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A Memory of Emily

by Marshall Jamison

On the windswept lake a wild duck sets down quietly,
Folds and refolds his wings carefully
As if to put them away for a while.
A female mallard, that we like to think of as his mate,
Hovers along the shore over tiny ducklings, that in the dark,
we count at eight.

In the early partial sunshine of the next day’s morning light,
Our six year old granddaughter happily corrects my count
to ten.

Tiny, brown, lively, constantly chirping newcomers to the
experience of life,
Often fraught with danger but with their new found joy,
Exploration.

A discovery of earth, water, sky and shore, of maternal care,
And on her part, what may surely be described as love.

For the new mother’s constant supervision and concern
Is a revelation to all of us who watch the family’s growth
And sad to say, some of its members’ death.

For the joy of new found life was shortened for almost
Half the brood by occurrences their watchful guardian
Could not control:
The wake of a speedboat’s churning propeller
A hawk’s lightning bolt descent and attack and
An off shore gall that blew two of them away from
Her sheltering wings.

Now the remaining mallard family has responded
To the allure of the horizon and may no longer
be seen along our shore.

They share a wider vision of sky, earth and sea
With all living creatures wild and free.

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The Second Mates Watch

by Marshall Jamison

John Masefield, master poet of the sea,
and of sailors lives when far off shore,
Knew how it felt to stalk the bridge
on long night hours, twelve to four,
While your shipmates rest below,
secure in well earned sleep
Because they know the midnight watch
is surely yours to keep.
When the moon is shining bright on
the rolling white capped sea
Or when curling, curtaining grey fog
hangs there heavily
Cutting off the view of much you strain to see.

Any panic that is present disappears in
silent prayer
To the Watcher who protects and comforts
sailors everywhere.

To meet the late night’s challenge is
the mates’ proud regimen
And night after night he gladly greets
his duty to his fellow men.

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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!

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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!