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Let The Games Begin
I’ve been reading my Shakespeare (As I often do)
Aloud, to Paw, my cat/kitten
Black as the grave,
With one white mitten.
He usually sleeps.
But he would agree with Horatio, that:
“There needs no ghost, my Lord/
“Come from the grave, to tell us this.”
And Paw, as is Horatio, would be right.
But still, the wrecks of ships,
Gone down to their watery depths
In the preceding year,
Float in a line
Stern to bow
Across the mouth of the harbour.
I go out, and always watch
In the dark dark dark of the night,
As one year of wretched release
Slides into another.
What can I do for them,
Other than to acknowledge
Their passage.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
It had been a house of dreams, it was now a house of ghosts.
Ghosts tranquil and benign peered through the dusty upper windows, stood in wait behind the boarded doors. The dreams of long ago, which had tumbled down the stairs, and frolicked through the rooms, were now memories in the minds of ghosts.
The ghosts were themselves memories, destined to further fade with each new birth. But there would be no births in this house, as it slid inexorably toward decay. The lackluster brown shingles would be more smudged, the remaining panes of old glass would break, the floors would warp and collapse, the roof would succumb to the years of harsh weather.
Even the `No Trespass’ sign was barely legible. Then where would the ghosts go?
Blaine left his car and walked toward the house.
If he had eyes to see, who would be there to greet him? Would children’s dreams, fair-haired and boisterous, burst through the front door and surround him in games of tag and laughter? Would he get caught by their enthusiasm (would he become a child himself), and race behind the trees, burrow into the hay, hide between the bins of potato and turnip, intent not to be `it’.
Or would he meet the ghosts, quiet and tentative at the top of the steps, moving slowly with their uncertain smiles. Would they greet him with a wave, invite him into their warm-smelling kitchens, offer him fresh tea, and squares right out of the pan? Would he sit in the stream of fall sunlight flowing across the well-oiled floor, and talk about childhood?
Blaine walked part way up the drive before he stopped.
He knew what lay beyond the boarded windows, and the sagging door upon its rusty hinges. Wallpaper would be water-stained, and curling off the plaster walls. There would be lumps of refuse in the corners of the rooms, with one inevitable rusty bed frame lying on its side. There would be gaps in the ceiling, where beams of sunlight shimmered through motes of dust. There would be holes in the baseboards, where earnest rodents made comfortable homes.
There would be musty smells offering a hint of long-ago meals, and something gone bad in the pantry. There would be one upper window (at the back) which still had a tattered lace curtain, half obscuring what had once been totally private. At night he would hear bats.
It was not this house he had come to see, of course. Of course, not this derelict house, which he knew could never be restored, and which was so beyond help even death slept while visiting.
As arranged,
I met the fishing boat
At my Lighthouse dock
Within the first hour
Of sunlight
With my cat/kitten
Black as coal in your stocking,
With one white mitten,
Perched on my shoulder.
To which he has taken
Right well.
Aboard was Sister Darling, of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),
I told the Captain,
Before even speaking to
The religion-professing Darling,
That he need not retrieve her
Upon his evening return.
And wished him
A most
Auspicious Christmas.
She carried a hamper of Christmas fare
And good cheer.
As we together walked
Up toward the Lighthouse Keeper’s
House,
My cat/kitten,
With one effortless leap,
Transported himself
From my shoulder
To hers.
He is perhaps anticipating
Some culinary miracle
In addition to
That of Christmas Eve.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
It’s the shortest day
Of the year.
~ The December Solstice ~
As old Sol
Shifts his ass
Over the Equator.
Then the days
Get longer,
And the weather
Gets warmer.
Hah hah / Hah hah.
I told this to
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as hidden ice,
With one white mitten,
And,
If he didn’t laugh outright
He at least,
Smiled.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island / 1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
Where the Elephant meets God on Christmas Day. Praised by Orson Scott Card. The author guarantees it makes a wonderful gift.
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the missing entries of his actual diaries. There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.
In these entries, the chill of winter begins to settle over the chill of his life.
10 December 1916
My father is so suspicious, he rarely suspects what is really going on around him. He has no idea that Ottla has rented this house, or that I come here like a thief in the night. He would think that it is another plot against him. And, he is right about the plots – but he’ll never realize they are done solely for defensive purposes. Which is a shame, for he fully appreciates self-preservation.
Of course, even I do not fully know Ottla’s reasons for renting this tiny house. I suspect a young man is involved, but I will keep my queries to myself. It is not the place to bring Felice – but is nice enough to set out on new adventures. I’ve had adventures in less suitable surroundings. The shop girls. The hotels with their chilly rooms.
12 December 1916
Max wants me to publish more. He may even wish upon me the horror of his own proliferation. His novels, and stories, and all his comments and reviews about the “arts”. I do not tell him this, for I think he would be greatly offended, but much of the time my opinions do not even interest me.
14 December 1916
Overheard a woman talking to Max today – complained of being lonely. But what it sounded like to me was that she was only tired. She had children at home, family in the neighbourhood, and friends (obviously) whom she could talk to. Yet, she chooses to feel lonely. Yes, her husband is in the war, but a partial loss does not make one lonely. Perhaps alone – but that is entirely different. Being lonely is waking from a nightmare, and realizing there is no one to wake you.
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
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