The Butterfly

A restless wind blows through my soul,

A vacant place that yet is whole

With trickling stream & grassy knoll

With grazing sheep and new-born foal.


Alights a butterfly, its goal

The nectar in the pistill’d bowl;

With petals tipped, she plays her role

And pays the price of Heaven’s toll.


The distant hills, the sun on high,

In withered wind & softened sigh,

And quite demure & somewhat shy,

The passing of the butterfly

Calls now to us; says “by-and-by

I’ll settle on that leaf & die;

Oh, why this God-born act deny?

And why this fate should I defy?

-Like humans do; oh, why, why, why?”

[ jkh 2013 c,]


Winter's Nigh 

[ i ]

Whilst sleeping now, the farmer; vintner

As, sharp ice the branches splinter,

Ice chiseled by the hoary flinter-

Mulling on the cold of winter.

 [ ii ]

Near December's equinox

When'st migrates birds in waving flocks;

There, sailboats placed upon dry docks

And women stroll in boots & smocks

With fancy hats on golden locks

On city streets with ordered blocks:

Dear nature with its cold -life mocks.



Fields Near Weedon, Union Canal, Northamptonshire

[vii.]  I wonder: will we ever meet again,

A time when stars align a second “when”

(Or when the streams, again, lace that distant fen);

I ask: Is this what it does truly seem

Or are we in another vacant dream?

It was real, ‘tis placed within this picture

And herewith, my feelings in this scripture.

[ You, Twilight  2013 c. ]

[ iv.] The blazing sun upon the earth now beats

To cast its rays & blending of its heats

And in our hearts a place our love doth meets

Oh, we the lambs -dost hear our eager bleats?

Our ship of fate, it sails in cosmic fleets

That in the morn again to earth retreats. 

[ You, Twilight 2013 c. ]


Above me lies a sky deep blue,

A primal sky both old & new;

Surrounded by a land of gold

Whose ochers, umbers shimmer bold.

And with my brush this scene I told:

With swirling colors, hilltops mold.



And so in this most peaceful place;

With nature stand I face-to-face.

Tis only time that I must race,

But at my chosen time & pace

And leave behind this painted trace

To not -this time I could debase.


La Rocca, Cefalù, Sicily, 2011 c.

La Rocca, Cefalù, Sicily, 2011 c.

The Sky

[i.]  Brought I not home the silvered sky;

A dome of blue where gray doves fly,

That pass'd above, that pass'd me by;

'Tis now sweet dream that shall not die.


[ii.]  Like swallow's flight that does return

'Fore setting sun seems forests burn,

Extinguished by dark night's return

When morning sun dries dew on fern,

A glimpse of which my heart does yearn

And from which does my heart much learn.

{ jkh 2011 }

© Jack Hannula 2013