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When The Fog Is A Shroud For Death, Do The Mermaids Still Sing?

It’s illegal, of course

What Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me to do:

But who am I,

Belated sinner, and open to

Any supernatural suggestion,

Going to do?

Acquiesce, of course.

Submit, of course.

As is (I am sure) God’s will.

So she has transported her beloved aunt,

Dead these past three days,

On a boat to Partridge Island.

Captained by a cousin and

A crew member who will ask no

Questions,

So they will not have


To give any answers 


– If asked –

As to what might have been

In their coffin-shaped cargo.


Sister Darling’s beloved aunt

Wished – implored – to be buried

On Partridge Island as,


Over a half century ago,

It was the place of her birth.

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black himself as Death,

With one white mitten,

Tolls a tiny bell which

Sister Darling has affixed

Around his neck.

The grave (of course)

I have already dug,

And Sister Darling is

(Of course)

Full of the appropriate prayers.

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

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If The Flag Can’t Fly, Do We Still Salute?

HMS Styx, Her Majesty’s Sloop-of-War,

Steam engine and paddle driven,

Six guns on deck,

Paused on its way into harbour,

To deliver a package

From the good Queen herself.

It is a snapping-new


Union Jack,

To be hoisted from

The top of the Lighthouse.

The idea was that,

It would be seen for miles.

So, I opened the package

Opened the package

Opened the package

And, when finally,

The package was open.

Her Majesty’s flag could be

Wrapped around the Lighthouse

Twice.

It can’t be hung

By man nor beast.

I won’t even try

To guess

The way our masters think.

But – at least –


I will not have to teach

A patriotic salute

To Paw, my Cat/kitten,

Black as a Jolly Roger

With one white mitten.

Which will be a relief

To us both.

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

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Where Do You Find The Ghost Of Kafka?

The Ghost of Kafka walks

– not stalks –


The streets

Of Prague.


 Prague,

The city he would/could

Never leave

Until the last

Year of his life.

He described Prague as:
“The little Mother has claws.”

Which she did.

For him.


He managed


To escape to Berlin,

During one of

The worst times

Anyone could live

In Berlin,

Until the end of the

Second World War.

But

The Second World War

Was years away.


He escaped with a young

Lover – Dora Diamant.

She made things

So much better.


However, his Ghost only

Walks the streets of Prague.


Whereas

Kafka’s Ghost

Stalks

The rest of

The World.

DE

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So I’m Told

Old.

And cold.

And not so bold.

Broke the mold.

There is no gold.

It’s time to fold.

Nothing to hold.

Bought and sold.

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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If Your Cat’s In A Jam – Who You Going To Call?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as good-bye,

With one white mitten,

Has disappeared.

I sent a note, 

By boat,

To Sister Darling of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)

To come and help me search

Partridge Island.

She arrived with a

Boatful of Evangelists to assist.

Now, put their proselytizing beliefs aside,

And you can’t do better than

A boatful of Evangelists

To get a job done.

They packed seventeen adherents of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)

Onto a fishing boat,

And faster than you can say Holy Roller,

A search of Partridge Island began.

They – like me – first started at the Lighthouse,

But to no avail.

Nor any luck at my Lighthouse Keepers House.

So,

They broke into three groups,       

One up each side and shore of the island,

And the biggest group up through the centre.

It’s not a big island,

But – Jesus –

It’s big enough. 

Sister Darling and I

Moved from group to group.

Five and one half hours and four minutes later,

There was a yell,

From the direction of the left shore.

“Come!”  “COME!”

Sister Darling and I ran.

I stumbled, and she pulled me up.

And we ran again.

When we got to the searchers,

They just gaped and pointed.

I hesitated, but Sister Darling

Pulled me again.

And when we reached the place

I gaped myself.

That miserable, cantankerous, intransigent cat.

That insistent insistent insistent animal,

Was guarding a brood of baby rabbits,

Their pecked and ravaged mother at their side.

Paw had become a feral protector.

And would let nothing near.

Until Sister Darling spoke, and cooed his name.

When she touched him, he almost fell over from fatigue.

Those Blessed Evangelists picked up each baby,

And snuggled them carefully into a pocket.

Sister Darling handed Paw to me and

– Sweet Jesus, I confess it –

I was crying.

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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Spring Lets ‘Er Rip A New One

It’s a “kick in the arse” day,

On windswept Partridge Island.

The sun rose with enough red sky

To make even Paw, my Cat/Kitten,

Black as the dwindling night,

With one white mitten,

Shield his eyes.

But then

– Oh, then –

The sky tumbled full of

Dark, hellish clouds,

And then

– Oh, then –

The snow started

To fall

Like there was no tomorrow.

The Almanac tells ya

“Spring has arrived.”

I’ll let Paw tell them

What he thinks.

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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What Slides Through The Fog?

What slides through the Fog?

Or hides in the fog?

Or lies in the fog

In wait?

These are the questions of,

The Lighthouse Keeper of Partridge Island,

Feeling his way from Keeper’s House

To Lighthouse,

In this fourth day


Of fog

To consume the Island.

It is a futile chore to maintain

The Light,

Which remains unseen from

Shore to ship.

Yet, I do.

From treacherous day,

To treacherous day,

Proving

– I think –

Some sort of Faith.

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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A Grey Ship Slides Past Partridge Island On A Grey Day

There have been too many grey days

In the Lighthouse

Of this grey island.

Sailors talk of the Doldrums

Of the southern seas,

Where ships get stalled

With their empty sails

And listless winds.

So that you can feel you

Are not moving or living,

Beneath the cloudy cloudy sky.

This ship was under steam,

And tooted a fitful horn.

Of course I waved, and even forced

A little jig of welcome.

But – really – my heart was not in it.

I was more than happy to squirrel myself

Away with Paw, my snoozing cat/kitten,

Black as apathy,

With one white mitten,

And sip dram plus dram of dark rum,

To accompany my cheering meal

Of bread and stew.

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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