Jeffrey Hull

With her casks to the brim and with ample supplies
On the tide she set sail while the moon on the rise
Cast its glow on the ship as the sails were unfurled,
Casting off for the lands at the end of the world.

On a westerly breeze she sailed smart as you please
With the helmsman directed to southern degrees
And the furrow she plowed lay as straight as a line
As wild water erupted from bow and from chine.

By the binnacle light where the compass read true
The stout steersman looked out on the indigo blue
Where he saw that the swell was beginning to mount
As the wind likewise rose, he would later recount.

By the midwatch white foam on the waves let them know
That the scudding low clouds now foretold of a blow,
And the deckwatch looked up as the stars ceased to shine
While the rigging above seemed to groan and to whine.

When the morning watch came up on deck to relieve
They could see by the sky there would be no reprieve,
So they grinned and they shrugged at the waves and the gale
And aloft the men clambered to shorten the sail.

The George Whitcomb now heaved on a mountainous swell
Like some terrified man on a sleighride from hell
Driving into a wave face, then shaking it off,
Vaulting over the crest, plunging down in the trough.

While a furious force drove her onward and on
The first mate took the foredeck, the captain the con;
As the ship lurched and staggered through old Neptune's realm
It took two of the crewmen to handle the helm.

The wild water washed over, a monsterous stream
Then Old Billy below cried, "We've opened a seam!"
With the perils of topside came danger below
As the cargo broke loose and was flung to and fro.

To the men below decks came a preview of hell:
As they struggled for footing the deck rose and fell.
Like the wildest of horses the ship bucked and jumped
And the water rose faster the harder they pumped.

Soon they knew that the storm meant to swallow them whole,
The good ship and its cargo and every soul,
For the splinters of two boats had washed overboard
And between them and death: one good skiff and the Lord.

Lying battered and smashed in Poseidon's great fist
Now the proud vessel Whitcomb had taken a list.
As she rolled and she wallowed, he feared she might flip
So the captain commanded, "Abandon the ship!"

Fully twenty-two men of the merchant fleet's pride
Were assembled on deck and went over the side
In the lee of the ship where the waves weaker churn
Swimming strong to the jolly boat close by the stern.

Now they clambered aboard and pulled smartly away
Although lashed by the wind and the rain and the spray;
With the storm skies above them now hinting some light,
Going down by the bow, the ship slipped out of sight.

In the stillness that followed the mate said a prayer
And the captain made certain that each man was there.
With each sailor accounted the oars were then manned;
Scarcely six sunsets later they sighted the land.

Well there's danger aplenty where men go in ships:
While the vessels look mighty when tied in their slips,
All alone on the ocean's as lonely can be,
And there's danger aplenty when men go to sea.

May the blessings of God fall on all of the men
Who go forth on the ocean again and again,
For the truth on the wind sings as plain as can be:
You may master a wave–no one masters the sea.

© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

© 2009 Rick Lee


If the radiance of a thousand suns
Were to burst at once into the sky
That would be like the splendor of the Mighty one ...
I am become Death,
The shatterer of Worlds. - Bhagavad-Gita


The sunset's king recesses down the sky
   To kiss the land and bid goodnight the day,
But does not dwell upon the by and by:
   His glance will someday boil the seas away.

What blessings that his light on earth bestows
   Are bought and paid with incandescent time
As star-stuff burns–and when the big one blows
   A fierce deep-throated closing bell will chime.

From long before the ancient dawn of man
   Where frigid eons kept the heavens' keys,
Apocalypse on God's installment plan:
   The end of days glows just beyond those trees.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

River Orb, France © 2006 Nina Camic By gracious permission; all rights reserved.


The river is not mad at me
   I reassure myself,
As I am slammed hydraulically
   Against a rocky shelf;

Then bobbing up I wave my hand
   To reassure the crew
Before the safeties on the land
   Can toss a rope or two.

Though I pretend to be unfazed,
   My soggy mind is blank;
I splash about like someone crazed,
   And wash up on the bank.

I clamber back into the raft
   To analyse my swim,
Reflecting that I must be daft
   To paddle on again,

But rivers flow so well downstream
   And it's too far to walk;
A river man must more than seem–
   Not simply talk the talk.

