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
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Mt. Bonnell - Austin, Texas circa 1965
Mt. Bonnell is a locally famous low mountain overlook in Austin, Texas, where I went to college lo these many years ago. To one side is the vista of Austin, which lies sparkling in the night in my memory, to the other is Lake Travis and the Texas hill country. Richard Lawrence Cohen, who lives in Austin, inspired me to write this piece. It is a sonnet with a "turn" that comes late and "jerks up short."
Mt. Bonnell
Don't know Montana sky, but it was big
That morning up on Austin's Mt. Bonnell;
A train horn sang, a big six engine rig,
A melancholy four a.m. farewell.
The air was spooky clear, those summer nights;
The heavens hung a cooly violet screen
Contrasting the cascade of city lights
Down boulevard and avenue serene.
And how the Earth was still! or so it seemed
That time slowed down across the sleepy land
So we could snatch a moment as it streamed
Below our unassuming prospect, and
Half-listening to the story you were weaving
I almost missed the news that you were leaving.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Mt. Bonnell
Don't know Montana sky, but it was big
That morning up on Austin's Mt. Bonnell;
A train horn sang, a big six engine rig,
A melancholy four a.m. farewell.
The air was spooky clear, those summer nights;
The heavens hung a cooly violet screen
Contrasting the cascade of city lights
Down boulevard and avenue serene.
And how the Earth was still! or so it seemed
That time slowed down across the sleepy land
So we could snatch a moment as it streamed
Below our unassuming prospect, and
Half-listening to the story you were weaving
I almost missed the news that you were leaving.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, January 21, 2005
I'm the Boss
There is no doubt about who wears the pants in my family.
Hegemony
My wife and I, we have a deal
And I will put this plainly:
The big decisions fall to me
She chooses small stuff, mainly.
The house, the car, the children's school,
And sundry other trifles
I leave to her—that's her domain—
I choose the hunting rifles.
I choose which table saw to buy,
Ignoring her assessments;
And choosing brokers is my job—
I leave her the investments.
Why, just last spring I was in charge
Of buying the new mower,
She merely refinanced the house
To get the interest lower.
I choose which driving route to take
For family excursion;
Those tales about me getting lost,
Well, that is just her version.
Men: wear the pants, and make the rules—
You’ll find success is rooted
In leaving small things to the wives
For which they're better suited.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Hegemony
My wife and I, we have a deal
And I will put this plainly:
The big decisions fall to me
She chooses small stuff, mainly.
The house, the car, the children's school,
And sundry other trifles
I leave to her—that's her domain—
I choose the hunting rifles.
I choose which table saw to buy,
Ignoring her assessments;
And choosing brokers is my job—
I leave her the investments.
Why, just last spring I was in charge
Of buying the new mower,
She merely refinanced the house
To get the interest lower.
I choose which driving route to take
For family excursion;
Those tales about me getting lost,
Well, that is just her version.
Men: wear the pants, and make the rules—
You’ll find success is rooted
In leaving small things to the wives
For which they're better suited.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Monday, January 17, 2005
Winter Hawk
Another exercise in the sonnet form, this time Shakespearian.
Winter Hawk
A high-perched hawk's unblinking winter gaze
Patrols with sentry eye the ditch and hedge
Where nervous darting mice traverse their maze,
Doomed soldiers of the Somme by forest edge.
An early thaw has called him north too soon;
Against the sullen light upon his wire
He spends a coldly patient afternoon
As mouse awaits the fate of talons dire.
How many times the hawk has northward flown
Slow gliding gyres of flared dihedral flight
To perch upon the forest bishop's throne
Presiding mass in slant cathedral light.
Around the pivot wheel of live and die
The seasons turn as banks the hawk on high.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Winter Hawk
A high-perched hawk's unblinking winter gaze
Patrols with sentry eye the ditch and hedge
Where nervous darting mice traverse their maze,
Doomed soldiers of the Somme by forest edge.
