primal breath,
The wailing infant's cry;
The suckling babe denying death
And cooing at the sky.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 24, 2006
The House I Used to Live In
The house I used to live in
Was ramshackle and plain,
The roof about to give in,
Big holes let in the rain;
The floors were warped and squeaky,
The doorjambs out of plumb,
The window hinges creaky,
The rooms were painted glum.
Now evensong or matin
Cool quiet rules my home;
The rooms are lined with satin
Above, a roof of stone.
The alabaster remnants
Of where I lived before
Are draped like honored ancients
And laid out on the floor.
The ages pass in stillness
From counting now exempt;
Walled off from pain or illness,
Past praise or plain contempt;
But yet I miss the old place
And friends who once dropped by,
Familiar as my own face–
But most of all, the sky.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 17, 2006
Garden
© 2006 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
The scene of our devotion
Was once the forest plain;
Before that was the ocean;
Before that was the rain.
The meadow where we wandered
Lay once beneath the sea;
And moments, idly squandered,
Construct eternity.
If time is but illusion
We are not less the same,
Like blooms in spring profusion
That just a while remain.
The gardens dear to lovers
Like lovers pass away,
And Time the bowers covers
Beneath the coolest clay.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 10, 2006
Möbius Mind
Mandelbrot fractal set. Wikipedia, under creative commons license.
I must have blinked my mind, for logic's train
Deserted me, and there I stood: bereft
Of repartee, unable to explain
My tortured lay of mental warp and weft,
Ideas woven, wand'ring right and left
To reach an end and then begin again,
A teasing circularity of theft
Purloining wit to leave a barren brain;
For fractals of mentation replicate
By simple rule in sparse economy
Of left-or-rights that ever bifurcate
In parsimonious autonomy,
And trace their strange taxonomy
To work their spell at last and subjugate
My head with ruthless heteronomy–
And lucid judgement discombobulate.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 03, 2006
Portrait
Portrait of Dr.Gachet, Vincent van Gogh, June 1890
I had a portrait painted
To suit my vanity;
I saw it, almost fainted–
What had he done to me?
I had a bio written
To justify my life;
I must say I was smitten:
It flayed me like a knife.
I had a garden party
To celebrate my fame;
With food and drink most hearty–
But then nobody came.
I had a fancy funeral
To give my soul a boost;
But misdeeds, late or sooner'l
Come waltzing home to roost:
I lie here six feet under
In mould'ring fancy clothes
And cannot help but wonder
How fitfully I doze.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 24, 2006
Spring
© 2004 http://www.mikesjournal.com/ by permission
Long echelons of laughing wings
Ride north on southern air;
The heralds of ten thousand springs,
Gay bugles honk and blare.
From high above the morning frost
Formations bank and wheel
To settle from the skies they've crossed
And grab a traveler's meal;
Then fluffing up their feathered cloaks
They once again set forth
In harness with their airy yokes
To haul the springtime north.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 17, 2006
Back Pew
I watch the slanting Sunday light suffuse
The uninspired air about the pews
Where duty with appearances conspires
To smother any incidental fires
Of passion here and there among flock,
And trades some current fancy for the Rock.
The queen posts and the hammer beams that soar
In grandiosity above the floor
Can scarcely hold the weight of Heaven up
As dwindling columns routemarch toward the Cup;
The roof above of slate from ridge to eaves,
The church below in thrall to mitered thieves.
The shrinking ranks that slouch toward the rail
With hopeful resignation of the frail,
Or those who follow sheeplike and confused,
Or those who from the argument recused:
Pretensions long since gone of search for truth–
They swill their gin of life without vermouth.
© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 10, 2006
Old Joe
Once I was a rich man, for nothing did I lack;
The finest of all finery was laid upon my back.
My body like Adonis, my limbs were lithe and strong;
I revelled in each breath I took–'til Old Joe came along.
He never was invited, but some days he just dropped 'round,
Sans courtesy of phone or pen, his stories to expound.
He long regaled enticing tales: of lands that I would see,
Of green bedecked Italian hills, of sunlit Tuscany;
Of brooding glacial mountains, rushing down to alpine vales,
Or broad and blue horizon lines festooned with snowy sails,
Of buffaloes that snort and stamp on rolling western plains
And elephants that haul the teak through steamy jungle rains.
And then he spoke at fulsome length of deeds I yet would do,
What greater things I would achieve before my life was through;
"Let petty preconceptions no man's rightful dreams confine–
Why settle for a measure of just half of what is thine?"
He brought me gifts to add to those already in my store,
And when I weakly did refuse he simply brought me more.
His flattery and presents did my better sense cajole;
I came to crave these treasures, and his stories swallowed whole.
My longing to believe his tales my fears a while allayed,
But day by day suspicion grew I might have been betrayed.
The warnings, oh so gradual, were trifling things at first;
But by the time it dawned on me, my guest had done his worst.
A sideward glance of Old Joe's eye, and half my strength was gone;
My clothes now sadly draped the withered frame they hung upon.
And furrows came to mark my skin, as limping marked my gait,
And aching curvatures replaced a spine once ramrod straight.
He touched my shoulder lightly then, and straightway there was pain–
"Don't worry friend," he reassured–then touched me once again:
A dizziness upon me fell while Old Joe softly purred–
I glanced up at the hour and saw the spinning hands were blurred–
"I fear you now have not the time those dreams of yours to chase,
So I'll abide here by your side and help you to erase
The mem'ries of those things you sought and those for which you yearned,
And all you had before I came–to see what you have learned."
"When did I make this bargain foul, how could you so ordain
That I must trade for dreams and wealth, infirmity and pain?
You talked of plans and journeys grand, of diamonds and gold,
Of travel and adventure–but I'm only getting old."
Old Joe then smiled his crooked smile and sideways glanced at me:
"Just so it has been ever thus and ever thus must be:
I visit all who live so long, to all there comes the day
When what I grant unearned in youth, with age I take away."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
The finest of all finery was laid upon my back.
My body like Adonis, my limbs were lithe and strong;
I revelled in each breath I took–'til Old Joe came along.
He never was invited, but some days he just dropped 'round,
Sans courtesy of phone or pen, his stories to expound.
He long regaled enticing tales: of lands that I would see,
Of green bedecked Italian hills, of sunlit Tuscany;
Of brooding glacial mountains, rushing down to alpine vales,
Or broad and blue horizon lines festooned with snowy sails,
Of buffaloes that snort and stamp on rolling western plains
And elephants that haul the teak through steamy jungle rains.
And then he spoke at fulsome length of deeds I yet would do,
What greater things I would achieve before my life was through;
"Let petty preconceptions no man's rightful dreams confine–
Why settle for a measure of just half of what is thine?"
He brought me gifts to add to those already in my store,
And when I weakly did refuse he simply brought me more.
His flattery and presents did my better sense cajole;
I came to crave these treasures, and his stories swallowed whole.
My longing to believe his tales my fears a while allayed,
But day by day suspicion grew I might have been betrayed.
The warnings, oh so gradual, were trifling things at first;
But by the time it dawned on me, my guest had done his worst.
A sideward glance of Old Joe's eye, and half my strength was gone;
My clothes now sadly draped the withered frame they hung upon.
And furrows came to mark my skin, as limping marked my gait,
And aching curvatures replaced a spine once ramrod straight.
He touched my shoulder lightly then, and straightway there was pain–
"Don't worry friend," he reassured–then touched me once again:
A dizziness upon me fell while Old Joe softly purred–
I glanced up at the hour and saw the spinning hands were blurred–
"I fear you now have not the time those dreams of yours to chase,
So I'll abide here by your side and help you to erase
The mem'ries of those things you sought and those for which you yearned,
And all you had before I came–to see what you have learned."
"When did I make this bargain foul, how could you so ordain
That I must trade for dreams and wealth, infirmity and pain?
You talked of plans and journeys grand, of diamonds and gold,
Of travel and adventure–but I'm only getting old."
Old Joe then smiled his crooked smile and sideways glanced at me:
"Just so it has been ever thus and ever thus must be:
I visit all who live so long, to all there comes the day
When what I grant unearned in youth, with age I take away."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 03, 2006
Pretending the Bed Was a Raft
Gulf Stream, Winslow Homer, 1899
The bed was a raft on the ocean
With hungry sharks swimming about;
We tossed in a terrible tempest,
The wind made a horrible shout–
Then laughing-eyed arms folded round us
And gathered us tight to her breast;
At last we were safe from the danger!
As softly she tucked and caressed.
But what took those gentle arms from us
Ignoring all promise or plea,
To sail on in sadness without her,
Alone on that loneliest sea?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Rubaiyat
Old Omar's bones long past succumbed to Time,
Who now has tricked the pilgrim past his prime;
The rising moon no longer Khayyám finds,
And soon enough the traveler's bell will chime.
This sorry scheme our understanding taunts
As heaven high its stern duration flaunts;
And one by one the rose her petals drops
As Time upon the countless gravestones vaunts.
Like briefest flash of gold in life's bazaar,
Or siren's sultry voice half-heard afar–
The pilgrim knows how seldom and how short
The door to revelation stands ajar.
The wisdom of the sages and the seers
Is murmured down the corridors of years
But in the lonely night cannot dispel
The phantoms of the pilgrim's hopes and fears.
The gate to hell or heaven stands agape
Or is this but illusion of escape?
The fate of each is cast before his birth;
Nor tear nor tirade can these stars reshape.
So shall we then together, you and I
Enjoy what time we have beneath this sky
And revel in our love and in this wine:
Accept the what and where, and ask not why?
And since we cannot fail to pay what's due
That Innkeeper who tolls our evening through–
I hope he would permit a final cup,
And give me leave to drink it here with you.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, January 20, 2006
Flying
© 2007 Rick Lee All rights reserved
When I was young by night I'd fly
With effortless facility,
But then grew older by and by
And lost this strange ability.
Then magic arms no more would lift
For heavy years had weighed them down
And robbed them of that wondrous gift
To soar above the drowsy town.
So every night my inner eye
Explored confined and dreary caves,
Resigned, but longing yet to fly
Aloft o'er forests, hills and waves.