The day will come when bones stay home
   And let the rivers run–
Instead of rocks and rolling foam,
   A hammock in the sun;

But I won't think of that gray day–
   I'm hardly sore at all–
The sky, the trees, the frigid spray:
   The raft and rapids call.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

© 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved.


Darkness be my pillow,
   And sorrow be my bed;
Bend me like the willow
   Then bind me to the stead.

Sing me soft of sadness,
   To fill my eyes with years;
Succor me my madness,
   And gently blot the tears.

Help me bear the birthing
   As what will be is born;
Ancient bones unearthing,
   My hair of pride be shorn:

Lift me, do not scold me;
   Please let me feel the skies–
Hold me, darling hold me,
   Once more before I rise.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

Morning: Lake Monona © 2006 Nina Camic By gracious permission.


The west winds blow from where the night resides,
The east winds whisper hope and rising tides.
The north winds chide the clouds to hide the sun,
The south winds coax the tropic waves to run.
The wild winds charge around the sky's expanse,
The mild winds sigh as flowers dip and dance.
The cold winds tuck the woods in fluffy beds,
The old winds sow their salt on snowy heads.
The sea winds waft from fragrant lands afar,
The bay winds sail hearts homeward 'cross the bar.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

© 2006 Andrew Hull By permission.


A heart awaiting ransom
   Had hidden in a drawer;
Love peeked across the transom
   Then seeped beneath the door–

A mist of vague emotion,
   Turned rivulet of grace,
'Til stream become an ocean,
   A torrent swept the place.

It flooded to the gables,
   Knocked everything askew,
And cleared away the tables
   To set the feast anew.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

Freya, Norse goddess



The gates of Vahalla are darkened;
   Great Heimdall¹ no longer stands guard
Where warriors old Odin² hearkened,
   Who'd fallen by axe and by sword.

Full five hundred forty grand portals
   Led straight to the father's great halls;
The roofing, the shields of immortals,
   And rankings of spears were the walls.

Bold breastplates upholstered the benches
   Where every brave soul had his place,
Drank mead that undying thirst quenches,
   And dined on the great boar apace.

The broad plain of Asgard³ in stillness
   Recalls the great contests of old;
Men die not by spear now, but illness,
   Heroic tales no longer told.

And Freya⁴, the boar-riding beauty,
   War-goddess of passion and love–
Valkyries no longer stand duty
   To usher the bravest above;

Their queen has surrendered her powers,
   Retreated to sulk in her home,
To mourn from her far fabled towers
   The silence in Odin's grand dome.

Now Loki the Trickster⁵ plays ruler
   And cowards have taken his cause
And none is more ugly or crueller
   Than those who would fashion the laws

That bind men of courage in shackles,
   And stripping the bravest of pride,
Their tail-tucking yapping of jackals
   Would all that is noble deride.

The winds of the heavens blow colder,
   But breeze in the desert burns hot;
The North gods grow older and older–
   Now where will our rescue be got?

We call on great Odin: Awaken!
   We call on our ancestors' lines
To roar 'til the sleepers are shaken!
   To shout til they stiffen their spines!

Awaken the gods from their slumber!
   Awaken the men from their thrall!
'Til filling their ranks without number
   The cry has awakened them all.

Then gird up their arms for the battle
   To save all the good and the true,
Ignoring the cowardly prattle
   To do what the brave always do.

Of those who are marked for their glories
   Let spirits convey to the Hall
Where Freya's valkyries⁶ sing stories
   About the last conflict of all:

The brave–not the glib nor the clever,
   Not cowards nor tellers of lies–
Will live there with great souls forever:
   They only have claim to that prize.

And those who remain with the living,
   Who knew that to shrink was to sin–
Will earn from their brothers thanksgiving,
   And with the immortals be kin.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

1. Guardian of Valhalla, hall of the spirits of brave slain warriors.
2. Lord of the warrior gods (Æsir). God of both wisdom and war.
3. Realm of the gods.
4. Norse goddess of love, sexuality, fertility and battle. She and the valkyries gathered up the souls of the brave slain, to be apportioned half to Freya, half to Odin. She rode into battle astride a great boar, or rode in a chariot pulled by two blue cats the size of lions.
5. The Trickster, god of mischief and fire.
6. Minor female deities in Norse mythology, who served Odin; led by Freya, their purpose was to choose the most heroic of those who had died in battle and to carry them off to Valhalla where they became spirit warriors; those alloted to Odin were destined to fight at his side at the preordained great battle at the end of the world, Ragnarök.

