This is the literary weblog of Jeffrey W. Hull, M.D., a pediatrician. It is intended mainly as a place to maintain a collection of poetry created for the enjoyment of a few friends and as an archive for my family. All material is protected by US copyright.

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

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

Friday, September 16, 2005


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

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

Friday, September 02, 2005


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
Newer Posts Older Posts