And then one night this grace returned
And thus my spirit found again
The gift for which I long had yearned,
Above, beyond the world of men.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, January 13, 2006
North Face
The north face of the mountain–
The hardest route to climb
Where northern winds blow cruelest
And strike at any time.
A crumbling ledge or outcrop,
A step that goes amiss–
All threaten quick destruction
Above the deep abyss.
Few have the inclination
And fewer still the nerve
To risk their all for something–
It's safer to observe.
The north face of the mountain,
The hardest route to climb–
I never reached the summit;
I hear the view's sublime.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, January 06, 2006
Sunday
© 2005 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
Like teardrops on a dewy grass,
Like dry leaves in the fall–
As soft as cats the Sundays pass
And don't say much at all.
The plodding weeks mark turning moons
As months build years in stone;
And pirate Time hoards his doubloons
And counts his cache alone.
The ages reach and beckon me,
The tides have laid their plot;
They tug my vessel out to sea
And bid me tarry not.
The naked masts are barren trees
Their yards and rigging moan,
But winter breeze awhile agrees
The sailing to postpone.
So here ashore and here once more
Cold Sundays grind like stones;
Their grist the days I can't restore,
Their toll these aching bones.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, December 30, 2005
Paternity
I saw you in my heart, my son,
Before your eyes were born;
I knew the path your feet would run
Before your shoes were worn.
Before the earth was made of stone,
Before the clouds were white;
Before the western wind had blown–
I dreamt of you by night.
Anterior to every star,
To water, wind and flame–
The sky foretold the man you are
And whispered you a name.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Before your eyes were born;
I knew the path your feet would run
Before your shoes were worn.
Before the earth was made of stone,
Before the clouds were white;
Before the western wind had blown–
I dreamt of you by night.
Anterior to every star,
To water, wind and flame–
The sky foretold the man you are
And whispered you a name.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, December 23, 2005
Homeward
Let's go sailing, truest love,
And sail the bluest sea;
Wind will be my love for thee
And wave, your love for me.
Let's go soaring, truest love,
Where sultry breezes blow,
Sailing over clouds below
To lands just lovers know.
Let's go dancing, truest love,
To music heard afar,
Twirling o'er the swell and star
With heaven's door ajar.
And homeward then, my truest love,
To dream by lovers' light;
Weave me in your heart tonight–
Thou art my soul's delight.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
And sail the bluest sea;
Wind will be my love for thee
And wave, your love for me.
Let's go soaring, truest love,
Where sultry breezes blow,
Sailing over clouds below
To lands just lovers know.
Let's go dancing, truest love,
To music heard afar,
Twirling o'er the swell and star
With heaven's door ajar.
And homeward then, my truest love,
To dream by lovers' light;
Weave me in your heart tonight–
Thou art my soul's delight.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, December 16, 2005
Chipmunk
A chipmunk cuts my path, and scurries to fulfill
His winter quotas, nervous flag erect,
A cheeky rush before the coming chill;
With frantic industry, yet circumspect
He scurries through the busy underbrush
Obsessed with one more morsel to collect–
As I, absorbed in schemes and sums, just rush
Along the trail and blindly through my years;
Who has the time to stop and hear the hush?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
His winter quotas, nervous flag erect,
A cheeky rush before the coming chill;
With frantic industry, yet circumspect
He scurries through the busy underbrush
Obsessed with one more morsel to collect–
As I, absorbed in schemes and sums, just rush
Along the trail and blindly through my years;
Who has the time to stop and hear the hush?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, December 09, 2005
Ballet
The quiet pond is diamond strewn
Like dew on midnight grass;
The breathing image of the moon
Swims deep beneath the glass.
And high the clouds like lacy shawls
Wrap cold celestial lights
While soundless down the moonglow falls
In torrents from the heights.
A single pirouetting leaf
Rides rising autumn airs,
Her lovely dance as bright as brief,
A-tripping down the stairs.
And then the gaily twirling sprite,
A child let out of school,
As soft as breath at last can light
Upon the silver pool.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Like dew on midnight grass;
The breathing image of the moon
Swims deep beneath the glass.
And high the clouds like lacy shawls
Wrap cold celestial lights
While soundless down the moonglow falls
In torrents from the heights.
A single pirouetting leaf
Rides rising autumn airs,
Her lovely dance as bright as brief,
A-tripping down the stairs.
And then the gaily twirling sprite,
A child let out of school,
As soft as breath at last can light
Upon the silver pool.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, December 02, 2005
Rain
At dusk, the gutter xylophone
Brings solace when one lies alone
With tink-tink-tink on twilight eaves,
The quiet tune when someone leaves.
By night the muffled shingle drums
Just patter on 'til daylight comes
Their soft percussive lullaby
That plays when someone says goodbye.
At dawn the drummer riffs some blues
Then packs it in, and kelly hues
Are more intense with final drops
And then at last the drumming stops.
The audience long lies awake
And wonders yet what small mistake
Or thoughtless word could so offend–
Then sleeps to let the sun ascend.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Brings solace when one lies alone
With tink-tink-tink on twilight eaves,
The quiet tune when someone leaves.
By night the muffled shingle drums
Just patter on 'til daylight comes
Their soft percussive lullaby
That plays when someone says goodbye.
At dawn the drummer riffs some blues
Then packs it in, and kelly hues
Are more intense with final drops
And then at last the drumming stops.
The audience long lies awake
And wonders yet what small mistake
Or thoughtless word could so offend–
Then sleeps to let the sun ascend.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, November 25, 2005
Shoes
Judy danced in red, red shoes
Twirling off her dowdy blues;
Danced in dreams the night away
Spinning toward the sleepy day–
Red, red shoes and oh, that dress,
Whirling, swirling silk caress.
Time its taxes must assess,
Fate allows no late redress;
Cheeks ablush, a rose bouquet
On her breast, such sad array:
Pallid beauty, cruel ruse–
Judy sleeps in white, white shoes.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Twirling off her dowdy blues;
Danced in dreams the night away
Spinning toward the sleepy day–
Red, red shoes and oh, that dress,
Whirling, swirling silk caress.
Time its taxes must assess,
Fate allows no late redress;
Cheeks ablush, a rose bouquet
On her breast, such sad array:
Pallid beauty, cruel ruse–
Judy sleeps in white, white shoes.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, November 18, 2005
If You Could Paint
Could you but paint that which you see
Your brush would roil eternity,
And shake the pillars of the land
To grind the mountains down to sand.
Could you but write that which you hear
Your pen would sing a song so clear
That men who knew not of your tongue
Would weep with every song you sung.
Take up your brush and take your quill
And shake them at the sky until
The heavens bearing not your shout
Relent to let your vision out.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Your brush would roil eternity,
And shake the pillars of the land
To grind the mountains down to sand.
Could you but write that which you hear
Your pen would sing a song so clear
That men who knew not of your tongue
Would weep with every song you sung.
Take up your brush and take your quill
And shake them at the sky until
The heavens bearing not your shout
Relent to let your vision out.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, November 11, 2005
Playmates
The tipsy morning maid sails bright
Far from her normal haunts
And riding on the rising light
Her sober brother taunts.
She floats, a feather in the air
Above the breeze and bough;
Her face shines round with morning's glare
Upon her silver brow.
But soon her teasing day’s carouse
Must end and she retire,
To hide within her somber house
And flee her sibling’s fire.
Come back! Come back! the boy entreats,
And play with me a while–
But she maintains her coy conceits
With just a winsome smile.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Far from her normal haunts
And riding on the rising light
Her sober brother taunts.
She floats, a feather in the air
Above the breeze and bough;
Her face shines round with morning's glare
Upon her silver brow.
But soon her teasing day’s carouse
Must end and she retire,
To hide within her somber house
And flee her sibling’s fire.
Come back! Come back! the boy entreats,
And play with me a while–
But she maintains her coy conceits
With just a winsome smile.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, November 04, 2005
Piper
The Piper at the gates of dawn
Whose pipes sing far and high
With plaintive song for summers gone–
Regards an empty sky.
Bright feathers flew for distant lands,
But where did not confide;
The lonely meadow understands
That here she must abide.
The trees have long since shed their gloves,
Gaunt fingers now revealed;
The wild wind whispers of her loves
To taunt the barren field.
The patient land awaits the frost
Foretelling winter snows;
The meadow mourns her flowers lost,
And soon will dreamless doze.
The Piper at the gates of dawn
Whose pipes sing soft for me
Plays low and long for summers gone
In wistful minor key.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Whose pipes sing far and high
With plaintive song for summers gone–
Regards an empty sky.
Bright feathers flew for distant lands,
But where did not confide;
The lonely meadow understands
That here she must abide.
The trees have long since shed their gloves,
Gaunt fingers now revealed;
The wild wind whispers of her loves
To taunt the barren field.
The patient land awaits the frost
Foretelling winter snows;
The meadow mourns her flowers lost,
And soon will dreamless doze.
The Piper at the gates of dawn
Whose pipes sing soft for me
Plays low and long for summers gone
In wistful minor key.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, October 28, 2005
Optimism
Ah, youth: it’s wasted on the young
And stolen from the old;
A purse purloined while carefree sung
Hot lips that soon grew cold.
Ah, age: what wisdom's worth this cost?
We trade decrepit pain
For trifles, with our passing lost–
And call the commerce gain.
Ah, beauty: flowers bloom and fade,
Their saddened petals fall;
And all their former glories weighed
Will scarcely count at all.
Ah, truth–no two can quite agree;
Is truth itself a thing,
Or that which eyes pretend to see,
Beyond real reckoning?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
And stolen from the old;
A purse purloined while carefree sung
Hot lips that soon grew cold.
Ah, age: what wisdom's worth this cost?
We trade decrepit pain
For trifles, with our passing lost–
And call the commerce gain.
Ah, beauty: flowers bloom and fade,
Their saddened petals fall;
And all their former glories weighed
Will scarcely count at all.
Ah, truth–no two can quite agree;
Is truth itself a thing,
Or that which eyes pretend to see,
Beyond real reckoning?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, October 21, 2005
Crows
I passed a flock of wary crows
That perched in Hangman's Tree,
And with a shout their wings arose—
Could what they feared be me?