An early thaw has called him north too soon;
Against the sullen light upon his wire
He spends a coldly patient afternoon
As mouse awaits the fate of talons dire.
How many times the hawk has northward flown
Slow gliding gyres of flared dihedral flight
To perch upon the forest bishop's throne
Presiding mass in slant cathedral light.
Around the pivot wheel of live and die
The seasons turn as banks the hawk on high.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Two Fools
Sometimes we think about things too much in a quest for certainty that is not there. We can become prisoners of our own intellect.
Two Fools
Two fools in disputation stood
Before a crossroads in a wood
As each in turn was heard to say,
"No! No! We go the other way!"
Each man maintained his way was best
For it was shorter than the rest
And named a hundred reasons why
No other road could qualify.
And so the dawn to dusk was spent
In unproductive argument—
Two locked at last, as evening came,
In paralyzing counterclaim.
There came an old man hobbling by;
The fools entreated that he try
Their case and as a judge preside
To help them then and there decide.
The man agreed, but stopped them short
And said, "I know, by your report
That each of you has made a case
With many factors all in place.
"A hundred facts for each, you say,
And neither hundred can outweigh
The other set of valid grounds
That each of you so well propounds.
"Then flip a coin; by random chance
Proceed without a backward glance.
Sometimes it seems to me just so:
The more we think, the less we know."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Two Fools
Two fools in disputation stood
Before a crossroads in a wood
As each in turn was heard to say,
"No! No! We go the other way!"
Each man maintained his way was best
For it was shorter than the rest
And named a hundred reasons why
No other road could qualify.
And so the dawn to dusk was spent
In unproductive argument—
Two locked at last, as evening came,
In paralyzing counterclaim.
There came an old man hobbling by;
The fools entreated that he try
Their case and as a judge preside
To help them then and there decide.
The man agreed, but stopped them short
And said, "I know, by your report
That each of you has made a case
With many factors all in place.
"A hundred facts for each, you say,
And neither hundred can outweigh
The other set of valid grounds
That each of you so well propounds.
"Then flip a coin; by random chance
Proceed without a backward glance.
Sometimes it seems to me just so:
The more we think, the less we know."
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull
Saturday, January 15, 2005
The Wind Upon the Waters
This little piece is meant to be read aloud with a swing, and a bit of an Irish brogue to give it some flavor. The last lines give a hint of what the poem is actually about.
The Wind upon the Waters
O the wind upon the waters makes
The waves upon the sea;
The pounding of the ocean shakes
This heart inside of me.
I stand upon the sandy strand
And dream of days when we
Would stroll the land there hand in hand
And dream of what we'd be.
I planned to be a sailor man
And you'd wait patiently
To spy your man, his features tan,
Come rollin' home to thee.
Regalin' tales of salty whales
We'd stroll along the quay;
I'd furl my sails from ocean gales
And follow you home to tea.
We'd have a lad, I'd be his dad,
And bounce him on my knee,
And seldom sad for times I had
When life was wild and free.
O the wind upon the waters makes
The waves upon the sea;
And the pounding of the ocean breaks
This heart inside of me.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
The Wind upon the Waters
O the wind upon the waters makes
The waves upon the sea;
The pounding of the ocean shakes
This heart inside of me.
I stand upon the sandy strand
And dream of days when we
Would stroll the land there hand in hand
And dream of what we'd be.
I planned to be a sailor man
And you'd wait patiently
To spy your man, his features tan,
Come rollin' home to thee.
Regalin' tales of salty whales
We'd stroll along the quay;
I'd furl my sails from ocean gales
And follow you home to tea.
We'd have a lad, I'd be his dad,
And bounce him on my knee,
And seldom sad for times I had
When life was wild and free.
O the wind upon the waters makes
The waves upon the sea;
And the pounding of the ocean breaks
This heart inside of me.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Friday, January 14, 2005
The Baker
This poem is another response piece to a vignette at Richard Lawrence Cohen's site.
It grew and developed from the original inspiration into its own little story.
