Page 4 of 5

Posted on

Hail to the Chief

by Marshall Jamison

Editor’s Note: Bill Ramsay served as Head of Engineering for many years at the Nebraska ETV Network.

Bill Ramsay is known as quiet, gentle man
who lets his actions speak for him, after careful plan.
Warm friend, good neighbor, leader by example
rather than command.
The Sort of man you want beside you
when you need a helpful, thoughtful hand,
or leading the way when vision and courage,
knowledge and truth are in demand.

A high flier, whose goals transcend the call
of duty
whose interest highlights great music and
fine art in a search for beauty.

His years of service to our Network reflect
real advances in knowledge and technique
and mark his contributions to Broadcast
Engineering, outstanding and unique!

So this poor Rhymester leaves this happy thought
with you ~
Bill’s a man to build a dream on
if you want it to come true!

Posted on

Hypotenuse

by Marshall Jamison

It’s very abstruse
and hard to make use
of the word hypotenuse.
Unless the side of a right
handed
triangle
is opposite the right angle!

Posted on

The Skipper

by Marshall Jamison

The captain’s name was Amos
although he was never heard
to answer to it,
except when he was at home
with the woman he adored
and thought of as a lady,
which she was.
Grizzled, grey but eagle-eyed,
and forty-six years old, he looked
nearer sixty,
after twenty years of sea service
to the American West African Line.

Seaman, Bos’n, Mate and finally
Master.

Torpedoed in forty-one,
naked off Madagascar.

A man to trust your life to
when crossing the North Atlantic
six times, fifty-five or so
war-torn years ago.

Posted on

A Tall Friend in Florida

by Marshall Jamison

Uninvited but not unwelcome, the tall blue Heron
We call a friend dropped by,
Circled over us once or twice and landed, stiff-legged
Out of the afternoon sky.
He is a popular visitor who comes often for
His lake shore snacks
Of frogs, toads, wriggling water snakes, which
With evident pleasure, he attacks.

But best of all, the fare he seems to truly savor
Are fat bass, small and tender and rich in flavor.

For you see, his gourmet taste has made me
A believer too
And so now when I can catch a batch or even
Only one or two,
I swallow them quickly as I’ve seen him do.

Oh, not raw but boiled, fried or brewed
Swimming in a bubbling stew.

A fine fish dinner, these bass are in a class
Without compare,
So if one day you’d care to share
The lake’s largess with us,
Hop a plane, grab a train, perhaps a Greyhound bus
Even an Indian canoe could bring you too.

We’re almost sure that if you do arrive
The tall blue Heron will greet you
With a fishy welcome
And a very high five.

Posted on

A Maine Summer Day

by Marshall Jamison

It was the kind of day if you were fishing or hunting or haying
You thanked the Good Lord for, not quite, but kinda like praying.
In the distant sky to the South an eagle flew, soaring high
Against the sun
And in the bay a school of tinker mackerel surfaced for
A frantic run.

At our camp the tide was almost high and so were the two
Who pulled their skiff towards our shore,
Awash in salt water and empty bottles
Of what had been Feigenspan beer, and a tubful
Of mackerel or more.

The bigger of the two men, wearing heavy overalls and
Tall rubber boots stood up to drain the dregs of
A bottle of gin.

He staggered as the little boat rolled on the tide,
Still coming in,
And before he could regain his frantic balance
He yelled, took a drunken step or two as if in a
Crazy dance
And fell full length over the side, hitting his head
On an empty oarlock
Then sank out of sight like a huge, heavy, insensate rock.

His partner screamed hoarsely, “He can’t swim” and
Drunkenly threw a loose oar after him.

I, with my customary swift response to danger or
Emergency stood transfixed, wide-eyed, grim.

But my buddy, Jimmy Mack, without a word dove
Into the frightening swirling flood.

Searching quickly below the surface he came up
Empty, pale, face drained of blood.

A deep, deep breath and down again under the boat
He swam without a sign of fear.

The prayer I’d saved that morning was now
Answered loud and clear!

For suddenly out of the briny dark sea water
I saw two heads appear!

And grabbing the line I threw to him
Jim Hauled the big drunk out and onto shore.

Where gasping and crying, belching and retching
He swore to us he’d drink no more.

Later his partner too swore off the booze
Since they’d drunk all they had
He had little to lose.