They, sentries for a field of corn,
And I, a passerby;
They railed at me with raucous scorn
Then fled to twilight sky.
The black-winged undertaker flies
While but the thought remains;
A brooding silhouette that cries
And chills my coward's veins.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
That perched in Hangman's Tree,
And with a shout their wings arose—
Could what they feared be me?
They, sentries for a field of corn,
And I, a passerby;
They railed at me with raucous scorn
Then fled to twilight sky.
The black-winged undertaker flies
While but the thought remains;
A brooding silhouette that cries
And chills my coward's veins.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, October 14, 2005
Turning
The clouds curl up like kittens soft and gray,
And wind their tails as young ones will
In drowsy snuggle 'round the sleepy hill,
The looming low horizon of the day.
Spry artist Autumn dances down the slopes,
Her leafy pallet blazing red and gold;
With splashing strokes she marks the season tolled
And dapples on the green of Summer's hopes.
Still sleeping Winter breathes a cool soupcon
Of chilliness into the atmosphere—
While days are hazy, harvest nights are clear;
How can there be another summer gone?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
And wind their tails as young ones will
In drowsy snuggle 'round the sleepy hill,
The looming low horizon of the day.
Spry artist Autumn dances down the slopes,
Her leafy pallet blazing red and gold;
With splashing strokes she marks the season tolled
And dapples on the green of Summer's hopes.
Still sleeping Winter breathes a cool soupcon
Of chilliness into the atmosphere—
While days are hazy, harvest nights are clear;
How can there be another summer gone?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, October 07, 2005
Hospice
If dawn will never come, then love the night;
The air is cooler then, and hurry dies
In quiet concert with the fading light.
And if all light should dim before your eyes,
Know: longing won't restore a waning sight,
But squanders precious courage penny-wise.
If dawn will never come, trim not your lamp;
Decant the wine, and summon friends to sing.
By this your last impression leave some stamp
Upon recalling hearts to ease the sting
That dawns are numbered yet for prince or tramp—
And bring a smile with their remembering.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
The air is cooler then, and hurry dies
In quiet concert with the fading light.
And if all light should dim before your eyes,
Know: longing won't restore a waning sight,
But squanders precious courage penny-wise.
If dawn will never come, trim not your lamp;
Decant the wine, and summon friends to sing.
By this your last impression leave some stamp
Upon recalling hearts to ease the sting
That dawns are numbered yet for prince or tramp—
And bring a smile with their remembering.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 30, 2005
White Bus
The white bus stopped for me again today—
I climbed the steps, the driver beckoned me,
That gentle smile of his I always see;
I took my seat, and we were on our way.
The fields and farms flashed by; I softly wept
As looming hills bedraped with forests green
Below the wispy cirrus lay serene—
And then at last in dreamless sleep I slept.
The playful morning sun my bones awoke
To gently coax me back to face the day
With hopes this dwindling time above the clay
Could all the sadness in the world revoke;
But such was not to be, not now nor then—
My tears by day and dreams by night reveal
How slowly deepest wounds of spirit heal
As darkness whispers in my ear again.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
I climbed the steps, the driver beckoned me,
That gentle smile of his I always see;
I took my seat, and we were on our way.
The fields and farms flashed by; I softly wept
As looming hills bedraped with forests green
Below the wispy cirrus lay serene—
And then at last in dreamless sleep I slept.
The playful morning sun my bones awoke
To gently coax me back to face the day
With hopes this dwindling time above the clay
Could all the sadness in the world revoke;
But such was not to be, not now nor then—
My tears by day and dreams by night reveal
How slowly deepest wounds of spirit heal
As darkness whispers in my ear again.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 23, 2005
The Funeral of Tommy O'Shaughnessy
Tommy O'Shaughnessy lay there in state
Cold on his regular steam-heated grate.
Bobby the Grifter was tippling his red,
Nursing the bottle in poor Tommy's stead;
Tommy was rigored as stiff as a board,
Bobby in sympathy drunk as a lord.
Solly and Molly and all the old crew
Stood there debating what course to pursue;
Far as they knew they were Tom's next o’ kin—
"Just as much fam'ly as anyone's been."
"Let's call the cops," bleary Bobby opined;
Solly and Molly politely declined.
(Both were successfully staying at large
Dodging some picayune larceny charge.)
Benny the Weasle had little to say,
Mumbling and stumbling his typical way,
Ground in the mill of a million mistakes,
Half pint of Mogen ahead of the shakes.
Molly insisted that something be said,
Seeing how Tommy was lying there dead;
Billy the Preacher pulled out a worn Book,
Flipping the pages, a cursory look—
Said a few words and recited some lines,
Noting the absence of heirs and assigns;
Bidding farewell on behalf of the gang,
Ambulance men cutting short the harangue—
Summoned by someone whom chance had sent by:
Half-way Samaritan spied a dead guy.
Thus ended Tommy, and just his bad luck:
Zipped in a bag, trundled onto the truck.
Lifetime of dissolute living come due,
Tommy's expressionless eyes bid adieu.
Bottles were passed, so that all could partake;
Molly and Solly and those at the wake
Hiked to the mission, where everyone ate,
Telling the padre that Tommy was “late.”
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Cold on his regular steam-heated grate.
Bobby the Grifter was tippling his red,
Nursing the bottle in poor Tommy's stead;
Tommy was rigored as stiff as a board,
Bobby in sympathy drunk as a lord.
Solly and Molly and all the old crew
Stood there debating what course to pursue;
Far as they knew they were Tom's next o’ kin—
"Just as much fam'ly as anyone's been."
"Let's call the cops," bleary Bobby opined;
Solly and Molly politely declined.
(Both were successfully staying at large
Dodging some picayune larceny charge.)
Benny the Weasle had little to say,
Mumbling and stumbling his typical way,
Ground in the mill of a million mistakes,
Half pint of Mogen ahead of the shakes.
Molly insisted that something be said,
Seeing how Tommy was lying there dead;
Billy the Preacher pulled out a worn Book,
Flipping the pages, a cursory look—
Said a few words and recited some lines,
Noting the absence of heirs and assigns;
Bidding farewell on behalf of the gang,
Ambulance men cutting short the harangue—
Summoned by someone whom chance had sent by:
Half-way Samaritan spied a dead guy.
Thus ended Tommy, and just his bad luck:
Zipped in a bag, trundled onto the truck.
Lifetime of dissolute living come due,
Tommy's expressionless eyes bid adieu.
Bottles were passed, so that all could partake;
Molly and Solly and those at the wake
Hiked to the mission, where everyone ate,
Telling the padre that Tommy was “late.”
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 16, 2005
Encounter
The hummingbird beats ever slow,
His wings stand almost still;
In flower-dance adagio
He grinds his airy mill.
Does time inch on? I cannot tell;
These chains upon my eyes
Ensnare my sight, a dreamlike spell
That every sense defies.
With years to bare remains distilled,
The hours are boiled away;
The album of my heart is filled
With scenes in fading gray.
My soul is nailed as to a post,
So brutally transfixed,
Pierced through by what desired most
The cruelest pain inflicts.
While seconds crash as slow as days
A minute seems a year;
The eye with understanding plays:
I watch you pass, my dear.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
His wings stand almost still;
In flower-dance adagio
He grinds his airy mill.
Does time inch on? I cannot tell;
These chains upon my eyes
Ensnare my sight, a dreamlike spell
That every sense defies.
With years to bare remains distilled,
The hours are boiled away;
The album of my heart is filled
With scenes in fading gray.
My soul is nailed as to a post,
So brutally transfixed,
Pierced through by what desired most
The cruelest pain inflicts.
While seconds crash as slow as days
A minute seems a year;
The eye with understanding plays:
I watch you pass, my dear.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 09, 2005
The Visitation
I lay there, looking really grand,
Why, just as if I slept;
Of all the folks and friends at hand
Scarce anybody wept.
They'd dolled me up in some dark suit
That really wasn't me;
All gussied up, a smart old coot,
To please my vanity.
The kin trooped in perfunct’r’ly
To sniff, "How sad, you know!"
You would agree 'tween them and me
This thing was quite a show.
The customary tears were shed
And then came meet and greet
As if they'd laid out in my stead
Some dressed-up slab of meat.
Some misbehaving younger lads
Soon had their moms all riled,
And weren't much better for their dads —
I swear I almost smiled.
I note that while most folks pretend
To pay correct respect,
In sum, mine seemed a mundane end —
Then, what did I expect?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Why, just as if I slept;
Of all the folks and friends at hand
Scarce anybody wept.
They'd dolled me up in some dark suit
That really wasn't me;
All gussied up, a smart old coot,
To please my vanity.
The kin trooped in perfunct’r’ly
To sniff, "How sad, you know!"
You would agree 'tween them and me
This thing was quite a show.
The customary tears were shed
And then came meet and greet
As if they'd laid out in my stead
Some dressed-up slab of meat.
Some misbehaving younger lads
Soon had their moms all riled,
And weren't much better for their dads —
I swear I almost smiled.
I note that while most folks pretend
To pay correct respect,
In sum, mine seemed a mundane end —
Then, what did I expect?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, September 02, 2005
Seaside
The sea-rocks bob like blackened corks
Beside indifferent shores;
The water buoys and twists and torques
The granite commodores.
As seagulls skim the curling wave
They urge the rocks to swim;
The sky maintains they must be brave,
Their plight however grim.
The mincing stormy petrels shod
In water-walking shoes
Regard the laundry line of God
And sails of far canoes.
A Portuguese sunbather lies
Amid the kelp and foam
And light as bubbles thoughts arise
Of trees and hills and home.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Beside indifferent shores;
The water buoys and twists and torques
The granite commodores.
As seagulls skim the curling wave
They urge the rocks to swim;
The sky maintains they must be brave,
Their plight however grim.
The mincing stormy petrels shod
In water-walking shoes
Regard the laundry line of God
And sails of far canoes.
