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May 2024

When Three Loons Dive, Do They Slice Through The Water?

The surface of the lake is so smooth that the flow of the differing currents can be clearly seen as shimmering streaks reflecting the sunshine. Breaking through these jewelled bands, like shadows over unrecognized borders, are three loons – two Arctic and one black-capped Common. They stray apart, become lost in shafts of sparkling water, and as unexpectedly re-appear further along the shore.

     The Common keeps a slight distance from the other two, is usually the first to dive. Dive and disappear so cleanly that only the barest ripple betrays it. The other two quickly go without a sound, a liquid dive which leaves the water empty, save for the dancing sunshine.

     And then a head.

     And then two more bodies break the surface, far from where

they went under, moving away with an ease which makes them seem part of the water. One of them wallows slightly on its side, and reaches far down its breast to preen. After a few nibbles, it rights itself and joins its companions. They become a distant trio of sleek shapes, and disappear in the haze of horizon and glinting sun.

~DE

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Why Do Butterflies Die?

Adapted from “The Elephant Talks To God” ~ Dale Estey

“God, can I ask you a question?”

“Everyone else does,” said God. “What have you got for me this time?”

“It’s about the butterflies.”

“Yes?”

“How come they live for just a season?” The elephant looked down to the ground, then back to the cloud. “They’re so beautiful and so light . . . and friendly. And they do a great job of taking pollen everywhere and helping the flowers and plants. Why, they’re even making sure there is going to be food for me, isn’t that right?”

That’s right,” answered the cloud. “From the butterfly to you with a few extra stages thrown in.”

“So why do they die so soon?”

“Butterflies don’t live a season,” said God. “They live a life.”

“But they’re gone when . . .”

“They’re gone when it’s their time,” answered the cloud. “To a butterfly the season is their life. They expect nothing more and fulfill their existence. To the trees, your life is brief.”

“You mean the butterfly thinks of its season like I think of my years?”

“Seconds or hours, long shadows or short, it’s all the same kind of time,’ said God. “The butterfly feels he has as long a life as you.”

“Really?” asked the elephant.

“Yes,” said God.

“I’m glad,” said the elephant.

And then God spoke to the elephant, and called him by his name, and filled his heart full of his beloved butterflies, and they soared through his blood, wing tip to wing tip, until he understood the power of their life.

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What Happens When Kafka And Trump Walk Into A Bar (Though Neither Drink)?

~ Frank. Welcome to your world.

~ Thanks, DT. I’ve been living it all my life.

~ I’ve taken some pages out of your books, Frank.

~ I did try to get them burned.

~ You didn’t try too hard.

~ Well – no.

~ You know – neither did I.

~ I know. They all ran to your tune.

~ They did.

~ You were the Pied Piper of Havoc.

~ Worked like a charm, Frank.

~ Yes, DT – yes, it did.

~ They thought I was a bug.

~ Yes.

~ But I turned them into bugs.

~That you did, DT. And turned them against each other.

~ Yes.

~ And stood back, and watched.

~ Pretty well.

~ To the victor goes the spoils.

~ I was astounded – believe me.

~ And they keep making the same mistakes.

~ I know, Frank. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so funny.

~ The one-eyed man is King in the land of the Blind.

~ Yes, Frank – yes. But you know what?

~ What?

~ I’ve got great vision in both eyes.

DE

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Am I Looking Back To Sea?

I had the dream again.
Not a bad dream,
But an odd dream.
I have it often.
I’m on shore, and looking at
The Lighthouse
On Partridge Island.
And
As I sit there,
I wonder what I am doing
On the Island.
(You’d think I could have
Dreamed up a spyglass).
However, now awake,
I plan to turn my dream 
Into reality.
I made everything right

At the Lighthouse.
And I made sure Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as night

With one white mitten,
Was played with, and fed.
I walked him to my dorey
So he’d know I would be away,
And
Away I went.

It’s a peaceful row,
The sea is calm,
The distance isn’t great.
The biggest chore

Is climbing up
From the rocky shore,
To settle into the comfort
Of the trees.
But, I did,
And I did.
I sat upon
A grassy perch
And looked back
With my spyglass.
What did I expect to see?
What revelation did I hope?

Well – yes – I wanted to see

Paw, my cat/kitten.

And he did not disappoint,
Though he revealed no secrets,

He did the same damn fool
Leaps, and bounds, and rushes
From place to place.
I spied no secret trysts.
I was, however, myself
Taken by surprise,
When Michael, the Mi’kmaq Indian,
Approached my seating place.
He used no stealth,

For I would have never heard him.
He asked no questions.
I handed him my spyglass.
He adjusted it, and peered.
Many minutes passed.
He handed it back to me.
“Wild cat,” he said,
“Got Glooscap in him.”

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Franz Kafka And May Day

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

30 April 1918

            If one can love and loathe the same thing, I do so with travel. Even as short a trip as the afternoon train to Prague. Regardless of the destination. And I don’t really mind so much, once I’m on the conveyance and moving. It’s having to get ready. It’s having to think about it.

     Ottla – of course – had all my things together and in the waggon before breakfast. I took a last walk around the village, as unobtrusively as possible, for I had said any `good-byes’ I wished to make the day before. And to Farmer L. the day before that. I was tempted to go past Fraulein G’s door – to be able to look at her one last time. She will fade in my mind. Faces and bodies always fade. But I did not.

     I went along the road which leads to Oberklee, and sat beneath my favourite tree for a short while. But, as is my habit, I became late, and had to hurry back to Ottla’s. Before the past and future started to mingle as I stared across fields and hills. O. insisted I have lunch, and then the hired hand drove us to the station. There were a few waves and farewells from people, which I had to return. My fingers to my hat.

     The wait at the station was not long, since the train was on time and we nearly were not. And the ride was uneventful. The day was clear and crisp, and I looked at the farms and countryside with new understanding. New curiosity. I saw where a field had just been started, and could guess which meal the farmer might have tonight. The condition of his boots. The gratitude for this Tuesday sunshine.

     And such things kept me thinking of Prague. Until it was in the distance. Until the landscape changed. Until the outskirts surrounded us. Until Prague filled the windows, swallowed the train whole, scraped us from the living earth. Then I was home.

01 May 1918

            It is like the day after the funeral.

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