M.T. JAMIESON - POEMS

M.T. Jamieson and his wife, Susan, live and ride their motorcycles in northeastern Ohio. Their dog and two cats stay, pretty much, at home.
He is twice a former college attendee, and once a U.S.A.F. veteran, Viet Nam era.

​Bodies In Motion

​Bodies in motion, bodies at rest.
Gravity, and at times, second best.
 
Glory days, and return there to night,
And the line between proper and right.
 
Easy downhill runs, and uphill slopes.
Best of wishes, and fondest of hopes.
 
Daylight savings, and the leaping year,
Advance forward, to only time fear.
 
It seemed that he had reasoned it out.
That it, hidden in shadows and doubt.
 
And were there rules somehow the broken,
The of it, should remain unspoken.
 
Was a truth in this beauty at hand,
Only they two could but understand.
 
Bodies in motion, bodies at rest.
A new theory, perhaps, they to test?

​Footprint

​Call this a footprint, traveled and stepped.
A marker humble, bravely inept.
 
Journal of sorts, itinerary.
Compass and clock, a where to find me.
 
Like the time capsule concept of old,
Warm descriptions of trails, long since cold.
 
Some reflecting sweet walks in the park,
Others admitting fear of the dark.
 
Wisdom and insight, a short supply.
Those seeking of such, need not apply.
 
Expect not rivers all to run deep,
Or the best climbs to must to be steep.
 
To dream, to sleep, to under-achieve.
Likewise, notions, a way to retrieve.
 
Call this a footprint, traveled and stepped.
Or, words on paper, a record kept.
 
 

​Decades

Have quite many decades to pick from,
Each with its own notion and income.
 
History neat into ten year chunks,
Lined up in rows like old steamer trunks.
 
Remembrances of when stuff occurred,
Though, over time, lines often seem blurred.
 
Was it late this, or early the next?
Too close the look might leave one perplexed.
 
So overlaps are, thusly, excused,
And the concept of almost is used.
 
Relics of pasts, both distant and near
Carry thoughts from a relative year.
 
Forming sort of a patchwork of quilt,
Where some sense of a recall is built.
 
Have quite many decades to pick from.
In all, others were better than some.
 

​Bowl

A glass bowl on a wooden table,
Quiet beginning to this fable.
 
Gathered there, Apple and Good Friend Peach,
And various fruits, all neighbors each,
 
Mayor Banana, more brown than green,
And young and flirty Sweet Nectarine,
 
Bunched, Seedless Grapes, closely, the long time,
And Cousin Orange, who does not rhyme.
 
They’re mourning, in passing, Soft Old Pear.
Reverend Melon offers a prayer.
 
Orchard to market, to healthy snack,
Amen that these seeds will bring him back.
 
The small congregation joining in,
Blessed eternity, to begin.
 
A glass bowl on a wooden table,
A family produce heals as able.
 
 
From Apple’s Journal

​Proper Black Leather

Proper black leather, warm summer night,
Bright chrome, polished metal, sounding right.
 
Left side mirror, and faster than he,
Dark hair, dark helmet, face almost see.
 
Dark boots, dark gloves. He fumbles the shift.
She passes. Slight turn. Lean and then lift.
 
Clutch, another gear, back in the lane.
She’s pulling away, simple and plain.
 
Just that quickly out of sight and gone,
To some down the road, and later on.
 
Tail lights and echoes, this is no race.
A younger self might have given chase.
 
Life moving by, a wave and a smile,
How often goes, this mile after mile.
 
Proper black leather, warm summer night,
And another almost but not quite.
 
 
 
Motorcycle Stories