A Portuguese sunbather lies
Amid the kelp and foam
And light as bubbles thoughts arise
Of trees and hills and home.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 26, 2005
Visitor
Old Joe stopped by the other day,
Was sorry that he could not stay —
But left a casserole of sprains
And sundry aches and minor pains;
He had to rush, but just dropped in
To comment on my wrinkled skin
As only closest friends will do:
"As always, dear, I think of you."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Was sorry that he could not stay —
But left a casserole of sprains
And sundry aches and minor pains;
He had to rush, but just dropped in
To comment on my wrinkled skin
As only closest friends will do:
"As always, dear, I think of you."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 19, 2005
Summer's End
Misty trees, West Virginia © 2007 Rick Lee
First yellow fringes coyly hint their clue,
What nascent autumn's handiwork will do
To dancing leaf and August-swaying limb
Now vainly seeking out time's antonym.
Too short! too short! the mockingbird complains
But gains no longer summer for his pains;
Mosquitoes of the heavy dusk drink deep
Of ruby wine that beckons winter sleep.
Expectant summer gestates deep within
Her rip'ning belly autumn's discipline,
Whose spark will soon ignite the verdant leaves
In flaming hues above the harvest sheaves;
The autumn jewels in nature’s coronet
Admired but yet not worn—not yet, not yet.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 12, 2005
FedEx
A package came today Express
To liven up my loneliness;
It was the strangest steel device
For crushing hearts in soft caress.
The paperwork? devoid of price.
Instructions? there was no advice.
It seems to be for squeezing tears —
But then your glance should quite suffice.
In usage, too much pain adheres
And gums the brightly polished gears,
Which makes the cleanup such a mess;
Best send it back—or so one hears.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
A package came today Express
To liven up my loneliness;
It was the strangest steel device
For crushing hearts in soft caress.
The paperwork? devoid of price.
Instructions? there was no advice.
It seems to be for squeezing tears —
But then your glance should quite suffice.
In usage, too much pain adheres
And gums the brightly polished gears,
Which makes the cleanup such a mess;
Best send it back—or so one hears.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, August 05, 2005
© 2004 Shooter.net - all rights reserved - reproduced by permission
Dragonflies
I wonder what the dragonflies expect
When morning sunlight wakes their double wings;
If rising from their reeds, they recollect
The prior day of marshy happenings.
And fly they forth with plans to fill the day,
Or goals to optimize each sunlit hour,
To maximize their take of insect prey
With quotas of mosquitoes to devour?
Or live they in each moment as it comes
To revel in their iridescent now
In blissful ignorance of charts and sums
Like happy little children of the Tao.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 29, 2005
The Gates of Cerdes
The gates of ancient Cerdes
Reach up to clutch the sky
And grind the clouds to snowflakes
As sadly they drift by.
Tall spires once flew banners
Long since to tatters blown —
Grand brazen doors, once gleaming,
With brambles overgrown.
The city walls lie crumbled,
And here and there a mound
Of tipped and tumbled stonework
Where buildings once were found.
Wind-whispered soft enticements
Heard faint across the dell
Bid tarry for the story
Of how great Cerdes fell;
But travellers listen vainly
To almost hear the tale
Now lost to recollection
As snow tucks in the vale.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
The gates of ancient Cerdes
Reach up to clutch the sky
And grind the clouds to snowflakes
As sadly they drift by.
Tall spires once flew banners
Long since to tatters blown —
Grand brazen doors, once gleaming,
With brambles overgrown.
The city walls lie crumbled,
And here and there a mound
Of tipped and tumbled stonework
Where buildings once were found.
Wind-whispered soft enticements
Heard faint across the dell
Bid tarry for the story
Of how great Cerdes fell;
But travellers listen vainly
To almost hear the tale
Now lost to recollection
As snow tucks in the vale.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 22, 2005
Spermaceti
Midnight depths conceal old scar-marked flanks: dread tales incised in flesh,
Legends writ of battles, titans deadly locked to writhe and thresh,
Struggles far from mortal sight and soundless as the dreams of death —
Rising then leviathan again, to worlds of sun and breath,
Lolling, rolling, regal on the swelling wave in lazy sleep,
Dark-eyed Cetus dreams about pursuits nine hundred fathoms deep.
I alike chase phantoms, frightful forms, as restlessly I doze:
Dreamy reveries as thought descends to wear old Neptune's clothes.
Diving down to plumb the depths of torpid mind, where darkness rules,
Combats dire beneath the waves of talk and art — the sea of fools —
Star-crossed I am cursed to seek the ghastly kraken in his lair,
Eight-armed monster, emblem of my darkest fears and dread despair.
Desperate fights in fitful rest, beyond the realm of eye and ear,
Seeking treasured ambergris, a wisdom dark, despite my fear;
Outward naught to see, my skin unscarred, to wake and rise again,
Thorough shaken, as my ken rejoins the sunlit world of men ...
Dims the sun once more upon the wave, and downward drags the night,
Cruelly it commands me keep the awful silence of my plight.
Steel me, fading twilight — drive away these fears! and make me brave:
Downward sink I yet again, to lightless depth and monster's cave.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Midnight depths conceal old scar-marked flanks: dread tales incised in flesh,
Legends writ of battles, titans deadly locked to writhe and thresh,
Struggles far from mortal sight and soundless as the dreams of death —
Rising then leviathan again, to worlds of sun and breath,
Lolling, rolling, regal on the swelling wave in lazy sleep,
Dark-eyed Cetus dreams about pursuits nine hundred fathoms deep.
I alike chase phantoms, frightful forms, as restlessly I doze:
Dreamy reveries as thought descends to wear old Neptune's clothes.
Diving down to plumb the depths of torpid mind, where darkness rules,
Combats dire beneath the waves of talk and art — the sea of fools —
Star-crossed I am cursed to seek the ghastly kraken in his lair,
Eight-armed monster, emblem of my darkest fears and dread despair.
Desperate fights in fitful rest, beyond the realm of eye and ear,
Seeking treasured ambergris, a wisdom dark, despite my fear;
Outward naught to see, my skin unscarred, to wake and rise again,
Thorough shaken, as my ken rejoins the sunlit world of men ...
Dims the sun once more upon the wave, and downward drags the night,
Cruelly it commands me keep the awful silence of my plight.
Steel me, fading twilight — drive away these fears! and make me brave:
Downward sink I yet again, to lightless depth and monster's cave.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 15, 2005
John Blue
Eight Bells, Winslow Homer, 1886
John Blue was master of the ship
That lay 'longside the quay;
She'd beckoned men for many's the trip
And now she beckoned me.
The Lucy resting at her berth
Showed years upon the main;
She'd hauled her cargo 'round the earth
Bulk lumber, coal, and grain.
I'd naught left binding me to shore —
No love, no hearth, no home;
All dry land comforts I foreswore,
The ocean I would roam.
I met the mate and set my hand
And signed on for the crew;
Until the ocean hid the land
I ne'er saw Captain Blue.
But nights on midwatch, lost in thought
The quarter he would pace,
And gaze far off as if he sought
Another time and place.
His story, as the mate would tell
Went round the merchant fleet:
His captain's quarters were his hell
As much as his retreat.
He'd sailed aboard the Mary K.
His bride and son in tow,
But off the mouth of Wentworth Bay
There came a mighty blow.
A wave rose up and knocked her down,
And nothing could be done;
The ship capsized, he watched them drown,
His crew and wife and son.
Twenty souls went down that night
And never saw the sun;
They say he knew it wasn't right
He was not twenty-one.
Authorities convened a board
And while they found no blame,
A new command was no reward,
To sail the seas in shame.
I served before the Lucy's mast
For then the longest time,
'Til I at last forgave my past
And aged beyond my prime.
As years went by, I rose to mate
And served with Captain Blue;
We sailed the seas and hauled the freight
As came and went our crew.
In all that time I don't surmise
He spoke three extra words;
Then only uttered to apprise
Of winds, and waves, and birds.
We both grew old, the Lucy, too,
Our hair bore age's token;
Came word to bid the ship adieu:
The Lucy would be broken.
The captain paid off every hand
And put the crew ashore;
Then paid my share and gave command
To help make sail once more.
We sailed her down the river mouth
And out into the bay
And just before he steered her south
He turned to me to say:
"You've sailed with me, a faithful mate
Wherever winds have blown;
The time has come to tell you straight:
This voyage I make alone.
"Take the boat, and row to land
And leave behind the sea;
Retire to some sunny strand —
The Lucy, leave to me."
I took the boat, and took his word:
The sea and I did part.
Of Lucy never more was heard,
Nor John Blue's tortured heart.
I think the captain found release
His spirit finally home;
And old John Blue can rest in peace
Beneath the ocean's foam.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 08, 2005
Wicked Garden
I have a wicked garden
Where nothing ever grows;
It grants no flower pardon
To grace its barren rows.
This sorry plot I planted,
The fault must rest with me;
Fair furrows I was granted,
I chose their destiny.
The rows I sowed with rock salt
And watered them with bile
'Til ground as hard as asphalt
Would make the Devil smile.
With beauties of creation
Resplendent all around,
The seed for its salvation
Now falls on barren ground.
And once or twice toward heaven
I turned my cursed´ eyes,
Perhaps my soul to leaven
But saw naught there save skies.
And so I watch this garden
Where nothing ever grew —
I do not need a scarecrow:
My threadbare mind will do.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
I have a wicked garden
Where nothing ever grows;
It grants no flower pardon
To grace its barren rows.
This sorry plot I planted,
The fault must rest with me;
Fair furrows I was granted,
I chose their destiny.
The rows I sowed with rock salt
And watered them with bile
'Til ground as hard as asphalt
Would make the Devil smile.
With beauties of creation
Resplendent all around,
The seed for its salvation
Now falls on barren ground.
And once or twice toward heaven
I turned my cursed´ eyes,
Perhaps my soul to leaven
But saw naught there save skies.
And so I watch this garden
Where nothing ever grew —
I do not need a scarecrow:
My threadbare mind will do.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, July 01, 2005
Patience
© 2006 Rick Lee by permission - all rights reserved
So many holes in ceiling tile;
Here flat upon my back
I count a while, but have to smile:
It's hard to not lose track.