The Baker
His fingers knead the lump of dough;
He wasn't born a baker, though
His early dreams were filled with smells
Of yeasty rolls and pastry shells.
He never knew exactly why
These dreams recurred, but by and by
For reasons that he could not tell
They crept in daytime thoughts as well.
Mechanic, cook, and last, a clerk
A dull parade of dead-end work;
A listless life, mind half employed
With youthful hopes almost destroyed.
Another day, another what?
He rolled along in life's deep rut
And down the hill of circumstance
Toward death, and never took a chance.
But then one day he passed a store
With vacant windows, dusty floor,
A local phone on home-made sign—
And knew at once, "This place is mine."
He called the owner, signed the lease
And brought forth mop and elbow grease
And dreaming of his sticky buns
He called the bank and borrowed funds.
He pictured tables, checkered cloth,
And steaming coffee, latte froth;
Outside, beneath the awning shade
Girls spreading buns with marmalade,
The shapely curves of iron chair
And giggling laughs on springtime air
With friendly visits now and then
By sober older businessmen.
"Success" for him may never come
The way it is defined by some;
But when he opens up his store
Each morning, and he sweeps the floor,
And kneads the bread, and bakes the rolls
And punches out the doughnut holes—
He practices an honest art
And greets the day with quiet heart.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
It grew and developed from the original inspiration into its own little story.
The Baker
His fingers knead the lump of dough;
He wasn't born a baker, though
His early dreams were filled with smells
Of yeasty rolls and pastry shells.
He never knew exactly why
These dreams recurred, but by and by
For reasons that he could not tell
They crept in daytime thoughts as well.
Mechanic, cook, and last, a clerk
A dull parade of dead-end work;
A listless life, mind half employed
With youthful hopes almost destroyed.
Another day, another what?
He rolled along in life's deep rut
And down the hill of circumstance
Toward death, and never took a chance.
But then one day he passed a store
With vacant windows, dusty floor,
A local phone on home-made sign—
And knew at once, "This place is mine."
He called the owner, signed the lease
And brought forth mop and elbow grease
And dreaming of his sticky buns
He called the bank and borrowed funds.
He pictured tables, checkered cloth,
And steaming coffee, latte froth;
Outside, beneath the awning shade
Girls spreading buns with marmalade,
The shapely curves of iron chair
And giggling laughs on springtime air
With friendly visits now and then
By sober older businessmen.
"Success" for him may never come
The way it is defined by some;
But when he opens up his store
Each morning, and he sweeps the floor,
And kneads the bread, and bakes the rolls
And punches out the doughnut holes—
He practices an honest art
And greets the day with quiet heart.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Time's Arrow
Our journey through this world is a succession of choices which we cannot ever retrace. The arrow of time points only one way.
Time's Arrow
Tomorrow trips in petty pace
From time to time and place to place
Down dim and dirty corridors
Through endless halls of armored doors
That creaking open but reveal
More endless halls of doors of steel
And wand'rings through this maze so vast
Forever lock each door we've passed.
So many paths we could have gone!
Enticed by things that led us on
And turned our heads this way and that
'Til like some laboratory rat
Exhausted in our final days
We reach the end of mortals' maze
And find that the expected cheese
Is more like pain and slow disease.
But there’s no point in tears or wrath
At end of life and end of path;
We can't retrace a single pace
So best to meet our fate with grace.
The consequence of choice we bear,
So choose your doors with utmost care
How many men are heard to say:
I did not mean to come this way!
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Time's Arrow
Tomorrow trips in petty pace
From time to time and place to place
Down dim and dirty corridors
Through endless halls of armored doors
That creaking open but reveal
More endless halls of doors of steel
And wand'rings through this maze so vast
Forever lock each door we've passed.
So many paths we could have gone!
Enticed by things that led us on
And turned our heads this way and that
'Til like some laboratory rat
Exhausted in our final days
We reach the end of mortals' maze
And find that the expected cheese
Is more like pain and slow disease.