We let them go easy with only this rub
We asked for and got half the mackerel in the tub
So in our own way, we too, went fishing that day!

Posted on

InciDentally

by Marshall Jamison

Just down the long block from storied Harvard Square
In a tired old building, up a well worn stair
Practiced a dentist my trusting mother thought was great
But at eight, I withheld even skeptical approval until
perhaps a later date.
He pointed out to my mother and me, pridefully, that
right across the street
Stood the Widener Library, pride of Harvard’s true elite.

The overwhelming edifice seemed to almost reach the sky.
Brick, cement and mortar filled my wide and staring eye
When I sat shivering in his ancient patient’s chair.
Nervous, suspicious, alarmed and hating to be there.

So for a dozen years or so this fumbling, well-meaning chap
tried to improve our relationship
As he drilled, filled and cemented in my mouth with
only an occasional slip.

Then came the day when he greeted me with a sly, dry
but excited grin
And reported the startling news to me, Your wisdom
teeth have at last grown in!
He continued with these excited shouts, You know,
my boy, you’ll have to have those extremely long fangs out!

That’s when I should have recalled my early boyhood’s
doubt!

Instead, six months of unending pain, a very, hurtful
bout
Until that lout finally pulled and pulled and got those molars out!

I wondered when I got his total, final charge for the
very rough and tough extraction
Why it had taken so long for me to remember my (very)
first gut reaction!

So now no more ancient dentist chair, no more
the Widener view!

Even my mother now agrees those things we will
eschew!

Posted on

Doughnuts!

by Marshall Jamison

Missus Eaton made doughnuts for breakfast
For Oren and me. I loved her doughnuts
And so did he.
Oren was a big man, a sailing man,
Just home from the sea,
And I was a tad who climbed on his knee.
Between us two, who ate the most?
Well, after a dozen or more —
He had French Toast!

Posted on

One Day in Harvard Yard

by Marshall Jamison

At about ten years of age or so, I heard Robert Frost
recite his poetry aloud
for what, it seemed to me to be a most attentive
and respectful crowd
in Harvard Yard, a meeting place of those who
search for knowledge,
the brick-lined mecca that surrounds much of
Harvard College.
He read quickly without emphasis that might
have been revealing
and his words belied emotion which I thought
he must be feeling.

Continue reading → One Day in Harvard Yard

Posted on

Remembering Sally Benson

by Marshall Jamison

I got lost on the Boston Post Road
It’s a lonely coast road —
But it led me home.

My old friend, Sally Benson wrote that fragment of verse, and as a New Englander born, I have held it in my memory for over forty years. Brilliant, star crossed, tragic, but oddly magnificent, she hurled her challenge to the world:

If you can, come on and knock me down

and it could and did!

As one of her last courageous and rewarding efforts she adapted an F. Scott Fitzgerald story entitled “Josephine” for Broadway, retitled there, “The Young and Beautiful.” When reviewed by the distinguished Herald Tribune critic Walter Kerr, he described it “a perfect production.”

###

Now overcoming my fear and trembling, which if you had known Sally you’d understand, I’m presuming to preface those three remembered New England lines with three of my own.

Tall pines lined the empty highway that stretches along
the rock bound shore.
My little grey mare whinnied shrilly when she heard
the rough surf roar.
As the evening dusk quickly darkened into moonlit night
I got lost on the Boston Post Road
And it’s a lonely coast road
But it led me home.

Posted on

A Matter of Pride in Nebraska

by Marshall Jamison

Longfellow and Lowell and Stephen Vincent Benet
Penned many a stirring roundelay
Of the glorious days of our nation’s rise
And leaders they chose to aggrandize.
Down misty corridors of time
Our poet, John Neihardt, celebrates in rhyme
Heroic men who dare to share a dream
Giants in the earth answer to his theme.
Those gallant, resourceful mountain men
Whose like we’ll rarely see again
Jedidiah Smith and brave Hugh Glass
Who found real splendor in the grass
Were two whom he wrote of with deep respect
When you read his poems you recollect
That he followed travelers on these great plains, high
Where far horizons meet the sky and he sang
Of warriors and wanderers through this vale of tears
Who met with, fought and overcame their fears
Of lonliness, failure and bitter strife
As they worked to fashion a better life
Who saw the world as they’d have it be
Where every man is strong and free
And believes in his heart that he can do
Something to make that dream come true.