© 2006 Rick Lee


The Blue Ridge laundry hung along the sky
   Beyond the highway's disappearing end
Hums lazy longing songs of by-and-by;
   The road, too busy, hurries 'round the bend ...

The heavy sky wore mountain sawteeth dull
   So long ago; the nubbins that remain
Can scarce impede the clouds that boatlike scull
   Along the ridge above the valley rain.

The mountains must remember in their dreams
   Those ancient granite days of grand display,
When caped in snow and bumping heaven's beams
   Their brooding crags looked down upon the day;

Now, crossed with track and trail of bear and coon
   They see both what will come and what is past,
And sleep the endless sleep of rain and moon
   Until the hills are ground to sand at last.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

        Black hole



They say there are holes in the heavens,
   Eternity's doorways agape,
Where everything's sixes and sevens,
   Where even the rays can't escape;

Where gravity's monster attraction
   Grabs atoms and pulls out their hair,
And infinite in its compaction
   The matter goes heaven knows where.

If singing the Kyri' eleison,
   Most hopeful for some saving grace,
Our souls sail beyond some horizon
   Perhaps into just such a place,

Then what if that hole is a portal
   That leads to some strange by and by–
Where human life meets the immortal:
   The gate at the end of the sky?


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

Cholesterol, 3-D molecular model



I read a list of seven things,
   The habits I should quit;
And worst of fortune's darts and slings?
   Why, honey, you were it.

The other six were bad enough
   To wreck my life for sure,
Like smokes and booze and all that stuff—
   And most of all, amour.

But your seduction's subtle art
   Enticed me toward my fall:
If love be life blood of the heart,
   Then you're cholesterol.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

© 2006 Rick Lee By permission.


Old steeples float above the town
   Where birds and clouds belong,
And watch the sun drift gently down
   Each day at evensong.

The light selects a gleaming spire
   From those that dot the sky;
The others, in more drab attire
   Cannot attract its eye.

The chosen tower flaunts its glow
   Before its lofty friends
Until the sunglow dips below
   And sunset vigil ends.

Perhaps when dawn redeems the light
   And hoists it into view,
Another's crown may shine as bright
   With morning's rosy hue

But for this hour of waning day
   The chosen belfry gleams,
And revels in its grand display
   Afire with twilight beams.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

© 2006 Charles Johnson By permission.


A smallish speck that shrank into the clouds,
   Its freight the heavy cargo of my heart–
Aground, despair amidst the airport crowds,
   Aloft, the dreamy sky pushed us apart.

Bad luck, they say, to watch a loved one's course
   Until she's out of sight; I turned away
My face, and hid the twinges of remorse
   I'd let her go, but she's still gone today.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

"Vacant Lot, Victor, Colorado 1985"
© 1985 Paul Cornelius By permission.


Old buildings by the railroad freight,
   Old storefronts in the town,
With sagging resignation wait
   For years to wear them down.

The boarded shops grow photographs
   Like mildew on the walls,
Declaiming fading epitaphs
   For lives no one recalls.

The weeds are mum what structures stood
   On littered vacant lots
That blighten up the neighborhood
   With glass and brick strewn blots.

The buildings and the people fade
   As time its purpose weaves,
As gone as last year's Fourth parade,
   Or winter's missing leaves.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

© 2000 Bert Katzung All rights reserved.

I saw the rosy fingered dawn,
   That fabled Eastern light,
That Homer was so set upon
   To end each storied night

Brushed soft across the glassy sea
   And breathed upon the clouds,
And signaling the sun to free
   The land the night enshrouds.

The sun peeked up and chased the dark
   'Til only light remained,
And coursed along the fiery arc
   Apollo had ordained;

It reached its zenith by and by
   And glorious shone bright,
Illuminating earth and sky,
   And banishing the night.

But as the hourglass of day
   Marked cadence with the sea,
And minutes softly slipped away–
   I watched the daylight flee

Until at last the western wave
   Was lit this time by fire;
I perched upon a lofty bluff
   To watch the sun retire.