The busy little IV pump
Tick-ticks away the day;
A nurse, quite plump, assaults my rump
With daggers from her tray.
Some muffled voices from the hall
Enhance my fitful rest;
Miraculous I sleep at all
And am not more depressed.
What visitors come by exude
A wooden kind of cheer;
While I'm not rude, I must conclude
My days are numbered here.
The drooping flowers on the sill,
The cards with, "Get Well Soon";
Well what the hell, I sooner will
Be skiing on the moon.
I'd like to go home just to check
The mail and stop the News ...
My body's more or less a wreck,
My psyche sings the blues.
So many holes in ceiling tile,
Like stars on heaven's dome;
I count them, then I snooze a while
And dream I am back home.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
© 2006 Rick Lee by permission - all rights reservedSo many holes in ceiling tile;
Here flat upon my back
I count a while, but have to smile:
It's hard to not lose track.
The busy little IV pump
Tick-ticks away the day;
A nurse, quite plump, assaults my rump
With daggers from her tray.
Some muffled voices from the hall
Enhance my fitful rest;
Miraculous I sleep at all
And am not more depressed.
What visitors come by exude
A wooden kind of cheer;
While I'm not rude, I must conclude
My days are numbered here.
The drooping flowers on the sill,
The cards with, "Get Well Soon";
Well what the hell, I sooner will
Be skiing on the moon.
I'd like to go home just to check
The mail and stop the News ...
My body's more or less a wreck,
My psyche sings the blues.
So many holes in ceiling tile,
Like stars on heaven's dome;
I count them, then I snooze a while
And dream I am back home.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 24, 2005
Baby's Breath
Baby's breath, baby's breath, what mother would not give
To buy her baby one more breath
And let her baby live.
Born too soon, born too small, born to woe and sorrow;
Can pure desire in hearts afire
Spare her 'til tomorrow?
Savior's blood, Savior's blood, one drop may wash her clean,
But will it stay the hand of Death
And void his ghastly lien?
Mother's love, father's love, all the love around her —
Each fervent prayer a puff of air:
Spirit, now surround her!
Baby's breath, baby's breath, I heard her mother say:
In proud display the bride's bouquet
This happy wedding day.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 17, 2005
Jenny
Two miles past the WalMart
You take the second right;
Turn off on County 415
(It's just a sign, no light).
Ten or twelve miles up that road
You'll come to Walker's Trace;
Go left at Terry's Gas'n'More —
It's four miles to her place.
You'll see a pretty farmhouse,
It's shaded by some oaks;
That's where she lives with Luke and Bill
(Her brothers) and her folks.
Just look out from her parents' porch
I think you'll understand
Why Jenny’s folks would live up there
And why they'd farm that land.
Some say the land is not the best
You couldn't tell by lookin';
And you’re not leavin' 'til you're full
With Jenny's Mama's cookin'.
I met her down at Albertville,
Construction job one summer;
I kept her picture tucked inside
The visor of my Hummer ...
They're teachin' me to walk again;
I've still got one good eye —
My arms are strong, it won't be long
'Til I'll be droppin' by.
I'll use that Army GI Bill
And get some education;
I guess they owe a guy that much
For fightin' for his nation.
I'm sorry Jack, for talkin' so,
I guess I've really rambled;
With all that's happened recently
My mind's a little scrambled.
Don't tell Jenny everything,
I think that would upset her;
The docs ‘round here are really good —
They'll get me lookin' better.
If you could drive out to her place
That sure would plum delight me;
And check she's got my right address —
I just wish she would write me.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 10, 2005
30,000 Feet
Thor's sentinels, the thunderheads
Flash warnings as we hurry by,
And glower in the twilight sky:
We should be home and in our beds.
Cloud-island archipelago
Above the darkness and the rain,
Brute sky-lords rule their grand domain
Beneath the vault of indigo.
Don't fly too close! Dark beetled scowls
From towering gods of mist and fire
Warn travellers to avoid their ire
With giant sparks and thunder-growls.
And then descending through the haze
The welcome lights below shine through
And beckon to our rendezvous,
Now safe aground, while skies yet blaze.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, June 03, 2005
Office Man
Bright dust motes float, held fast in beams
Of slatted light; as fades the day
There sits a man of no extremes,
A proper man — in every way.
But in the twilight, lazy dreams:
Behind cool eyes, the secrets play ...
The curve of neck, the stocking seams:
The lissome girl he saw today —
Soft bend of waist, the hair backlit;
A breeze caressed her summer dress,
And God! he rose to let her sit —
She did not see his thoughtfulness,
But swirled around headlong, to flit
From tram to street, a cheekiness
Which suited more, he would admit;
The heart expects its hopelessness.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Bright dust motes float, held fast in beams
Of slatted light; as fades the day
There sits a man of no extremes,
A proper man — in every way.
But in the twilight, lazy dreams:
Behind cool eyes, the secrets play ...
The curve of neck, the stocking seams:
The lissome girl he saw today —
Soft bend of waist, the hair backlit;
A breeze caressed her summer dress,
And God! he rose to let her sit —
She did not see his thoughtfulness,
But swirled around headlong, to flit
From tram to street, a cheekiness
Which suited more, he would admit;
The heart expects its hopelessness.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 27, 2005
Fortress
Upon the rack of circumstance
Where life had tried to break me,
I followed gods of time and chance
Wherever they would take me.
So time and chance they thrashed me hard,
Which only served to steel me;
My heart was scarred, I kept my guard,
Afraid it would reveal me.
A stony castle on a hill
Now ever would protect me.
Heart's hardened walls and force of will:
No lover could reject me.
'Til Love and Hope, by craft and guile
Attacked my keep to save me:
Hope's hidden door and secret stile
Let Love in to enslave me.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Upon the rack of circumstance
Where life had tried to break me,
I followed gods of time and chance
Wherever they would take me.
So time and chance they thrashed me hard,
Which only served to steel me;
My heart was scarred, I kept my guard,
Afraid it would reveal me.
A stony castle on a hill
Now ever would protect me.
Heart's hardened walls and force of will:
No lover could reject me.
'Til Love and Hope, by craft and guile
Attacked my keep to save me:
Hope's hidden door and secret stile
Let Love in to enslave me.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 20, 2005
Poppies
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull - all rights reserved
A river surges through my heart
To slice my soul in two,
As longing struts its tawdry part
And hangs my halls in blue.
The poppies bloom along the road —
They beckon me to stay,
Entreating me to loose my load
And watch their gay ballet.
The clouds puff distant in the sky
And hint a face above;
While earthbound I still puzzle why
I could not hold her love.
And yet the scarlet poppies dance
Like breeze in true love's hair;
They giggle of the wind's romance
And sway on springtime air.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 13, 2005
Beloved
Forgotten, forgotten, all shall be forgotten —
All shall slip beneath the seas of time and space.
Remembered, remembered, naught shall be remembered —
Naught shall mark our tiny lives nor leave a trace.
Beloved, beloved, you are my beloved —
But my love the toll of years cannot outpace:
Then with me, come with me, I beg of you come with me —
We will disappear in time in our embrace.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Forgotten, forgotten, all shall be forgotten —
All shall slip beneath the seas of time and space.
Remembered, remembered, naught shall be remembered —
Naught shall mark our tiny lives nor leave a trace.
Beloved, beloved, you are my beloved —
But my love the toll of years cannot outpace:
Then with me, come with me, I beg of you come with me —
We will disappear in time in our embrace.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, May 06, 2005
Luna
The moon that gazed upon Jurassic shores,
Cold-eyed and pocked, and shines the same tonight,
Looked down upon the ancient dinosaurs,
And sheds with equal disregard her light
On us. Once, travelers saw her orb and prayed
That beams above might drive the shadows back
And shepherd them in safety, fears allayed,
'Til brilliant Sun could burn away the black.
Now we return the moon's indifference
And marvel not what time and change has passed
From when arose her first magnificence;
But when the end of Man has come at last,
As sunlight fades and night eternal falls,
The ageless queen still walks her starry halls.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Dreamtime
Night's diamonds fade; with quiet rosy hues
Horizon's verge the sleepy sky imbues.
Apollo bids his chariot arise
And sparks his sacred fire to light the skies.
And yet we sleep. Some dim-illumined screen
Reveals soft shadow-shapes of play and scene
Where mind acts out strange tales of love or strife:
Pale imitations of our worldly life.
Are we awake? Or do we wander yet
Among the phantoms that we'll soon forget?
Through eerie corridors each turn we take
The drug of sleep has dulled the will to wake.
We wrestle with the light, our dreams to keep,
To hold and understand our thoughts in sleep;
But Morpheus decrees that dreams remain
Secure with him 'til sleep shall come again.
Could we but hold the pleasant of these tales!
Cast out the bad, while memory regales—
But try and try, in hope we might recall
The dawning glow has burned away them all.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Night's diamonds fade; with quiet rosy hues
Horizon's verge the sleepy sky imbues.
Apollo bids his chariot arise
And sparks his sacred fire to light the skies.
And yet we sleep. Some dim-illumined screen
Reveals soft shadow-shapes of play and scene
Where mind acts out strange tales of love or strife:
Pale imitations of our worldly life.
Are we awake? Or do we wander yet
Among the phantoms that we'll soon forget?
Through eerie corridors each turn we take
The drug of sleep has dulled the will to wake.
We wrestle with the light, our dreams to keep,
To hold and understand our thoughts in sleep;
But Morpheus decrees that dreams remain
Secure with him 'til sleep shall come again.
Could we but hold the pleasant of these tales!
Cast out the bad, while memory regales—
But try and try, in hope we might recall
The dawning glow has burned away them all.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 29, 2005
The Lark and the Sparrow
As all things that have been shall be,
As pass all things to come;
As day ne'er sets upon the sea
Reigns ever night for some.
As heavens wheel above the Earth,
Eternal light and dark,
We mimic 'twixt our death and birth
The sparrow and the lark.
Her colors dull, her chirping plain
In constant quest for food
The sparrow strives in sun and rain
To rear her little brood,
While lark exultant on her wings
Sings songs of joy and love
To shame the tunes of courts and kings
And ring the clouds above.
