by Mark Jamieson


Gettysburg, park on the hill.
Elevator to fourth floor.
Riding boots. Walk to supper,
Across the street and next door.
Old tavern, downstairs, bricks
And candles, a nice choice to make.
Bench, dark wood, quiet corner.            
Bread, bourbon and well-done steak.
French onion soup, beef, French dip,
And a beer with lime, for you.
Plus history lesson,
Read from a dimly lit menu.
Hallowed ground and tour busses,
Pilgrims all, for the next day.
Little Round Top, Devil’s Den,
Pickett’s Charge, Pickett’s Buffet.
Cannons, green fields, monuments,
Each, its own weathered bronze plaque.
Heroic deeds, read the all?
Better plan you to come back.
Photos, Peace Flame, trees,
Motorcycles at High Water Mark.
Sons of Virginia, New York, Tennessee.
At it til dark.
Mind, leg, weary, sunshine worn.
Supper, hotel lounge this time.
More bread, more bourbon, more steak.
Chicken basket, beer with lime.
Next day, like Lee, rode from town
In a southern direction.
Jacket patches, souvenir magnets,
Add to collection.
Gettysburg, park on the hill.                                  
Elevator to fourth floor.
Journey continues. Couple days here,                
Would like couple more. 

(From Motorcycle Stories)                

The Bicycle

The bicycle had only one speed,
So Apple would, no limits, exceed.

Was big and sturdy, far from the ground,
But when it rolled, made barely a sound.

Had a front basket, and Bermuda bell,
Ridden to town, you could always tell.

Chrome shiny chain guard, and coaster brake,
Could skid the back tire, make no mistake.

The fenders were huge, repainted twice.
He waxed them often, to keep them nice.

With Good Friend Peach on the handlebars,
They would race the wind, and watch for cars,

And keeping to a level terrain,
Forward motion, was easy maintain.

The bicycle had only one speed.
Was Apple’s classic, his friends agreed.

(From Apple’s Journal)

Analog Cowboy is Leather Gloves

Analog Cowboy is leather gloves,
And old saddles, and push come to shoves.

And thinking through, and taking his time,
And slow horses, and near past his prime.

And red bandannas, and denim shirts,
And keeping at it until it hurts.

Harmonicas, of metal and wood.
Musical theory, misunderstood.

A pocketknife, two forks, and a spoon.
And coyotes that bark at the moon.

Bedrolls, and coffee, and outdoor camps.
And long, cold nights, and kerosene lamps.

And truer meanings still to be found.
And under the stars, but above ground.

Analog Cowboy is leather gloves.
Forgotten mistakes, remembered loves.

(From Analog Cowboy Collection)

Two Spoke in Whispers

Two spoke in whispers, secret it was.
And two spoke in whispers, just because.

Most of the rest, remained undeclared,
Although, much more, together two shared.

Talk comes cheaply, and stories abound,
But, for this two, truth needed no sound.

And people thought whatever they would,
As the never could be understood.

Even at half, they had it all wrong,
Only two were correct, all along.

No matter their voices were muted,
These two were, each other, well suited.

Proper, or not, in time, two would know.
Until then, mostly quiet to show.

Two spoke in whispers, secret it was.
And two spoke in whispers, just because.

About the Author:

M.T. Jamieson and his wife, Susan, live in northeastern Ohio with their rescued dog and two rescued kitten/cats. He is twice a university former student, and a Viet Nam Era U.S.A.F. veteran. Some of his poems have appeared in recent issues of “WestWard Quarterly”, “Pancakes In Heaven”,  “Northern Stars Magazine”, “The Poet’s Art”, “The Poetry Explosion Newsletter”, “The Lyric”, and “Fourth And Sycamore”.