by Marshall Jamison
There are two women I know whom I deeply admire,
Who have brains and beauty, fire and desire.
Whose eyes are clear and sight is keen
To view and value the passing scene.
They’re thoughtful and caring, intelligent too,
Long on good reasons for all that they do.
Both are leaders who practice team play
Each showing her talent in leading the way
Betsey’s locked up in thinking of others
Terri’s gift is understanding and loving children, fathers and mothers.
by Marshall Jamison
So very softly the swift shafts of darkness
invade the fading sunlight.
In shadow, the inner leaves of the orange tree shiver
slightly, anticipating the quick loss of warmth
At the sun’s decline into the dark blue lake.
I hear the distant cry of a seagull flying Nestward
Through the drone of a tiny single engine plane
Seeking sanctuary as well. And my wife,
Ever thoughtful and loving, lights the single lamp
Over my head and suggests with that gesture
That I’d better come in.
by Marshall Jamison
Did you ever go down to an Irishman’s shanty
Where the water was scarce and the beer is a’plenty
A three legged stool and a table to match it,
A door without hinges and nothin’ to latch it?
Tread on the tail of me coat! hah, hah!
Tread on the tail of me coat!
If you’re in for a row or a ruction
Just tread on the tail of me coat!
Golden-haired Bobby Bell sang the old songs in his
clear tenor voice
And after I’d heard them any number of times – I’d join
in with him. He really had no choice.
My friend he was, and as true blue as his Irish
heart was green.
And when we sang together, well, we sure lit up
the scene.
So on Saturday night we’d close the shop when the
clock struck ten
And head for Rafferty and Kilgariff’s ancient, cobwebbed
bar.
Deep in God’s true Irishmen. There, they welcomed us,
My friend Bobby and me
And often sang with us the words of many a come all ye.
The Maid of the Sweet Brown Knoll was a favorite
often called for
And even good old Mother McRee brought out
a loud encore.
But the choice of all for Bobby and me
Was the lovely and haunting Rose of Tralee
The pale moon was shinin’ way out on the mountain
The sun was declinin’ into the blue sea
As I strayed with my love by the clear crystal
fountain
That stands in the beautiful Vale of Tralee.
She was lovely and fair as a rose of the Summer
But it was not her beauty alone that won me
Oh, no ’twas the truth in her eyes ever shinin’
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.
And so we sang until closing at that kindly
place,
When we left those good friends – every one
wore a smile on his face.
But I saw that Bobby had a tear in the eye,
He just hated to say good-bye.
by Marshall Jamison
High up in the old grey house with its mansard roof, my tiny room under the gabled eaves survived attack by sun, snow and rain. Each took its turn and were regarded and respected alike. The “elements were God’s to use at his command,” my grandfather told me quietly before he took his leave of us. I never found good reason to doubt his word. Never. So at fourteen years of age I wrote this in his memory.
Rain and wind play ’round my window shutters
Singing liquid tunes.
Bells are tinkling in the gutters
Running water croons.
Far off, the distant whistle of a train
Up close, the lovely lullaby of rain.
And your voice telling me with love
The truth which you knew from above
And had the grace to give me —
Carefully and quietly that I might see true
My attic window held a wider view.
by Marshall Jamison
…Of Sunday morning in the little town where my mother was born and my brother and I first saw the light literally and spiritually.
My great aunt Mame used to worship our Lord at the top of her rich, contralto voice out on her front porch across the street from our house. For an hour before she and Uncle Will walked across the green to church she sang the glorious old hymns, Rock of Ages, Onward Christian Soldiers, Lead, Kindly Light, The Old, Rugged Cross and other favorites.
Occasionally passersby would pause to listen, eyeing the Doctor’s sign beside the door, weather-beaten by the passing years. Uncle Will had been a true horse and buggy practitioner in his early days. Later he drove his ancient Nash with great care on his round of house calls. When he sometimes took my brother and me with him, we would sing the hymns we learned from Aunt Mame on Sunday.
by Marshall Jamison
He was a tall man, proud, and at seventy-eight
The Judge, his eyes steel blue, held a steady gaze
As he looked down at me, he stood ramrod straight.
Without raising his voice he revealed my fate. To me,
It seemed a fair if severe one, at the age of eight.
My crime? The third grade teacher had reported to my
Mother my one day’s absence from his class. There,
When riding my new bike to school, I had eyed
In the rippling water under the river bridge, a truly enormous bass.
And as I told the Judge, the chance for such a
Magnificent catch drove all thoughts of proceeding to class to pass.
The Judge, who was himself a fisherman of note,
Had often taken me on the Delaware River in his old rowboat
So to the river I raced for my gear, pole, and bait.
After a long careful casting, an interminable wait,
The allure of my lures spelled that big bass’ fate.
My own, the judge decided would rest on my reply
To his wish for a piece of that magnificent, glorious fish to cook!
So supplied, with a grin, my grandfather let me
off the hook.
by Marshall Jamison
The Time: January 1944.
Men who’d sailed the North Atlantic in convoy for up to four or more years began to breathe a little easier on the crossings from Boston and Halifax to the waiting ports in England. It looked then as if the U-Boat Wolfpack that had used the merchant ships as targets for their torpedoes for those years were almost cleared from the North Atlantic.
You must be logged in to post a comment.