Now like the sparrow, 'til we die,
We toil as Life has willed,
Our labors ‘neath the arching sky
To clothe, and feed, and build.
Still, through our toils, we raise our voice
Although we know our fate,
Unlike the lark — yet we rejoice
As life we celebrate!
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
As all things that have been shall be,
As pass all things to come;
As day ne'er sets upon the sea
Reigns ever night for some.
As heavens wheel above the Earth,
Eternal light and dark,
We mimic 'twixt our death and birth
The sparrow and the lark.
Her colors dull, her chirping plain
In constant quest for food
The sparrow strives in sun and rain
To rear her little brood,
While lark exultant on her wings
Sings songs of joy and love
To shame the tunes of courts and kings
And ring the clouds above.
Now like the sparrow, 'til we die,
We toil as Life has willed,
Our labors ‘neath the arching sky
To clothe, and feed, and build.
Still, through our toils, we raise our voice
Although we know our fate,
Unlike the lark — yet we rejoice
As life we celebrate!
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 22, 2005
Lion in Winter
A boyish love's a campfire
Of twigs and tinder moss;
Tempestuous desire,
And blind to certain loss.
By burning bright, if briefly,
Love hints of what can be;
And that's its function chiefly —
If only youth could see!
A full grown love's the boiler
That powers life on earth.
To love's end man's a toiler,
And service marks his worth:
Man harnesses his passion
To pull the plows of life,
A better world to fashion
For daughter, son and wife.
An old man's love's the fire
That's banked against the night,
The memory of desire
In fading winter light.
His cherished recollections,
The fruit of love's sweet vine,
Are purged of imperfections
And savored like fine wine.
Now, all love has its season
And plays its role in each;
Experience, not reason,
Must love's great lessons teach.
Now I approach my winter,
For me, the seasons turn;
A walker, not a sprinter —
But my fires still do burn.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
A boyish love's a campfire
Of twigs and tinder moss;
Tempestuous desire,
And blind to certain loss.
By burning bright, if briefly,
Love hints of what can be;
And that's its function chiefly —
If only youth could see!
A full grown love's the boiler
That powers life on earth.
To love's end man's a toiler,
And service marks his worth:
Man harnesses his passion
To pull the plows of life,
A better world to fashion
For daughter, son and wife.
An old man's love's the fire
That's banked against the night,
The memory of desire
In fading winter light.
His cherished recollections,
The fruit of love's sweet vine,
Are purged of imperfections
And savored like fine wine.
Now, all love has its season
And plays its role in each;
Experience, not reason,
Must love's great lessons teach.
Now I approach my winter,
For me, the seasons turn;
A walker, not a sprinter —
But my fires still do burn.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 15, 2005
Constellations
They were dammin' up the river
They were floodin' all our land
And Momma, God forgive her
She just couldn't make a stand.
When Poppa died my Momma
Didn't know just what to do;
And with period and comma
They took my mother, too.
She died late on a Sunday
Of a stroke, as Doc allowed,
And we buried her on Monday
In a bedsheet winding shroud;
By the rose and honeysuckle,
That's where she and Poppa lie–
And they watch Orion's buckle
When he climbs the winter sky,
The way that Poppa taught us
'Bout the Greeks and all their kin
From a ragged book he brought us
From the Goodwill cast-off bin.
With their legal condemnations
Ain't no use to make a fuss,
And they don't name constellations
After simple folk like us.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 08, 2005
I Saw Three Ships
Three Ships, Otto Henry Bacher, 1880
I saw three ships that sailed away
Beneath a leaden sky,
Their helms hard set for far Cathay,
Their decks I could descry;
Upon the prow of every ship
Was carved a maiden fair,
Beclothed in but a wispy slip
With flowing flaxen hair.
And in the rigging of each mast
There clambered jolly crew
Who filled the yards, full sail at last,
And trimmed each tack and clew.
The ships rode high upon the foam
As proud they slipped the quay
And eased the ebb away from home
For lands of mystery.
The rising moon full round and bright
As beaten silver gleams,
While night by night in faerie light
These ships sail through my dreams.
Far off spy I for vessels three —
Might they appear one day?
But mostly I gaze out to sea
And long to sail away.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Three Ships, Otto Henry Bacher, 1880
I saw three ships that sailed away
Beneath a leaden sky,
Their helms hard set for far Cathay,
Their decks I could descry;
Upon the prow of every ship
Was carved a maiden fair,
Beclothed in but a wispy slip
With flowing flaxen hair.
And in the rigging of each mast
There clambered jolly crew
Who filled the yards, full sail at last,
And trimmed each tack and clew.
The ships rode high upon the foam
As proud they slipped the quay
And eased the ebb away from home
For lands of mystery.
The rising moon full round and bright
As beaten silver gleams,
While night by night in faerie light
These ships sail through my dreams.
Far off spy I for vessels three —
Might they appear one day?
But mostly I gaze out to sea
And long to sail away.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Twenty-one Grams
The soul of a man weighs hardly a thing,
Just twenty-one grams, it is said:
The weight of the spirit that finally takes wing
And leaves us the instant we're dead.
The weight of a hummingbird flees at our death,
A stack of five nickels or so;
It's wafted away on our ultimate breath,
And wings to its bliss or its woe.
Theresa’s sad spirit weighed slightly less,
Or somehow John Paul's soul weighed more?
Or won’t a kind Father then equally bless
All children who come to His door?
If cripples have souls that equal in weight
The soul of a pope, we averred,
Dare we conclude equal worth is innate:
Humanity makes this inferred?
Just how we care for the sick and the lame
Defines us for ill or for good.
Brain-damaged woman, or a person of fame:
We care for them both, or we should.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
The soul of a man weighs hardly a thing,
Just twenty-one grams, it is said:
The weight of the spirit that finally takes wing
And leaves us the instant we're dead.
The weight of a hummingbird flees at our death,
A stack of five nickels or so;
It's wafted away on our ultimate breath,
And wings to its bliss or its woe.
Theresa’s sad spirit weighed slightly less,
Or somehow John Paul's soul weighed more?
Or won’t a kind Father then equally bless
All children who come to His door?
If cripples have souls that equal in weight
The soul of a pope, we averred,
Dare we conclude equal worth is innate:
Humanity makes this inferred?
Just how we care for the sick and the lame
Defines us for ill or for good.
Brain-damaged woman, or a person of fame:
We care for them both, or we should.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, April 01, 2005
The Cheetah
The cheetah eyes potential prey
Her ruthless economic way:
She cannot catch them all she knows,
So marks the slow and targets those.
Though sure of foot and fleet as wind
She knows she must be disciplined;
A slinking stalk — a sprint! and then
Return in triumph to her den.
As I have aged I've come to see
The wisdom of economy
In matters of the purse or pen:
What works for cheetahs, works for men.
When seeking bargains, this is prime:
Await your price, and bide your time.
Your budget vigilantly guard,
And pay in cash — avoid the card!
And choose a topic with an eye
That lets a hundred more go by;
And anything you write about
Is oft best served by that left out.
So like the cheetah, check your pace
Until it's time to run the race,
As nature shows the way for men
To take control of life again.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
The cheetah eyes potential prey
Her ruthless economic way:
She cannot catch them all she knows,
So marks the slow and targets those.
Though sure of foot and fleet as wind
She knows she must be disciplined;
A slinking stalk — a sprint! and then
Return in triumph to her den.
As I have aged I've come to see
The wisdom of economy
In matters of the purse or pen:
What works for cheetahs, works for men.
When seeking bargains, this is prime:
Await your price, and bide your time.
Your budget vigilantly guard,
And pay in cash — avoid the card!
And choose a topic with an eye
That lets a hundred more go by;
And anything you write about
Is oft best served by that left out.
So like the cheetah, check your pace
Until it's time to run the race,
As nature shows the way for men
To take control of life again.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 25, 2005
Half Magic
There was a boy who found a magic coin,
An elfin charm which granted one's desire,
But to this boon a devilish quirk did join:
It granted half, but not the wish entire.
He wished himself a tropic desert isle
And straightway found himself on lonely land —
But searched in vain for water, all the while
Around him lay a sea of burning sand.
And wishing for a trove of coins of gold
Brought only sacks of fake doubloons of lead;
Whatever thing he wished for, I am told,
He got the lesser part of it instead.
It came to pass I found that selfsame charm.
I made my fervent wish to win your heart,
And half of your resistance did disarm —
But now it seems I won the colder part.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
There was a boy who found a magic coin,
An elfin charm which granted one's desire,
But to this boon a devilish quirk did join:
It granted half, but not the wish entire.
He wished himself a tropic desert isle
And straightway found himself on lonely land —
But searched in vain for water, all the while
Around him lay a sea of burning sand.
And wishing for a trove of coins of gold
Brought only sacks of fake doubloons of lead;
Whatever thing he wished for, I am told,
He got the lesser part of it instead.
It came to pass I found that selfsame charm.
I made my fervent wish to win your heart,
And half of your resistance did disarm —
But now it seems I won the colder part.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Theresa Marie
Whose heart is this that beats within a breast
Grown thin, these years of sad reclining night?
Whose lungs are these, that breathe at whose behest,
Whose eyes gaze forth with eerie distant sight?
If dwells a soul behind that roving eye,
It apprehends what purpose in this twist,
That now a soul's required to supply
Some justifying reason to exist?
But if this body sleeps, and suffers not,
What earthly law or heavenly command
Demands it should now bear starvation's lot,
The seal of life or death a wedding band?
For if it now be Mercy's mark to kill —
God help us when the Devil gives his bill.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Whose heart is this that beats within a breast
Grown thin, these years of sad reclining night?
Whose lungs are these, that breathe at whose behest,
Whose eyes gaze forth with eerie distant sight?
If dwells a soul behind that roving eye,
It apprehends what purpose in this twist,
That now a soul's required to supply
Some justifying reason to exist?
But if this body sleeps, and suffers not,
What earthly law or heavenly command
Demands it should now bear starvation's lot,
The seal of life or death a wedding band?
