It is a whirlwind in here

The Ghost Of Kafka Walks

The Ghost of Kafka walks

(not stalks)

The streets

Of Prague.


(The place he would/could

Never leave
Until the last

Half year of his life)

He described as:
“The little Mother has claws.”

Which she did.

For him.

He managed

(In the last half year of his life)
To escape to Berlin

During one of

Worst times

Anyone could live

In Berlin

Until the end of the

Second World War.


That was years


But he escaped

With a young


Which made things

So much


But his Ghost only

The streets of



Kafka’s Ghost


The rest of

The World.

~ D. E. BA  U.E.

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Margaret Atwood Travels Further Than Ever – Blessed Be!


I have noted some folk looking at this post from a couple of years ago. I had put it up because of the success of the television series, A Handmaid’s Tale.

Now, Ms. Atwood has produced a new novel, The Testaments, [which, by the way, has a brilliant front and back cover] with an international launch from London, England. I can humbly state that my part in her literary life remains the same.


It was not my intent to piss off Margaret Atwood.

The opposite, in fact. I wanted her to know she was an inspiration.

She was giving a reading at the University of New Brunswick in my student days. I attended, but there was quite the gathering and she was whisked away at the end. However, I overheard there was a ‘gathering’ in her honour. Invitation only, of course. Academia and literati.

I crashed the party (that was the term used by the professor who clapped his sturdy hand upon my shoulder but – happily – did not thrust me into the night).

But Ms. Atwood was kept deep in many a learned conversation and I had no opportunity to converse. I did, however, overhear where she would be spending next afternoon – the historic University Observatory.

Next day I knocked upon the Observatory door.

It was not a cheerful Margaret Atwood who answered, and answered with alacrity.

She asked my name.

She asked my business.

And she asked how the hell I knew where she was. She had stolen the day to do some writing. Some ‘real’ writing, in this window-of-opportunity grudgingly offered on the book tour.

At least I was there to praise Atwood and not to bury her with some essay question.

Nor had I a manuscript to hand to her.

I might not have garnered a smile, but her curt thank you was reward enough.

For me, at least.

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On The First Day Of Advent, Sister Darling Gives Me A Treat

Sister Darling takes
Her Ministrations
To her far flung flock

And never more so
Than at Festive times.
An outgoing fishing boat
Dropped her off early
At my Lighthouse dock.
And her 

. . . admittedly . . .

Earthy ministrations

Took the place of breakfast.

But she had also
Brought foodstuffs
An Advent calendar.
She let me pluck out
The first gift.
A substantial chaw
Of Spruce gum,
Which will last me long.
She also brought
A small bag
Full of some herb,
For my cat/kitten.

Let me tell you,
He was kept right occupied
All day long.

(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL

To Be A Cat And Bat At That

A Brigantine
Hove to,
As it came past
The Lighthouse,
On its way
Into harbour.
A rowboat came to
My small dock,
Deposited a cask
Of Caribbean rum,
Compliments of my cousin,
The ship’s Boatswain.

And it appears

The fame,
Of my cat/kitten,
Black as the rum
With one white mitten,
Is spreading across the seas.
Though perhaps, not
All seven of them.
For there was also,
A ball of twine,
With some loose ends,
That has become
An instant,
And favourite,

(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL

The Marvel And Surprise Of A Severe Edit On A Novel Manuscript

I am about two thirds through editing my ‘five-years-to-write’ novel. It is called “There Was A Time, Oh Pilgrim, When The Stones Were Not So Smooth. I doubt I will get to keep my title.

I follow my characters, so I had no detailed plot. Thus, I can forget some of the details of something written two years ago.

Though editing brings most of it back.

And I might have known it at the time, but I am surprised that this particular chapter is a juncture to three major threads in the novel.

First, there are a number of different levels of the supernatural in the novel. They are distinct, and do not blend. In this chapter, three of these levels make an appearance.

Second, a major event from my main character’s childhood is revealed, explaining much of how she got to be the person she is.

And third, a decidedly unpleasant and mean character actually performs a positive deed.

That’s a lot of work for one chapter. I realized I had to make each of these threads stand out on their own. I remembered that I had worked and worked on it at the time, but not as successfully as I desired.

But this time.

