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10/24/2025
The ground has been kissed by the harvest moon.
They put their hands into the rich earth – dark, moist loam, which clung to the vegetables while it caked under their fingernails – and dug at the hills of firm potatoes. They pulled the limp stalks – were satisfied when the bulky vegetables came out of the ground and rolled to a stop by their feet.
They shook the roots, loosening clods of earth and any remaining potatoes, then threw the dead plants onto a pile at the end of the row.
They scraped the excess dirt from the vegetables, placing the large ones into a barrel, and the smaller – even tiny – ones into a basket.
They wasted nothing.
They dug further with a hoe to make sure none were missed.
They paused by the remaining tomato plants, and picked the full fruit. Perhaps over-ripe, yet the sun warmed skin was firm
enough, and they ate the red flesh with pleasure, letting seeds and juice gush to the ground.
They smiled at each other as they ate, wiped the back of their hands across their reddened lips at the same time, and dried their damp, muddy fingers on the legs of their pants.
They stood and pondered by the onions, which they had been taking from the field for months. They plant and replant, but there are few left with tops that have not fallen over. They pull about half, but leave the rest for a couple of weeks and the whims of the gods.
They loosened the earth and marvelled in the strong, healthy smell which each carrot released from the good ground. They left the green leaves on the crown to feather from the tops of their baskets.
Occasionally, one of the orange vegetables would branch into a pair of walking legs. Or even form a strange, running monster which clung fast to the earth.
Some were so thick, that forefinger and thumb could not encircle them. Each was carefully drawn from the nourishing land, so slender tips would not break and mar the beauty of the perfect whole.
They brushed against the brittle leaves as they checked upon the pumpkins growing among the corn stalks. They tapped the largest of the full, orange fruit, and were pleased at the hefty girth. They saw some could ripen further, and plotted when the time would be best to gather them.
They broke one medium-sized pumpkin free from its dying vines, and put it aside to have with their evening meal.
As they walked through the withered corn stalks, they were surprised to find an occasional ear that – although small – was ripe and full enough to eat. Overlooked when the others were plucked, they had struggled to a humble maturity.
These were also gratefully gathered, and together would afford them one last taste of sweet corn. As they husked their unexpected bonus, they listened to the wind rustle through the dry corn plants.
DE
The ground has been kissed by the harvest moon.
They put their hands into the rich earth – dark, moist loam, which clung to the vegetables while it caked under their fingernails – and dug at the hills of firm potatoes. They pulled the limp stalks – were satisfied when the bulky vegetables came out of the ground and rolled to a stop by their feet.
They shook the roots, loosening clods of earth and any remaining potatoes, then threw the dead plants onto a pile at the end of the row.
They scraped the excess dirt from the vegetables, placing the large ones into a barrel, and the smaller – even tiny – ones into a basket.
They wasted nothing.
They dug further with a hoe to make sure none were missed.
They paused by the remaining tomato plants, and picked the full fruit. Perhaps over-ripe, yet the sun warmed skin was firm
enough, and they ate the red flesh with pleasure, letting seeds and juice gush to the ground.
They smiled at each other as they ate, wiped the back of their hands across their reddened lips at the same time, and dried their damp, muddy fingers on the legs of their pants.
They stood and pondered by the onions, which they had been taking from the field for months. They plant and replant, but there are few left with tops that have not fallen over. They pull about half, but leave the rest for a couple of weeks and the whims of the gods.
They loosened the earth and marvelled in the strong, healthy smell which each carrot released from the good ground. They left the green leaves on the crown to feather from the tops of their baskets.
Occasionally, one of the orange vegetables would branch into a pair of walking legs. Or even form a strange, running monster which clung fast to the earth.
Some were so thick, that forefinger and thumb could not encircle them. Each was carefully drawn from the nourishing land, so slender tips would not break and mar the beauty of the perfect whole.
They brushed against the brittle leaves as they checked upon the pumpkins growing among the corn stalks. They tapped the largest of the full, orange fruit, and were pleased at the hefty girth. They saw some could ripen further, and plotted when the time would be best to gather them.
They broke one medium-sized pumpkin free from its dying vines, and put it aside to have with their evening meal.
As they walked through the withered corn stalks, they were surprised to find an occasional ear that – although small – was ripe and full enough to eat. Overlooked when the others were plucked, they had struggled to a humble maturity.
These were also gratefully gathered, and together would afford them one last taste of sweet corn. As they husked their unexpected bonus, they listened to the wind rustle through the dry corn plants.
DE
As the Lighthouse Keeper on Partridge Island,
I have to make a monthly inspection
Along the shore of the whole island.
Of course, I make reports, and haul the
Moveable trash off the shore, and put it
Above the tide line (which is high),
So it won’t set sail again.
All this is true,
But,
What I’m really supposed
To report,
Are the bodies I find.
There are generally three or four a year,
Mostly beyond recognition.
I can spread out this chore if I desire,
But – generally – I prefer to do it over a
Couple of days.
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as deep tide pools
With one white mitten,
Always wants to come along.
He always regrets it,
When we reach the ocean tip,
Where he is surrounded,
On three sides,
By water.
He doesn’t like that.
And he always complains,
But he soldiers on.
Today was no different.
Although the day was beautiful,
With clear sky and pleasant wind,
The ocean had an odd, opaque shimmer.
It was like looking at the coated side
Of a mirror.
Paw – who has been known to step
Over a dead body to see what
Was on the other side –
Avoided the shore,
And stayed above the
High tide mark.
I guess he didn’t want to see
Something he couldn’t see.
He was impatient for me to haul ass.
And he let me know it.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA UE
This is a Test
But not “the” Test,
If it were a real
Test,
It would need an
Answer,
Or two,
Or even Multiple choice.
But It isn’t.
It is a
Test
To announce
Something,
Or,
To warn about
Something,
Or,
To warn
About a warning.
A Test to basically say,
*IF*
This was a Test.
Then get your shit together,
Or bend over and
Kiss your ass good-bye.
THAT IS ALL
It is
That type of test.
Do with it as you will.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure (even in metric).
I experienced over two months of writer’s block many years ago.
I literally sat at my desk for hours.
To this day I can accurately describe that desk. Its vision is before/behind my eyes as I key. It had a red leather top.
I have devised a scheme which I find is 90% successful in combating writer’s block.
Do not complete your thought on page or screen.
Make sure it is solidly in your mind (make notes if necessary).
But, do not write it down.
If it is a description – don’t finish it.
If it is dialogue – don’t complete it.
If it is a line of poetry – don’t end it.
The next day, read the preceding page.
Then slide into the phrase you would have ended with yesterday.
Put in those final words.
The odds are excellent you will continue on your way.
The Saint Louis Atheists have started to follow me on Bluesky (which pleases me to no end).
Their quote is: “If you wish to make apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe” ~Carl Sagan
Which pleases me even more.
Of course, I follow back.
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as agate
With one white mitten,
Is turning into Narcissus.
He is gazing at himself
In a quiet pool of water,
Becalmed along the shore
Of Partridge Island.
He does – sometimes – look
Into the mirror,
And lingers.
I assume he sees
What I see.
But I know cats,
And many of the other animals,
Also look with their noses,
And ears.
Perhaps that is why
He gazes so intently,
Not being able to recognize
What he sees.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report. DE BA. UEL
From the Trades:
“Associate publisher *** will leave publishing on August 22 and “embrace a new life as a gentleman farmer.”
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