For if it now be Mercy's mark to kill —
God help us when the Devil gives his bill.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 18, 2005
Sunday Drive
The Tennessee is winter level low,
And worn old stumps from New Deal days poke through
The dirty flats of mud that stretch below
The bridge and out across the river slough.
The sallow clouds slouch drooping in their place
Above the fallow fields that silent doze,
A three day beard of stubble on the face
Of land bedecked in threadbare winter clothes.
At last, the place where rows of marble trees
An orchard make, where rests a little boy
Who early sleeps, whose eye no longer sees,
Whose mother's heart has passed from earthly joy.
So many pitfalls lurk! Astride their bikes,
Or by the water's edge, dark forces wait
In deadly ambush for the carefree tykes
So gently drawn too close, and snatched by fate.
The preacher said, God purified his sin
Baptismally, but thinking back of him
The only fault we could surmise within
Was maybe that at three, he could not swim.
And so he sleeps beneath the gray-hung sky
Awaiting with the land the coming spring
And promised resurrection by and by —
Beyond all longing, guilt, and sorrowing.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
The Tennessee is winter level low,
And worn old stumps from New Deal days poke through
The dirty flats of mud that stretch below
The bridge and out across the river slough.
The sallow clouds slouch drooping in their place
Above the fallow fields that silent doze,
A three day beard of stubble on the face
Of land bedecked in threadbare winter clothes.
At last, the place where rows of marble trees
An orchard make, where rests a little boy
Who early sleeps, whose eye no longer sees,
Whose mother's heart has passed from earthly joy.
So many pitfalls lurk! Astride their bikes,
Or by the water's edge, dark forces wait
In deadly ambush for the carefree tykes
So gently drawn too close, and snatched by fate.
The preacher said, God purified his sin
Baptismally, but thinking back of him
The only fault we could surmise within
Was maybe that at three, he could not swim.
And so he sleeps beneath the gray-hung sky
Awaiting with the land the coming spring
And promised resurrection by and by —
Beyond all longing, guilt, and sorrowing.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Communication
What are you saying?
Now I must go.
Heartless betraying!
What do I owe?
Why did you flirt so?
Fire burns hot.
Why does it hurt so?
How can it not?
How it will grieve me!
What can I say?
How can you leave me?
How can I stay?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Rich Cohen overheard snatches of a conversation next door and surmised what was going on. It inspired this short piece, which was a little experiment in meter and spare expression.
One speaker uses one meter: DUH duh duh DUH duh
which ends on an unstressed syllable (a "feminine" ending)
And the other uses a shorter line: DUH duh duh DUH
which ends on a stress (a "masculine" ending, if you will)
So the meter tells us that very clearly that the conversation is between two persons, one of whom is leaving the other. The "swing" to the words almost begs to be set to music as a song lyric, obviously to be sung by a male-female duet.
What are you saying?
Now I must go.
Heartless betraying!
What do I owe?
Why did you flirt so?
Fire burns hot.
Why does it hurt so?
How can it not?
How it will grieve me!
What can I say?
How can you leave me?
How can I stay?
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Rich Cohen overheard snatches of a conversation next door and surmised what was going on. It inspired this short piece, which was a little experiment in meter and spare expression.
One speaker uses one meter: DUH duh duh DUH duh
which ends on an unstressed syllable (a "feminine" ending)
And the other uses a shorter line: DUH duh duh DUH
which ends on a stress (a "masculine" ending, if you will)
So the meter tells us that very clearly that the conversation is between two persons, one of whom is leaving the other. The "swing" to the words almost begs to be set to music as a song lyric, obviously to be sung by a male-female duet.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Boatbuilding and Life
A reflection on parallels in life.
I Once Built Boats
I once built boats to pass the time
Or better said, the boats built me;
At workday's end aboard I'd climb,
In quiet backyard reverie.
The boat erect on sawhorse stood,
The object dear of all my toils;
The curling hiss of plane on wood
Dropped fragrant heaps of fresh-cut coils
And humming bandsaw coaxed from wood
The complex shapes that make a boat,
To fit exactly as they should,
And strike the proper shipshape note.
And sometimes in the quiet night
I'd stop to savor every curve
By hand or eye in pure delight
That beauty can such function serve,
And piece by piece the form emerged
From nails and clamps and glue and wood,
As character and work converged
To form my life for ill or good.
For every life and every boat
Are children of our dreams at play,
And life well-lived or craft afloat
Is never built in just a day.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
I Once Built Boats
I once built boats to pass the time
Or better said, the boats built me;
At workday's end aboard I'd climb,
In quiet backyard reverie.
The boat erect on sawhorse stood,
The object dear of all my toils;
The curling hiss of plane on wood
Dropped fragrant heaps of fresh-cut coils
And humming bandsaw coaxed from wood
The complex shapes that make a boat,
To fit exactly as they should,
And strike the proper shipshape note.
And sometimes in the quiet night
I'd stop to savor every curve
By hand or eye in pure delight
That beauty can such function serve,
And piece by piece the form emerged
From nails and clamps and glue and wood,
As character and work converged
To form my life for ill or good.
For every life and every boat
Are children of our dreams at play,
And life well-lived or craft afloat
Is never built in just a day.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
In Memoriam
On a more serious note, a reflection on insensitivity and unthinking cruelty.
In Memoriam
Can't quite remember him or who he was,
That face now missing that we scarce recall;
We'll say, "Let’s send a card," though no one does,
And no one gives his family a call ...
Or was he even married? Is there a wife,
Or better put, a widow who's bereaved,
Or anyone at all who mourns this life
That desperate anonymity achieved?
His spirit slipped dimensionless between
The atoms of our adamantine hearts;
He passed, and like some spectre was unseen
And missed no more than when a cloud departs.
His loneliness he must have learned to numb;
I know if I were he that it would gall
To see us toss his memory a crumb:
It's best we not remember him at all.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
In Memoriam
Can't quite remember him or who he was,
That face now missing that we scarce recall;
We'll say, "Let’s send a card," though no one does,
And no one gives his family a call ...
Or was he even married? Is there a wife,
Or better put, a widow who's bereaved,
Or anyone at all who mourns this life
That desperate anonymity achieved?
His spirit slipped dimensionless between
The atoms of our adamantine hearts;
He passed, and like some spectre was unseen
And missed no more than when a cloud departs.
His loneliness he must have learned to numb;
I know if I were he that it would gall
To see us toss his memory a crumb:
It's best we not remember him at all.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, March 04, 2005
This one is a favorite with the girls in the office. A lighter tone to kick off a good weekend.
Garage Sale
I'm holding a garage sale in my heart:
I'm marking down, and everything must go.
Just make a bid at my Emotion Mart—
My maudlin mopes will get the old heave-ho.
Some someone that I knew has hit the road
And cleaned out half the stuff in this old chest;
Since what remains will likely just corrode
It makes more sense to sell off all the rest.
Then maybe when the place is emptied out
I’ll decorate again in other hues,
And paper over scars—no need to pout
About the way we all must pay love’s dues.
Affections barely worn can be reused
For découpaging hearts, or macramé;
No reasonable cash or trade refused,
So stop by any time, we're here all day.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Garage Sale
I'm holding a garage sale in my heart:
I'm marking down, and everything must go.
Just make a bid at my Emotion Mart—
My maudlin mopes will get the old heave-ho.
Some someone that I knew has hit the road
And cleaned out half the stuff in this old chest;
Since what remains will likely just corrode
It makes more sense to sell off all the rest.
Then maybe when the place is emptied out
I’ll decorate again in other hues,
And paper over scars—no need to pout
About the way we all must pay love’s dues.
Affections barely worn can be reused
For découpaging hearts, or macramé;
No reasonable cash or trade refused,
So stop by any time, we're here all day.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Statute of Limitations
A midweek post. This was inspired by an essay in Gordon Livingston's book, Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart. The title fits me to a "T," for sure. A recommended book for seekers of happiness. The subtitle, "Thirty True Things You Need to Know Now," is apropos.
Statute of Limitations
The statute long ago expired
On most parental perfidies
Which in our childhoods have transpired—
In teenage years—especially these.
And time has likewise run on that
Which happened long ago in love;
Don't perch on ancient slight or spat
Like some offended mourning dove.
Let go of things you cannot change:
The moving finger long since wrote.
Things done refuse to rearrange—
Your efforts ring a sour note.
To live in some disgruntled past
Of real or fancied former wrong
Crowds out good memories that last,
And better in the heart belong.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Statute of Limitations
The statute long ago expired
On most parental perfidies
Which in our childhoods have transpired—
In teenage years—especially these.
And time has likewise run on that
Which happened long ago in love;
Don't perch on ancient slight or spat
Like some offended mourning dove.
Let go of things you cannot change:
The moving finger long since wrote.
Things done refuse to rearrange—
Your efforts ring a sour note.
To live in some disgruntled past
Of real or fancied former wrong
Crowds out good memories that last,
And better in the heart belong.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 25, 2005
I Stood upon the Sky
I stood upon the sky and did not fall,
I walked beneath the sea and yet had breath;
I sailed past deadly rock and Sirens' call,
Marched by the Gates of Hell and laughed at Death.
I took up red hot iron and was not burned,
Lay long upon the rack that broke me not;
Though burning desert parched, all water spurned,
Endured so long that Time itself forgot.
And in Time's measure, fell again to earth,
By water, rack, and iron broken then,
'Til soul-despairing, wept for my sad birth;
And by a word from you — reborn again.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
I stood upon the sky and did not fall,
I walked beneath the sea and yet had breath;
I sailed past deadly rock and Sirens' call,
Marched by the Gates of Hell and laughed at Death.
I took up red hot iron and was not burned,
Lay long upon the rack that broke me not;
Though burning desert parched, all water spurned,
Endured so long that Time itself forgot.
And in Time's measure, fell again to earth,
By water, rack, and iron broken then,
'Til soul-despairing, wept for my sad birth;
And by a word from you — reborn again.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Saturday, February 19, 2005
The Coin
The face a woman, goddess fair, her hair
Bound back, imperial, her gaze aloof,
With flowing gauzes gowned, as Vestals wear,
Their sacred modesty beyond reproof;
This golden coin was always by his breast,
Suspended from his memory's silver chain.