But there’s no point in tears or wrath
At end of life and end of path;
We can't retrace a single pace
So best to meet our fate with grace.
The consequence of choice we bear,
So choose your doors with utmost care
How many men are heard to say:
I did not mean to come this way!
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Skipper
Written the morning our crippled old dog had to be put to sleep. Not a happy day.
Putting Down an Old Dog
My old dog breathes in quiet swell and ebb,
His sleeping furry flank like ocean foam;
He cannot know this sunny morning brings
His sad release from life within our home.
He dreams perhaps of days when he ran free,
The joyous muddy romps on Granddad's farm;
His bounding leaps, his chipper little bark
As wide-eyed cattle scattered in alarm.
But now his halting step betrays his pain,
And resignation dims his rheumy eyes—
And once he settles painfully to rest
Upon the parlor rug, he cannot rise.
The god of time has bargained with us both
And left infirmity in place of youth.
A sorry trade, the only one he makes;
Ah, would that tears could wash away that truth.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Putting Down an Old Dog
My old dog breathes in quiet swell and ebb,
His sleeping furry flank like ocean foam;
He cannot know this sunny morning brings
His sad release from life within our home.
He dreams perhaps of days when he ran free,
The joyous muddy romps on Granddad's farm;
His bounding leaps, his chipper little bark
As wide-eyed cattle scattered in alarm.
But now his halting step betrays his pain,
And resignation dims his rheumy eyes—
And once he settles painfully to rest
Upon the parlor rug, he cannot rise.
The god of time has bargained with us both
And left infirmity in place of youth.
A sorry trade, the only one he makes;
Ah, would that tears could wash away that truth.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Tsunami
This piece appeared on Richard's site as well, and was partially quoted by dilys at G as in Good H as in Happy.
Tsunami
The ocean flees from shore, its shells laid bare
As if Achaean ships had slipped away
By Trojan night, and left its towers there;
For one dread instant silence rules the bay.
Then grave Poseidon's fearsome voice peals out
And summons up his watery stampede
In swelling wave, a mighty roaring shout,
All charging up the beach at breakneck speed.
Then rolling, smashing over those who stand
Like statues turned by fright to solid stone,
And blotting out those running up the strand
The violent waves upon the land are thrown.
And wave and wave and wave comes surging on
To scour clean the land of human trace —
As if the sea threw evil Acheron
Upon the land, man's presence to erase.
The sea recedes and seeks again its bed,
Retreating, giving up the land it won;
Its army leaving littered fields of dead
Sad limbs akimbo, silent in the sun.
The sullen sea its brooding counsel keeps
Beyond the cries of saddened shorebound men
What awesome powers harbor in its deeps
As quiet rolls the ocean swell again.
Diviners vainly seek to understand
Such cataclysmic turns of dreadful fate
Lamenting that they cannot gods command
To spare the ones for whom they supplicate.
There is no reason good or ill to find
Why any given soul is swept to woe
Nor why one man is lame or one is blind:
Such mysteries are not for men to know.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Tsunami
The ocean flees from shore, its shells laid bare
As if Achaean ships had slipped away
By Trojan night, and left its towers there;
For one dread instant silence rules the bay.
Then grave Poseidon's fearsome voice peals out
And summons up his watery stampede
In swelling wave, a mighty roaring shout,
All charging up the beach at breakneck speed.
Then rolling, smashing over those who stand
Like statues turned by fright to solid stone,
And blotting out those running up the strand
The violent waves upon the land are thrown.
And wave and wave and wave comes surging on
To scour clean the land of human trace —
As if the sea threw evil Acheron
Upon the land, man's presence to erase.
The sea recedes and seeks again its bed,
Retreating, giving up the land it won;
Its army leaving littered fields of dead
Sad limbs akimbo, silent in the sun.
The sullen sea its brooding counsel keeps
Beyond the cries of saddened shorebound men
What awesome powers harbor in its deeps
As quiet rolls the ocean swell again.
