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Gunpowder, Treason and Plot, & A Cat In A Lighthouse

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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Halloween Turns Mean On All Hallows

I knew this was going to happen.
I know the old ways,
From the old Days.
Halloween, All Hallows,

The Ghosts and Witches and maybe

Demons 
Take offence when 
They are thwarted.
This All Hallows
They are thwarted by the
Full of the moon,
Which starts to fade before
Their night of freedom.
They want the light to see
The damnable deviltry
They let loose, 
Upon the Living and the Dead.
Paw, my cat/kitten
Black as sin
With one white mitten.
Knows it also.
He refuses to accompany me
On my last tending of the Lighthouse light.
So I asked Sister Darling,
Of The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
To accompany me.
It is the very reason 
I have implored her,
To visit me on Partridge Island
This usurped night of Samhain.
As well she knows, since she has
Given me warnings in words,
The way Paw has in deeds,
To tend to these eldrich going-ons
Brought in by the ocean tides.
We are quick to my business
And hear the rustle of the curtain
Between this life and the next,

Every time the Lighthouse light
Blinks off.

{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

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Paw, The Cat/Kitten, Takes A Walk

I have had to affix

A bell,

Around the neck of

Paw, my cat kitten,

Black as feathers

With one white mitten,


Because

He has acquired

A taste for birds.


This is natural and

Was to be expected.


I might not have done so

On the Mainland,

Where birds are plentiful

And fair game.

But on this island, 

Which one can circumnavigate

In under a two hour walk,

I feel the birds need

All the help they can get.

So – there it is.


And Paw, my cat kitten,

Protested for about

A half hour,

And not since.

He’s a smart li’l bugger.

He adapts.

And I swear, he gets

Faster.

Fast enough to still

Dine on the occasional

Avian feast.


Which he proves, by

Spitting out an errant

Feather or two

At my feet.

{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

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I See As Far As The Eye Can See Out To Sea

It’s a rare, balmy day

Near the end of November.

I’m sitting on a bench with a back.

I made it myself,

Because a bench with a back

Is a thing of luxury.

I can lean

And not perch.

It is situated safely

Up from the shoreline,

Looking out to sea.

It will not get washed away

Regardless of the fierceness

Of the ocean and its storms.

The Lighthouse is behind me,

And Paw, my cat/kitten.

Black as black can be

With one white mitten,

Is snoozing in the sun

Beside me.

I ponder whether to wake him,

To see a half dozen ducks

Paddling their way around the island.

Paw has his whims,

And might try to catch one.

He won’t, of course,

And I have no desire to scoop

Him out of the cold, November water.

I’ll let him snooze.

I’ll let the ducks go upon their way.

I’ll just sit and enjoy the sun.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report

DE BA. UEL

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It Was A Dark And Stormy Week

Bop bop bop,

On the end of my nose.

Bop!

Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as a seam of coal

With one white mitten

Is waking me up.

Bop!

It is his way and,

Thankfully,

He never uses his claws.

‘Get up.’

‘Attention must be paid.’

Bop!

So I rise from my bed,

& my warm quilts,

Pull on pants and sweater

Over my pajamas

And follow.

I know my place.

He leads me to the door

Of my lighthouse keepers house,

And waits.

So I pull it open

And out he bounds.

Sunshine

Blue sky

Stiff breeze across

Partridge Island.

We have been days engulfed

In fog and rain and

FOG.

I let him gambol.

I follow into the sunshine.

I think it possible

Yes – possible –

That I might actually

Be able

To take off my sweater.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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Ship’s Cat, Erik The Red, Leaves For Final Port of Call

I shall repost this repost, as the illustrous life of Erik The Red comes to its close. I was always on the outlook for him when I passed The CSS Acadia.

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fb_img_1501779912940

Erik The Red, the mouser of The CSS Acadia, moored permanently in Halifax harbour as a museum ship, retires today. Even as I write this. So, I will repost my own encounter with Erik, one day during the winter.

Dark comes early these days, and will do so for months. My frequent walks along Halifax harbour now usually begin in the dusk and always end in the dark. The lights near and far are beautiful, and the lack of fellow travellers is pleasing. And any ships that pass in the night on their way to sea are well-lit sights to see.

On ship stays in port, however. It is The CSS Acadia. The CSS Acadia survived the Halifax Explosion and sailed for many a long year afterward. She served in both World Wars and retains her original steam engines and boilers. She even has her original crew quarters. The CSS Acadia is still afloat in Halifax Harbour and is a part of the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic.  She is open to visitors and receives many. She also has a cat.

I met the cat the other night (not for the first time). He is an orange tabby called Erik, and is classed as the ship’s Junior Rodent Control Officer (Junior because there is a more senior cat aboard). He is not a “house cat”, but ranges the wharves at will. He is generally intent upon his business but deigns to be  friendly. If he deems he has the time, he’ll give you a look over and allow some fraternizing. Perhaps the lack of human folk prompted him to trot toward me and encourage some human hand contact. At any rate he allowed himself to be patted a few minutes. He even walked with me  (well . . . scooted around me as I walked) for a few ship lengths before he returned to his nocturnal endeavours. A sleek, gold arrow aimed into the dark.

DE

(death notice)https://haligonia.ca/beloved-erik-the-red-passes-away-after-brief-illness-200456/?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=haligonia

(image)https://haligonia.ca/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/FB_IMG_1501779912940.jpg

 

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Social Media Casualty – Facebook Friend Falls To The Wayside – With Apology

(image)

I http://www.popsugar.com/files/ons1/192/1922507/26_2009/2209634f9834fc87_facebook_friend.png

I glean some interesting information from Facebook, and do get some *news* from people I might not otherwise get. I troll Facebook  and imagine I average a total of 20-50 minutes on it in the course of a day. I do ween myself from looking at it in the morning, as it indeed can be a distraction. I tend to its email notifications in batches.

There has been some debate by writers as to whether Facebook does much by way of professional promotion, whether through a FB ‘Page’ or a regular FB thread. As far as I can see it had done little for me professionally, and I do not have a FB ‘Page’. I don’t plan to start.

I get stories from some of my esoteric sources, ranging from The Papal Swiss Guard to a Russian News Feed. I get photos from European countries, the British Monarchy and an historic Railway in the US. Harry’s Bar&Grill in Venice entertains me. Leonard Cohen casts me wit. Some posters tap into their own esoteric feeds and I glean from them. I get far too many pictures of cats (and I revel in cats).  From my end I post literary news and recipes. And muchness about Kafka.

I recently got an apologetic message from a FB friend saying that he could no longer take the time to remain my friend and peruse my postings. He said there were too many of them. I find it a kind gesture to tell me this. I find it odd that he feels badly about no longer wading through recipes and Kafka. I am perplexed why he just does not zip past postings which hold no interest. I know I do.

I responded to say I was sorry that he was sorry. He replied to say how sorry he was, and that he feels sorry about upsetting anyone even if they are not upset. I replied ‘no harm done’. His final reply was: “I have never known, with your posts, if you have ever wanted a reply!”

This still takes me aback. I reply to messages. The FB device has an automatic avenue to make a comment if one wishes. It seems to me it is up to the viewer whether they want to comment or not. I’m interested in comments but – no – I can’t say I expect or *want* a reply.

He is now gone but, as I say, went about it as nicely as a person can.

DE

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