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
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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
