Jeffrey Hull

Poetry

2011-01-29T14:21:00.003-06:00

I marveled at the birds' design,
   At feathers dull or bright;
And wondered at their soaring grace,
   The tips and wheels of flight.

Then walking one fine day a bold
   Idea came to me:
I made a sparrow with my hands
   And then I set it free.

My small creation fled with joy
   Away upon its skies
But now that made with such great care
   I hardly recognize.

So now I watch and wonder yet
   Just how it came to be:
I made a sparrow with my hands
   And then I set it free.

© 2011 Jeffrey Hull

Visitors

2010-07-31T11:10:00.014-05:00

i79 morning, West Virginia © 2010 Rick Lee

I had a talk a while ago
   With Immortality;
Surprised was I at his display
   Of interest in me.

I'd spent some time with his dear friend
   The droll Infirmity,
Who shared with me some cheery tales
   While chatting over tea.

Now once I thought an endless life
   Meant blessed eternity
But these old fellows seemed to hint
   An endless misery.

Still others visited my hours
   With infelicity,
But none could match the icy stare
   Of mute Infinity:

That gloomy countenance conveyed
   A chill civility
That cast a shadow black as night
   Upon my reverie.

His eyes, void, zeroes, dead as stone,
   Bereft of sympathy
Peered forth as from the blackest night
   With bleak severity.

And leaving, ere he closed the door
   His thought came plain to me:
"It's only in the moving on
   That souls find liberty.

"What e'er awaits those on this plane
   Defies discovery
Of what lies next for all those souls
   That travel on with me."

© 2010 Jeffrey Hull

Zombie

2010-02-28T00:32:00.004-06:00

Spring snow on branches © 2010 Nina Camic

Forty years a zombie,
   Forty years undead;
Forty years these hungry
   Worms inside my head.

Ghouls of recollection,
   Iron in their claws:
Why does love abandon,
   Not confiding cause?

Those who choose departure
   Should heart's passion die:
Might you spare a moment -
   Pray just mention why?

©2010 Jeffrey Hull

Advice

2009-05-21T22:43:00.001-05:00

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

The Rising of the Moon

2008-11-14T08:58:00.010-06:00

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.

Newsman

2008-09-26T08:21:00.002-05:00

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

Impostor

2008-09-04T20:10:00.001-05:00

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

My Great Love

2008-06-20T12:59:00.004-05:00

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

Ithaka

2008-05-30T06:56:00.000-05:00

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

Leaving

2008-05-02T06:39:00.001-05:00

© 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

The Light Brigade

2008-03-07T17:00:00.003-06:00

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

Mockingbird

2008-02-01T08:16:00.002-06:00

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

Prophet

2008-01-04T07:43:00.001-06:00

© 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

Pilgrim

2007-11-09T06:49:00.000-06:00

Marko Rämö, FeaturePics.com

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

Ebb Tide

2007-10-19T15:31:00.000-05:00

Seaside, Monterey, California 2006 © 2006 Jeffrey Hull

Beneath 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

Hephaestus

2007-09-29T16:23:00.001-05:00

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

Shut-in

2007-09-14T07:08:00.000-05:00

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

Don Juan DeMarco

2007-08-24T09:05:00.000-05:00

"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

Politics

2007-08-03T08:09:00.001-05:00

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

Isaiah 52:7

2007-07-27T07:30:00.000-05:00

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

Confederate Cemetery

2007-06-29T06:47:00.000-05:00

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

La Petite Fille de la Mer

2007-05-25T06:58:00.001-05:00

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

Aloft

2007-05-11T06:55:00.001-05:00

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

Little Ship

2007-04-27T07:11:00.000-05:00

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

Miracles

2007-04-13T07:06:00.001-05:00

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

Moby Dick

2007-03-23T06:46:00.000-05:00

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

Feet

2007-03-02T07:11:00.002-06:00

© 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

Reverie

2007-02-16T07:21:00.000-06:00

© 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

Bones

2007-02-03T16:48:00.001-06:00

© 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

Folly

2007-01-12T07:20:00.000-06:00

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

Bethlehem

2006-12-23T23:26:00.000-06:00

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

Grendel

2006-12-15T07:04:00.001-06:00

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

The Dying King

2006-12-01T06:38:00.000-06:00

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

Black Janet

2006-11-24T07:17:00.000-06:00

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

Metropolis

2006-10-13T05:57:00.001-05:00

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

Blackbirds

2006-10-06T07:33:00.002-05:00

© 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

Trailer

2006-09-29T07:05:00.000-05:00

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

Sunday Morning

2006-09-22T06:50:00.000-05:00

© 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

Dissolution

2006-09-08T07:08:00.000-05:00

© 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

State of the Art

2006-09-01T07:15:00.000-05:00

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

Let's Go Dancing

2006-08-25T07:08:00.000-05:00

© 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

The Priority of Sense

2006-08-18T06:45:00.000-05:00

© 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

Anybody? Anybody?

