This is a Test
(But not “the” Test)
For,
If it were the real
Test,
It would need an
Answer,
Or two,
Or even
Multiple choice.
But
It is not that test.
It is just a
Test
To announce
Something
Or
To warn about
Something
Or
It is a test to warn
About
A warning.
A Test
Basically
To say,
*IF*
This was
A Test
Get
Your shit together
Or
Bend over and
Kiss your ass
Good-bye.
That is all.
It is*That*
Type of test.
DE BA UEL
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.
DE
The major Remembrance Day Service is held in a hockey arena. Which I don’t like. So we found – in walking distance – a service at a small naval memorial/park with a Cenotaph. The park was in honour of the naval ship, The Jervis Bay.
I’ll stab at 400 – 500 folk there. Cars parked as far as ten minutes away. Raggle-taggle group of cadets. Trumpet player who had no trouble with the high notes.
Two good ole boys near us who looked as if they had been hauled from a brawl at the local tavern – but they had their poppies.
Sweet li’l kidlets.
MC who made old, old jokes and had to be corrected a few times about the Order of Service. And had to ask if anyone was present who might lay the wreath of the government or city or …
He chuckled over the one guy who volunteered a number of times: “We’re puttin’ ya to work today.”
A train whistle in the distance that gave a loooong blast for 11:00 (though it was a couple of minutes out of sync).
And TOTAL silence for the two minutes of silence.
Then home we went to watch the Service from Ottawa, with the Governor General, Prime Minister, Silver Cross Mother, Military Pipes & Drums, marching Military Contingent, and interviews with two sharp-as-tacks Veterans in their late nineties.
Best of both worlds.
DE
Our good and gracious Queen was on the #7 bus tonight.
At least, it was the spitting image of HM. Charles III himself would have given her a second look.
She was well dressed and well coiffed.
Her only unusual feature was her scowl. Nary one look of good cheer did she exhibit the whole of the ride.
Perhaps, that is because she was carrying (as best she could) a three-step foot stool, encased in plastic, and a five foot curtain rod, also encased in plastic.
And, I guessed, there was no maid nor footman awaiting her at home to help with her chore.
DE
Paw,My cat/kitten
Black as gunpowder
With one white mitten,
Is having the time
Of his
Life.
We are in the Lighthouse,
On this Guy Fawkes Night,
Searching down the gunpowder
The dastardly villain
Has planted.
This has been part,
Of my traditions
For years.
Straight from
My Father.
“Remember Remember The Fifth of November.”
And though I tell Paw,
The cat/kitten,
To run wild
And
Search everywhere,
In truth,
He doesn’t want to
Stray too far
From my side,
Which is fine.
For,
In truth,
The Lighthouse is
A strange
And peculiar
Place.
So he stays near
To the glow of my
Lantern,
As I go through
My ritual.
We are both pleased.
And,
Will both
Have a
Fine Fish Feast,
When Guy Fawkes is
(As he inevitably is)
Brought low.
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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