Jeffrey Hull

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

© 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

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

© 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