It’s the shortest day
Of the year,
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, the cat/kitten,
Black as black 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 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen /A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
If my cat/kitten,
Black as coal,
With one white mitten,
(I call him Paw)
Was not black as coal,
He’d be lost to me,
And to the ages,
In these drifts of snow
Covering Partridge Island,
After the storm,
From down the coast,
That left us so white.
I kept him in while
It raged,
Which he took to kindly.
But I let him loose,
The next afternoon,
Because a cat/kitten
Got to learn the
Ways of the world.
He took to the huge drifts,
Like a fish to water.
And when he tried to
Chase a rabbit,
I laughed myself silly.
And, (I bet),
So did the rabbit.
(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
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
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
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as a starless night
With one white mitten,
Has outdone himself.
Again.
He came and got me,
Tracked me down,
(I was repairing part
Of the Partridge Island
Dock)
And bade me follow.
Demanded, actually.
So (of course) I did.
He has yet to understand
I can not scramble
With the alacrity
His four paws
Allow.
He stood waiting
At the top of
The rough trail
And complained.
He then stood by the base
Of the Lighthouse
And complained.
He paced at the
Entrance
Of our rough little forest
And complained.
But he didn’t enter until
I stood beside him.
No complaints now.
So . . . I wondered what
I was going to find.
And – no – I would
Never have guessed.
Paw moved carefully,
But unerringly,
To a spot not far
From the water.
He stopped in front
Of a swath of tall grass.
He sat down.
The rest was up to me.
I stepped (deliberately) over him,
And peered.
In the middle of the
Swath of grass
Was the leg of a deer.
One leg.
Nothing else.
No head
No antlers
No exposed bones
No hide nor hair
(Save the tiny hairs
on this solitary leg
complete with hoof).
Paw didn’t make a sound,
But his tail twitched.
There couldn’t be
Enough meat on it
For even a cat to chew.
There are no deer on Partridge Island.
Nothing much larger than
Paw, himself.
Some hawk or osprey or eagle
Might have dropped it.
Some storm might have
Heaved it ashore from some
Hunter’s field-dressing
Of a fresh kill.
I let Paw do what he wanted.
He didn’t want much.
He did walk its whole length,
Sniffed and licked,
And once
Rubbed his face
Against it.
He paid special attention to the hoof.
He was satisfied.
I was satisfied.
The deer was
With its ancestors.
I carried it
Across the rocks
And tossed it back
Into the sea.
By the time I turned
Back to shore,
Paw was on his way
Home.
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
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