2006-08-11T07:21:00.000-05:00

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

Prisoner

2006-08-04T05:18:00.000-05:00

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

Summer

2006-07-28T07:06:00.000-05:00

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

Mr. Mojo

2006-07-21T07:14:00.000-05:00

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

Broadway

2006-07-14T07:06:00.000-05:00

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

The Loss of the George R. Whitcomb

2006-07-07T07:10:00.000-05:00

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

End of Days

2006-06-30T06:45:00.001-05:00

© 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

Whitewater

2006-06-23T06:51:00.000-05:00

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

Darkness

2006-06-16T08:54:00.000-05:00

© 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

Winds

2006-06-08T08:31:00.000-05:00

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

Rescue

2006-06-02T13:37:00.000-05:00

© 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

Valhalla

2006-05-26T06:49:00.000-05:00

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.

Blue Ridge

2006-05-19T07:02:00.000-05:00

© 2006 Rick Lee

The 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

The Gate at the End of the Sky

2006-05-12T09:32:00.000-05:00

        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

Cholesterol

2006-05-05T12:57:00.000-05:00

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

Sunset

2006-04-28T09:13:00.000-05:00

© 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

Departure

2006-04-21T07:33:00.000-05:00

© 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

Old Town

2006-04-14T07:16:00.000-05:00

"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

Dawn

2006-04-07T07:21:00.000-05:00

© 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

Renewal

2006-03-31T06:56:00.000-06:00

© 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

The House I Used to Live In

2006-03-24T07:01:00.000-06:00

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

Garden

2006-03-17T06:41:00.000-06:00

© 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

Möbius Mind

2006-03-10T07:04:00.000-06:00

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

Portrait

2006-03-03T06:43:00.000-06:00

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

Spring

2006-02-24T07:22:00.000-06:00

© 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

Back Pew

2006-02-17T06:37:00.000-06:00

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

Old Joe

2006-02-10T07:01:00.000-06:00

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

Pretending the Bed Was a Raft

2006-02-03T08:10:00.000-06:00

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

Rubaiyat

2006-01-26T21:35:00.000-06:00

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

Flying

2006-01-20T07:04:00.000-06:00

© 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

North Face

2006-01-13T07:16:00.000-06:00

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

Sunday

2006-01-06T07:35:00.000-06:00

© 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

Paternity

2005-12-30T07:58:00.000-06:00

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

Homeward

2005-12-23T07:22:00.000-06:00

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

Chipmunk

2005-12-16T07:14:00.000-06:00

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

Ballet

2005-12-09T07:28:00.000-06:00

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

Rain

2005-12-02T07:18:00.000-06:00

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

Shoes

2005-11-25T07:22:00.000-06:00

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

If You Could Paint

2005-11-18T07:13:00.000-06:00

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

Playmates

2005-11-11T07:07:00.000-06:00

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

Piper

2005-11-04T07:07:00.000-06:00

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

Optimism

2005-10-28T07:19:00.000-05:00

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

Crows

2005-10-21T11:59:00.000-05:00

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

Turning

2005-10-14T07:25:00.000-05:00

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

Hospice

2005-10-07T08:49:00.000-05:00

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

White Bus

2005-09-30T07:19:00.000-05:00

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

The Funeral of Tommy O'Shaughnessy

2005-09-23T07:08:00.001-05:00

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

Encounter

2005-09-16T07:21:00.000-05:00

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

The Visitation

2005-09-09T10:35:00.000-05:00

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

Seaside

2005-09-02T08:05:00.000-05:00

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

Visitor

2005-08-26T07:08:00.000-05:00

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

Summer's End

2005-08-19T07:01:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-12T07:04:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-05T05:28:00.000-05:00

© 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

2005-07-29T08:14:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-22T05:23:00.000-05:00

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

John Blue

2005-07-15T08:10:00.001-05:00

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

2005-07-08T07:36:00.000-05:00

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