by Marshall Jamison
He was fifteen. His girl, a year older
But not much wiser, kissed him hard twice,
Drew a deep breath and told him, “Late,
Five weeks late.” He responded to the kisses
With passion, got up from the couch,
Ran a comb through his hair, and smiling
Sympathetically,
Walked out of the basement play room,
Out of her life forever.
She never forgot or forgave him.
After a long, long time he finally forgave himself.
by Marshall Jamison
Along and across the undefended beach races
The unwelcome guest from the West —
A shrieking, searching, tearing, ripping, stabbing, stranger
That finds every weakness in the hastily,
Frantically prepared defense, prayerfully arranged
to meet its terrible power.
The Florida Weather Bureau calmly describes its approach
with warnings and watches.
But look out! God help us! Here it comes!
There goes the roof!
[Publisher’s Note: On September 2, 2003, the earth broke for us forever when Marshall Jamison died of congestive heart failure in Orlando, Florida. He was 85. Marshall was a fine man, a great scholar, a caring father, a proud mentor and a loving friend. He was a Golden Boy in the Golden Age of television. When it came to writing the only thing that mattered was if the work was good: Fame, success and money all flowed from being good first. One of Marshall’s many gifts was making bad good. We already painfully miss him for the world is less without him. Marshall Jamison’s intelligence, beauty and kindness were powerful inspirations for everyone at GO INSIDE Magazine and he will eternally shine herein and glimmer from within us always. — David Boles]
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.
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