And with a final dusky blaze
   Deserting heaven's dome
To sleep beyond our mortal gaze–
   The sun again went home.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

© 2006 Nina Camic All rights reserved.

The rising of the greening shoot,
   The budding of the vine,
The plucking of the heavy fruit,
   The aging of the wine;

The counting of the bridal chest,
   The preening of the groom;
The rip'ning of a mother's breast,
   The swelling of the womb;

The gasping of the primal breath,
   The wailing infant's cry;
The suckling babe denying death
   And cooing at the sky.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

The house I used to live in
   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

© 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

Mandelbrot fractal set. Wikipedia, under creative commons license.

I must have blinked my mind, for logic's train
   Deserted me, and there I stood: bereft
Of repartee, unable to explain
   My tortured lay of mental warp and weft,
   Ideas woven, wand'ring right and left
To reach an end and then begin again,
   A teasing circularity of theft
Purloining wit to leave a barren brain;

For fractals of mentation replicate
   By simple rule in sparse economy
Of left-or-rights that ever bifurcate
   In parsimonious autonomy,
   And trace their strange taxonomy
To work their spell at last and subjugate
   My head with ruthless heteronomy–
And lucid judgement discombobulate.


© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

Portrait 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

© 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

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

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

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

Old Omar's bones long past succumbed to Time,
Who now has tricked the pilgrim past his prime;
   The rising moon no longer Khayyám finds,
And soon enough the traveler's bell will chime.

This sorry scheme our understanding taunts
As heaven high its stern duration flaunts;
   And one by one the rose her petals drops
As Time upon the countless gravestones vaunts.

Like briefest flash of gold in life's bazaar,
Or siren's sultry voice half-heard afar–
   The pilgrim knows how seldom and how short
The door to revelation stands ajar.

The wisdom of the sages and the seers
Is murmured down the corridors of years
   But in the lonely night cannot dispel
The phantoms of the pilgrim's hopes and fears.

The gate to hell or heaven stands agape
Or is this but illusion of escape?
   The fate of each is cast before his birth;
Nor tear nor tirade can these stars reshape.





So shall we then together, you and I
Enjoy what time we have beneath this sky
   And revel in our love and in this wine:
Accept the what and where, and ask not why?

And since we cannot fail to pay what's due
That Innkeeper who tolls our evening through–
   I hope he would permit a final cup,
And give me leave to drink it here with you.


© 2005 Jeffrey Hull

© 2007 Rick Lee All rights reserved


When I was young by night I'd fly
   With effortless facility,
But then grew older by and by
   And lost this strange ability.

Then magic arms no more would lift
   For heavy years had weighed them down
And robbed them of that wondrous gift
   To soar above the drowsy town.

So every night my inner eye
   Explored confined and dreary caves,
Resigned, but longing yet to fly
   Aloft o'er forests, hills and waves.

And then one night this grace returned
   And thus my spirit found again
The gift for which I long had yearned,
   Above, beyond the world of men.


© 2005 Jeffrey Hull

The north face of the mountain–
   The hardest route to climb
Where northern winds blow cruelest
   And strike at any time.

A crumbling ledge or outcrop,
   A step that goes amiss–
All threaten quick destruction
   Above the deep abyss.

Few have the inclination
   And fewer still the nerve
To risk their all for something–
   It's safer to observe.

The north face of the mountain,
   The hardest route to climb–
I never reached the summit;
   I hear the view's sublime.


© 2005 Jeffrey Hull

© 2005 Nina Camic All rights reserved.
Like teardrops on a dewy grass,
   Like dry leaves in the fall–
As soft as cats the Sundays pass
   And don't say much at all.

The plodding weeks mark turning moons
   As months build years in stone;
And pirate Time hoards his doubloons
   And counts his cache alone.

The ages reach and beckon me,
   The tides have laid their plot;
They tug my vessel out to sea
   And bid me tarry not.

The naked masts are barren trees
   Their yards and rigging moan,
But winter breeze awhile agrees
   The sailing to postpone.

So here ashore and here once more
   Cold Sundays grind like stones;
Their grist the days I can't restore,
   Their toll these aching bones.


© 2005 Jeffrey Hull

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

© 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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