Diviners vainly seek to understand
Such cataclysmic turns of dreadful fate
Lamenting that they cannot gods command
To spare the ones for whom they supplicate.
There is no reason good or ill to find
Why any given soul is swept to woe
Nor why one man is lame or one is blind:
Such mysteries are not for men to know.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
Haste
This was an exercise; it is in Italian (or Petrarchan after the Italian poet Petrarch) sonnet form. Sonnets have 14 lines, and typically present two ideas or make an argument and then compare, rebut, or counter argue. The turn of the poem (volta in Italian) classically occurs at line 9. The first 8 lines (the octet) are the statement, the last 6 lines (the sestet) are the answer or contrast. Italian sonnets are the hardest to write in English, because the rhyme scheme for the first 8 lines is abbaabba — or, the author has to come up with a lot of rhymes in a language known for being rhyme poor. Inflected languages such as the romance languages are easier to find rhymes in. Fast - last - past - cast was about all I had available that could logically be worked in. The rhyme scheme of the last 6 lines, the sestet, is variable in Italian sonnets; I chose to stick with cddcee. The sonnet concludes with an epigrammatic couplet, as you observe.
The poem sprang from reflections on the tsunami disaster ... a man in a hurry cut in front of my car, and I thought of tourists hurrying to catch their flights to go on vacation ... from which they did not return.
Haste
I'm sure the man who passed me driving fast
Had much upon his mind, and things to do,
And promises to keep like me or you;
Perhaps a family waiting — home at last.
His hurried taillights swerved, and he was past;
Then over hill and into night he flew,
To rest at home and safe for all I knew;
I’ll bet he never thought, how fate is cast.
But what of those Sumatra bound, now gone
Who hurried to their flights and to their doom,
To drown upon a beach, or in a room —
Their haste will never see another dawn.
The Old One weaves our skein before our birth
Why rush to meet our final day on earth?
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
The poem sprang from reflections on the tsunami disaster ... a man in a hurry cut in front of my car, and I thought of tourists hurrying to catch their flights to go on vacation ... from which they did not return.
Haste
I'm sure the man who passed me driving fast
Had much upon his mind, and things to do,
And promises to keep like me or you;
Perhaps a family waiting — home at last.
His hurried taillights swerved, and he was past;
Then over hill and into night he flew,
To rest at home and safe for all I knew;
I’ll bet he never thought, how fate is cast.
But what of those Sumatra bound, now gone
Who hurried to their flights and to their doom,
To drown upon a beach, or in a room —
Their haste will never see another dawn.
The Old One weaves our skein before our birth
Why rush to meet our final day on earth?
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
An Old Story
This poem was composed, as with many of my poems, in response to a posting at Richard Lawrence Cohen's blog.
An Old Story
In love it seems despite our dreams
Another course is charted:
Despite the warnings writ in reams
We oft end broken hearted.
The love of fairy tales and such —
Life ever does elude it;
And what we thought was Cupid's touch —
Perhaps we misconstrued it.
To dance the dance of true romance
Is for the moment fleeting:
We can't expect the lovers' trance
To last, for all entreating.
A gift that Time can never grant:
That he should cease progressing.
But what he offers to supplant
Should not be so distressing.
For after passion's flames burn low
To leave its warming embers
We learn to love the fire's glow
Through all our cold Decembers.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
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An Old Story
In love it seems despite our dreams
Another course is charted:
Despite the warnings writ in reams
We oft end broken hearted.
The love of fairy tales and such —
Life ever does elude it;
And what we thought was Cupid's touch —
Perhaps we misconstrued it.
To dance the dance of true romance
Is for the moment fleeting:
We can't expect the lovers' trance
To last, for all entreating.
A gift that Time can never grant:
That he should cease progressing.
But what he offers to supplant
Should not be so distressing.
For after passion's flames burn low
To leave its warming embers
We learn to love the fire's glow
Through all our cold Decembers.
© 2004 Jeffrey Hull
