James Curtis Hall Jr.

Wilmington, Delaware, USA

Jimmie has been writing poetry since he was in junior high school. At present he is a Refinery Process Operator who works with crude petroleum production and dangerous chemicals of all types. He is an active athlete in several sports which include football, softball, basketball, pocket billiards, target shooting, and other sports. Formerly a wide receiver for the 1970 Dallas Cowboys, and more locally, the SFL, he has resigned himself to writing as a hobby in his leisure time. In addition to being published with The National Library of Poetry, he has been published in local newspapers and Reader's Digest. His works include poems; "Soul Rebirth," "We Come To Go," and "Epitaph to a Leader." He has also written a short story entitled "Come Meet Arnold." Not being a conversationalist, his innermost feelings and emotions are best interpreted through his writings. Sit back and enjoy his mood.

Click here to listen to Soul Rebirth

Click here to listen to We Come to Go

Soul Rebirth

To every man there is open;
A way, ways, and a way.
The high soul ascends the high way,
The low soul descends the low way,
In the midst,
On the misty flats,
The rest just drifts to and fro.
But to every man there is open,
A high way, and a low,
And each man himself must decide,
The way his soul shall go.
I don't cry for precious moments passed away,
I don't weep for a "Golden Age" of social reign;
Each night I burn
The records of the day,
And at sunrise, my soul is born again.

We Come To Go

The whole world's a stage, and the life of man, less than a span;
In misconception, wretched, and from the womb, so on to the tomb;
Crust from the cradle brought up through years, with cares and fears;
Who then, will moral judgment trust,
With dreams of fortunes, and fates all written in dust.

Still here in sorrow, yet, here we remain, oppressed, this life is best!
Courts are only superficial schools, for proven fools;
It's rural parts transform into a den, for savage men;
To that professed one whom of vice be free,
Remove your ties within that family tree.

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head;
Those living single, profess they have been cursed, or do things worse;
Some have offspring, most of whom, they moan, or wish them gone;
What is it then, to have or have no wife,
Than once the single boredom, or twice the double strife.

With true affections still at home to please, it's a disease;
To cross the sea to any foreign soil, perils and toil;
The noise of war frightens us when once it's ceased, we're worse at peace;
What then remains should all but make us cry,
Of not being born, but being born to die!!