My solution is to use number of three line paragraphs. Everything stands out. Nothing is cluttered

No confusion at all.

There’s A Storm Coming Up The Coast That Will Give Us A Dose

Tend to a Lighthouse,
On an island,
On the sea,
And you get the feel
And the smell
Of the weather,
Moving toward you.

There’s a blow
Heading this way.
I’ve put up the rope,
Between my house
And the Lighthouse,
To grab onto
Some Jeezly fierce.
And I’ll be carrying
My cat/kitten,
Black as a storm cloud,
With one white mitten,
In his cage.
‘Cause he’s a

Fierce little bugger,
And will go out
Into it
To his
He’s been sniffing
The storm,
And the excitement
Consumes him.

(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL

The Old Moon Is A Full Moon That Excites A Loon

The call of the loon
Is plaintive,
And crazy,
And seems to fill
The Harbour,
Maybe even

The moon itself.

Because it sounds,
As if,
It can go that far.
It makes my cat/kitten,
Black as night,
With one white mitten,

And hiss
And not stray far
From me.
Though Paw
Is tempted,
By the full moon
On the surface
Of the harbour.
And peers,
And mutters,
And even dips,
His one white paw
The yellow,
And mellow,
Wide band
Of moonlight
Right at him
The water.

(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL

Two Crows Joy Play Silly Buggers With A Cat Kitten

The cat/kitten,
Black as a crow
With one white mitten,
(I call him Paw),
Was prowling
By the Lighthouse,
As he likes
To do,

When two crows

On a bit of

They flew toward him,
Then one veered

And the other

Paw twisted,
And dodged,
And fell
Ass over tea kettle.

And I,
For the first time
In my life,
The laughter of crows.

(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL)

Move Over, Greta Thunberg, Let Me Address COP26 With My Climate Change Warning

Well, first, I would never ask Ms. Thunberg to move over. I would, indeed, stand aside and let her take my place. I say “Thank God” and  “Blessed Be!” that someone like her is kicking ass to save the planet.

And, anyway, my up close and personal warning will not fit into this last day of the COP26 gathering. It comes too late.

But it only happened this morning.

Through the wee hours of 13 November, I had to open two of my windows, turn my fan on high, and discard bedclothes in my attempt to sleep, and I was not fully successful.

13 November, There is supposed to be snow and freezing temperatures. There was not.

With the dawn finally allowing light into the sky, I turned on the radio. I was told, in no uncertain terms (because it was repeated) that the dockyard on the harbour was the warmest place in all of Canada. 13C.

I took particular (and startled) attention to this, because the dockyard on the harbour is at the foot of my street. I was in the hottest place in Canada. 

13C on 13 November.

This is Climate Change!

This is Global Warming.

I understand if folk would rather talk to Greta Thunberg about this subject (so would I).

But, for the moment, I am living proof.

Man of War Leaves Port for the Seven Seas

I am attired

In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

In service

To my Monarch.

I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject,

Yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse

On Partridge Island

I am to stand at


And even salute,

As a Man of War,

All three masts

And 124 cannon,

Sails past from harbour

On its way to sea.

The Captain

Will stand

On the bow

To salute me.

I am going to give

Each owner,

Of every telescope

Trained on me,

A treat,


A tale to tell.

I am going to be holding


My cat/kitten,

Black as night

With one white mitten,

In his cage,

To let him

Inspect this departing,

Fighting ship.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


A Meal From The Sea, A Feast As Fresh As Fresh Can Be

A fishing boat

Came into my

Lighthouse dock,

And rang its wheelhouse bell.

So, down I went.

The skipper had some
Unexpected provisions for me.

Crabs – it’s the season.

Lobster (he apologized for

The junk fish, but he knows I

Quite like it, whereas others

Class them as fare only

For the poor).

And Dulse!

A burlap sack

Of Dulse.

Now that is a treat.

Salty, .dried and crisp

I have it with sharp cheddar.

I don’t know why folk complain

About lobster

.Boil them up, but not too long.

Crack them open with a hammer

.Have a loaf of bread.

Melt a large bowl of butter.


A hunk of bread

With one hand,

And a chunk of lobster

With the other.

Pause occasionally with

Dulse and cheese.

Suck your fingers.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL

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