It is a whirlwind in here



Does The Visitor To Partridge Island Want to Play?


My cat/kitten,

Black as night, with

One white mitten,

Has grabbed my pant leg,

And urges me to go with him.

Does he think I’m his father,

Or some sort of brother?

But off we go.

He leads me to the waterside

And there, splashing and frollicking

Like all get out,

Is a baby seal.

I like seals,

They are always smiling.

Paw looks at me


What the heck,

I toss him in.

First, I find out

Paw can really swim,

And, second,

The baby seal is a tease.

A gentle tease.

He butts Paw with his snout.

Dives in front of him,

And comes up behind.

Tickles him

(I swear)

With his whiskers.

I let them go at it,

Until I see Paw is

Getting tired,

So I scoop him out.

The baby seal looks at me,

And gives a bark,

So I bend over

And I scritch his head,

And away he scoots.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


Sister Darling Brings Religious Fervor On Walpurgis Night

One chore I have

As Lighthouse Keeper

On Partridge Island,

Is to count the ships

As they come

And as they go.

They signal me with their bells,

And some, with their new-fangled horns.

It was one of those blasts

That took me down to the dock.

And, indeed,

A ship was leaving for sea.

But first,

(Much to my surprise)

It let off

Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church Of The World (reformed)

” It’s Saint Walpurga’s Eve”, said she.

“What?” asked I.

“Don’t be an oaf.”

She hit me on the shoulder.

“Grab the cat.”

She heads along the shore.

I scoop up

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the Furies

With one white mitten.

And away we follow.

Sister Darling scoots along the

Narrow path beside the water.

And comes to a stop,

Looking far out to sea.

“Start praying!”

Which I do, for after a

Bout of fervent prayer,

Sister Darling wants fervent relief.

She speaks and sputters about

Ghosts, and opening veils, and

Blessed Saint Walpurga, opening

Doors to God.

Blessed Be! say I

Paw and me, we exchange

A certain glance

Knowing we both

Will feast tonight.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


Two Crows Look Out To Sea

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the feathers of night,

With one white mitten,

Is starting, at times,

To put me in my place.

He’s a smart little bugger,

So I let him.

We were walking the perimeter

Of Partridge Island,

Which we do

Once or twice

A week,

When he jumped between my feet,

And damned near tripped me.

Which means

‘Stop, you oaf.’

So I did.

On a scraggly branch,

Of one of the scraggly trees,

Two crows were looking out to sea.


Moving their heads,

Bob to the left

Bob to the right

Exchanging crow croaks,

Ruffling head feathers,

Throats held up in unison.

Seeing what they see,

Telling each other,

Moving, at times,

In tandem,

Along the scraggly branch,

Upon the scraggly tree.


I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


World Class Poetry For World Poetry Day (Don’t Argue With God)

My book of short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, consists of many conversations that an Elephant has with God. In one of the stories, he breaks out into {his version of} poetry.


The monkeys, in the trees,

Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.


I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.

It was older, and much colder.


It is a stone, which has grown

In a zone, all alone.


It is a thrill, to have free will,

That is until, others say `nil’.


That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,

My muse to cast, into the past.


The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,

And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.


It’s just a guess, I do confess,

That more is less, in the wilderness.


God – as God is wont to do – did have the last word.

Poems are made by fools like thee,

But only I can make a tree.

Preparing For Christmas On Partidge Island

Squalls and snow and high seas and chill and blow,

And the whistling whistling wind.

Screaming wind!

Lead to Christmas Day.

I feared that Sister Darling  of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

Would not make the tide,

Let alone make a visit

Of Salvation,

To Partridge Island.

To bring Festive celebration to

The Lighthouse Keeper and

Paw, his cat/kitten

Black as the storm-churned sea

With one white mitten.


Heaven be praised,

And joyous greetings to the King of the World,

Jesus Himself!

Sister Darling managed to wrangle a ride,

And bring festive gifts

For man and cat.

(And a rum-soaked cake)!!

And the night can whistle around us

In my snug Keeper’s House.

I hope Jesus was as warm

As we will be.

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



Salvation Is At Hand With Sister Darling On Partridge Island

Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Has been away on Crusades,

In the Provinces,

To attract (and save)

New Adherents.

(All Blessings to them).


She has thus been absent

From mine own Salvation here,

On Partridge Island,


I do sorely feel the



A neatly penned note has

Been delivered,

Via an outgoing fishing boat,

To let me know that

My fulsome prayers are

Soon to be answered.


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

HMS Styx And The River Raise A Question By The Almost King

HMS Styx hove too afore my dock,

And dispatched a boat containing,

HRH Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales,

Destined to be our rightful king –


I had on my grand uniform,

But paled in comparison to the amount

Of gold braid upon HRH.

He had arranged this meeting

By the last naval ship,

That came through the port.

So I met him, and presented the

Only other loyal subject

Upon Partridge Island,

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as ship’s tar.

With one white mitten,

But absent any braid..

HRH was quite pleased,

And asked to hold the cage.

And then he asked me

(Which was the reason for his visit)

How these Reversing Falls worked,

For he was to take a boat up river

To the Capital.

He did not want to appear ignorant

To the locals so,

He wanted someone local

To explain it to him.

So I told him how the

Power of the ocean,

Pushed back the flow of the river

At high tide.

“So the river really

Reverses?” he asked.

“It does”royal,royalty,cat,island,poem,poetry,history,navy,ocean,river,nature,naval,, I assured him.

With that, he then asked

If he could pat the cat,

Which Paw appreciated.

Then back to the HMS STYX

Went HRH,

And departed to the

Awaiting crowds.

I doubt I’ll be made

An Admiral,

But Paw . . .

Oh, dear, will I have

To salute him?

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


Happy Birthday, Shakespeare the Bard

The stage is as bare as my lady’s ass in his lordship’s bedchamber.

Rough-hewn in the most knockabout way, leaving splinters in the palace lawns

of the imagination.

There’s many a dip ‘twixt the trap and the lip.

It fares little better than hastily strewn boards covering parched ground, and barely enough elevation to keep the understanding masses at bay.

Were one fool enough to come from out the wings, and at centre front begin a soliloquy about the beauty of the wretched arena on which he stands, to fight the resulting and justified spontaneous combustion, there would not be found one drop of piss from any a Thespian’s hose.

For who could allow this sacrilege to be spoken? Even the flag atop the pole knows that the magic is not yet arrived.

A stage without commercial trappings:

without solid doors and thick drapes,

uncluttered by pillars,

and arches,

tables and chairs,

windows and fireplaces;

sans orchestra, sans balcony, sans pit.

A stage revealing all its secrets.

Profound as emptiness.

A stage in wait.

For in this world writ small (as in the globe around)

the audience

has nothing to know/ nothing to learn,

until the actor makes an entrance and prepares

to fight through our eyes and ears

to battle with those thoughts and fears

that lurk in sheltered halls.

What’s Hecuba to him?

Why – nothing.

Merely a name on a page of script,

A cue at which to turn his profile thus.

It is what Hecuba becomes to we who wait,

That turns the key upon the heavy gate.

Who Found The First Flowers Of Spring First?

I don’t know if

It was Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as the night

With one white mitten,

Or Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Who is as lithe as Paw

And as inquisitive.

When I joined them,

On the sunny side

At the base

Of the Lighthouse,

On Partridge Island,

They were equally enthralled

Each in their own way.

Paw had his nose inches

From the white petals,

While Sister Darling leaned

Forward to brush her fingers

Against them



Patted the cat/kitten.

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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