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

Saturday, December 23, 2006


Rays © 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved

A little town, not long ago–
In cosmic terms, a day or so–
Admittedly a humble place
To usher in a Savior's grace;
A dusty bend along the track
That ran to Hebron, out and back.
A common birth, a poor boy's lot,
Like millions more long since forgot:
A baby slept with kid and lamb
And crowned the line of Abraham.

© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

Friday, December 15, 2006


December Evening Sky © 2006 Rick Lee All rights reserved

Grendel! Now there was a troll's troll! That beast
   Came silent as the summer dew, like mist,
Vile arms strangling lookouts 'til struggle ceased,
   While Hrothgar's beer-hall fire cracked and hissed,

The drunken Danes snored soundly and deep dozed,
   Dreaming scenes of Asgard, or the great hall
Valhalla. The ruthless fiend crept and nosed
   Out a weakness, burst through the wooden wall

To fall upon the king’s men unaware,
   Slaughtering the sleepers without a sound,
Heads ripped from bloody necks, a ghastly tear,
   Crushed Dane skulls and limp bodies in a mound.

The grim monster with hate filled eyes of fire
   Brought doom from which no sentinel could guard–
No unarmed man or woman felt his ire,
   His burning hate and quarrel from them barred–

But full in fury fell on those at arms,
   The thanes of Hrothgar, king of all the Danes;
Deflected not by sorcery nor charms
   Such incandescent hate that never wanes

But brightly lights the ages, 'til its ground
   Dissolves in misty time, where sleep the souls
In bliss or torment, dead to sight and sound:
   Cruel Grendel–there was the troll of trolls.

© 2006 Jeffrey Hull

Friday, December 01, 2006

The Dying King

I leave now my possessions,
   The ship my spirit sailed,
And likewise last confessions
   Boxed up and tightly nailed.

My name and deeds forgotten,
   Nor carved on any stone–
My house, its timbers rotten;
   I live here quite alone.

No vessels proud await me,
   No far off perfumed land–
No more can time frustrate me:
   My glass is out of sand.

My guards have all deserted,
   Alone I pace the walls;
Commands I once asserted
   Now echo empty halls.

My food is recollection
   Of dreams that long since died;
I drink with sad reflection
   This bitter cup of pride.

© 2006 Jeffrey Hull
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