His life was by this token ever blest,
With well remembered love, forgotten pain,
'Til standing then at last upon the shore
Where Charon, oarsman grim, demands his piece
The new-made shade can smile; she gave him more
Than ever she could know, and now, release.
His body gone, a spirit now afloat
He yields the coin, and steps into the boat.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
The face a woman, goddess fair, her hair
Bound back, imperial, her gaze aloof,
With flowing gauzes gowned, as Vestals wear,
Their sacred modesty beyond reproof;
This golden coin was always by his breast,
Suspended from his memory's silver chain.
His life was by this token ever blest,
With well remembered love, forgotten pain,
'Til standing then at last upon the shore
Where Charon, oarsman grim, demands his piece
The new-made shade can smile; she gave him more
Than ever she could know, and now, release.
His body gone, a spirit now afloat
He yields the coin, and steps into the boat.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
The Texas state flower is the bluebonnet (Lupinus texensis), which blooms this time of year along the roadsides and astride the Interstate highway medians. If you have not seen the vistas of blue (often with interspersed patches of red Indian Paintbrush (Castilleja indivisa), then you haven't really seen Texas.
Bluebonnets
My clan had New World roots two hundred years
Before a nation rose upon that land
That lay so tempting on the west frontiers
Beyond Sabine and north from Rio Grande.
One hundred thirty more would pass before
The fates would lead us west to stake small claim
To mythic lands and legends bought by war,
With tales of Bowie's death and Houston's fame.
But now those open plains and dusty hills
Are crossed with concrete, cables and such signs
As dreary uniformity instills
In everything that modern life defines —
But every spring the azure lupins dance
Rekindling then that Texas-style romance.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Bluebonnets
My clan had New World roots two hundred years
Before a nation rose upon that land
That lay so tempting on the west frontiers
Beyond Sabine and north from Rio Grande.
One hundred thirty more would pass before
The fates would lead us west to stake small claim
To mythic lands and legends bought by war,
With tales of Bowie's death and Houston's fame.
But now those open plains and dusty hills
Are crossed with concrete, cables and such signs
As dreary uniformity instills
In everything that modern life defines —
But every spring the azure lupins dance
Rekindling then that Texas-style romance.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 11, 2005
The Bees
© 2007 Glen Reynolds All rights reserved.
In the lee of the lea,
The brazen bumblebees
Drink from dipping flower fountains 'til they're dry.
In the dappled shadow shade
Tiny bombers bold arrayed
Target buttercups and clover as they fly,
Then they pounce like bantam panthers
On the stigmas, styles and anthers,
Little barons of the golden trade they ply.
Then it's home to hive and ground
There to dance of what they've found
Abroad the meadow 'neath the blessing sky.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Richard Lawrence Cohen began this piece on the visible suffering of the aged Pope this way:
"In deep winter he continues his work of suffering, in full view, so that the world can know this aspect of God."
I was moved to write this sonnet:
The Pope in Infirmity
In bygone times the Pope could be a man
With vigor still, whom age had not yet bowed,
Pursuing ardors less basilican,
Of schemes and wars and other furrows ploughed.
Today the cardinals choose their Father from
Their own decrepit ranks; an aged priest,
The Holy Father to his throne will come
A man betimes already half-deceased.
And thus pressed down by burden of his years
And trials of spirit and the body's pains
The Church's Father takes his yoke of tears
And Christian labor, and his flock sustains,
'Til salving Death shall come to Peter's dome
And there an old man gently carry home.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
"In deep winter he continues his work of suffering, in full view, so that the world can know this aspect of God."
I was moved to write this sonnet:
The Pope in Infirmity
In bygone times the Pope could be a man
With vigor still, whom age had not yet bowed,
Pursuing ardors less basilican,
Of schemes and wars and other furrows ploughed.
Today the cardinals choose their Father from
Their own decrepit ranks; an aged priest,
The Holy Father to his throne will come
A man betimes already half-deceased.
And thus pressed down by burden of his years
And trials of spirit and the body's pains
The Church's Father takes his yoke of tears
And Christian labor, and his flock sustains,
'Til salving Death shall come to Peter's dome
And there an old man gently carry home.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Monday, February 07, 2005
The Greeter
Here is a minor piece posted ahead of the "regular schedule." An extra.
Richard Lawrence Cohen questioned why the greeter ignored him the other day. My thoughts. By following the link, one can see my further comments/analysis.
The Greeter
“Why did she not greet me?”
Sotto voce he did say,
As he hurried by the greeter
At the WalMart door that day.
“I know that she could see me,
And since it is her task
Most neighborly to hail me,
Why not? is what I ask.”
“Is it my demeanor?
Is it how I'm dressed?
Is it my religion?”
The man was most distressed.
An old man with a walker
Whom age had left the worst
Looked him in the eye and said:
“Next time, you greet her first.”
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Richard Lawrence Cohen questioned why the greeter ignored him the other day. My thoughts. By following the link, one can see my further comments/analysis.
The Greeter
“Why did she not greet me?”
Sotto voce he did say,
As he hurried by the greeter
At the WalMart door that day.
“I know that she could see me,
And since it is her task
Most neighborly to hail me,
Why not? is what I ask.”
“Is it my demeanor?
Is it how I'm dressed?
Is it my religion?”
The man was most distressed.
An old man with a walker
Whom age had left the worst
Looked him in the eye and said:
“Next time, you greet her first.”
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, February 04, 2005
Merlin
I draw the bow of reckoning
And arrow of decision,
With target ever beckoning
The arrow's cruel precision.
I strike the bell of time and space
Through all the ages tolling,
As o'er this place with wispy grace
The faery clouds are rolling.
I say the charm that charms all charms,
Call forth the dragon's breathing:
The spell of sleep that harm disarms,
Enchanted sight bequeathing.
The days are dark from mount to strand,
The ranks of knights are thinning;
The king and land together stand
As was from time beginning.
As will the new, the old ways die
And dreams remain unwritten,
And by and by, both hip and thigh,
Unrighteous men are smitten.
The bow of reckoning is drawn,
The bell of time is pealing;
All knights are pawns as sure as dawn
With souls in need of healing.
The knight will fail who seeks his Grail
Devoid of heart's perfection;
The quest unveils in each detail
A spirit's base abjection.
But on the stones and in our bones
This truth in bold inscription:
"He ne'er disowns him who atones
And follows His prescription."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
And arrow of decision,
With target ever beckoning
The arrow's cruel precision.
I strike the bell of time and space
Through all the ages tolling,
As o'er this place with wispy grace
The faery clouds are rolling.
I say the charm that charms all charms,
Call forth the dragon's breathing:
The spell of sleep that harm disarms,
Enchanted sight bequeathing.
The days are dark from mount to strand,
The ranks of knights are thinning;
The king and land together stand
As was from time beginning.
As will the new, the old ways die
And dreams remain unwritten,
And by and by, both hip and thigh,
Unrighteous men are smitten.
The bow of reckoning is drawn,
The bell of time is pealing;
All knights are pawns as sure as dawn
With souls in need of healing.
The knight will fail who seeks his Grail
Devoid of heart's perfection;
The quest unveils in each detail
A spirit's base abjection.
But on the stones and in our bones
This truth in bold inscription:
"He ne'er disowns him who atones
And follows His prescription."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Road Gang
Orange-suited convicts by the highway side
In penance bound to County or to State
See to it that the road is beautified.
They walk in line, but are they going straight?
Who are these men, what stories could they tell
About their blunted lives, what crimes relate?
Child nonsupport, and petty theft as well—
More daring outlaw exploits: bogus checks,
And barroom fights that wake up in a cell;
Their misdemeanor stories quite complex,
The convicts weave Homeric tales sublime:
Assaults on wives, and drunken auto wrecks.
Exciting lives! And will they use this time
To introspect a narrow fractured soul
And flee the dreary world of petty crime?
Let leading lights of social work cajole,
They might forswear their rowdy natures, but
More likely, simply wait upon parole.
And so they slouch along, sans jailhouse strut
And load their sacks with trash at leisure pace;
They see but yet the inner eye is shut.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Orange-suited convicts by the highway side
In penance bound to County or to State
See to it that the road is beautified.
They walk in line, but are they going straight?
Who are these men, what stories could they tell
About their blunted lives, what crimes relate?
Child nonsupport, and petty theft as well—
More daring outlaw exploits: bogus checks,
And barroom fights that wake up in a cell;
Their misdemeanor stories quite complex,
The convicts weave Homeric tales sublime:
Assaults on wives, and drunken auto wrecks.
Exciting lives! And will they use this time
To introspect a narrow fractured soul
And flee the dreary world of petty crime?
Let leading lights of social work cajole,
They might forswear their rowdy natures, but
More likely, simply wait upon parole.
And so they slouch along, sans jailhouse strut
And load their sacks with trash at leisure pace;
They see but yet the inner eye is shut.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Thursday, January 27, 2005
The man in the mirror ...
Reflections on, well, reflections.
Achilles
Achilles would not see old age nor wife,
His sea-nymph mother Thetis had foretold;
The choice was storied glory or long life,
And fame was far more dear than growing old.
Undying life, to be forever free
Of earthly bonds of body, time and space:
To break those ties and live in memory,
A tale three thousand years could not efface.
But mortal I obediently stand
Before this cold-eyed mirror every day
And note how little worked out as I planned,
And idly note my body's slow decay.
But if Achilles lived, he lived not so—
And I've got this to do, and there to go.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Achilles
Achilles would not see old age nor wife,
His sea-nymph mother Thetis had foretold;
The choice was storied glory or long life,
And fame was far more dear than growing old.
Undying life, to be forever free
Of earthly bonds of body, time and space:
To break those ties and live in memory,
A tale three thousand years could not efface.
But mortal I obediently stand
Before this cold-eyed mirror every day
And note how little worked out as I planned,
And idly note my body's slow decay.
But if Achilles lived, he lived not so—
And I've got this to do, and there to go.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
