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, November 25, 2005


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

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

Friday, November 11, 2005


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

Friday, November 04, 2005


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
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