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
Colossal big storm!
Hell-of-a storm!
Knock-ya-ass-
Over-tea-kettle storm!
HUGH Kraken storm
Is on its way.
Paw,
My cat/kitten
Black as a thunder cloud
With one white mitten
Has let me know
In no uncertain terms.
By acting in his unusual ways.
He is never wrong.
So,
I take heed of his meows,
His clawing at the bed covers,
His wild dash to the ocean
To stare,
And pace,
And growl.
I batten the hatches
Tie the rope from the Lighthouse
To my Keeper’s house.
Get bedding in case I have
To sleep on the cot.
And ready Paw’s carry case.
And say prayers.
We both say our 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}
DE BA. UEL
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.
But,
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}
DE BA. UEL
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.
But,
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}
DE BA. UEL
The sun slides through the Solstice
(I’ve seen this, under sail, on my days at sea),
And the sun hangs, then moves on.
The days start getting longer.
Praise the Lord!
Not that you can really notice for a while.
It isn’t inches,
It’s less than inches,
Until . . .
Why, “Jumping Jehoshaphat!”
There’s sunshine you can even tell by the clock.
Making the night retreat just a little bit earlier.
Maybe Paw, my cat/kitten
Black as the retreating night
With one white mitten,
Will want to stay out
Just a little bit longer.
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
I follow Franz Kafka in my Kafka In The Castle, filling in his lost diary entries. I have him only where he really was, imagining his days. For a number of months he lived, with his sister, Ottla, in the village of Zürau, a couple of hours by train (in those days) outside of Prague. So, if I could actually see out my ice-covered window, past my ice-drooping fir tree, I might see him passing by.
Excerpt from Kafka In The Castle:
05 March 1918
Ice storms the last two days.
It clatters into the chimney, which is quite a startling noise if one happens to be up the stairs, and going about ones usual business. The rattle and ruckus of the ice is an abrasive encounter. More so even than when it beats upon your face as you go along the road. At least there it is expected, and you can be muffled against its intrusion.
Ottla saw to my protective gear, although she did not want me to go out.
Procured, from somewhere, a wide-brimmed hat. Swathed me in scarves up to the eyes. Insisted I put on an outer leather jacket, from which the ice drops merrily bounced. But, she had nothing to offer to assist in the walking. It was, as far as I can compare, like walking through a field of fine salt.
It is not even accurate to say that I slide, for it was actually the ice underfoot which did the sliding. I would find my foot being grabbed and held. I’m sure it was what walking through purgatory would be like.
I was going to make spaghetti for the weekend but an ‘end of the world’ freezing rain storm is (literally) on the horizon, so …
Spaghetti tonight.
And since I did not have enough spaghetti noodles (nor redred wine) I had to brave the mean little snow flakes that felt as if they were cutting my face, and get both.
Happily, all the other ingredients were already in place, and the process began.
Two cans of prepared tomato sauce (with roasted garlic). Two large onions. Two stalks of celery. Five cloves of garlic. Chop everything that is to be chopped, with no piece larger than your thumbnail. Put them into the pot of prepared sauce. Put on low heat.
Take as much lean hamburger as you think is healthy (I stop at a kilogram/two pounds). Put some of the chopped garlic and onion in a frying pan with a couple tablespoons of olive oil. Cook them up until the kitchen smells wonderful. Add the hamburger. Let it all cook as you stir them up. Stop when the meat is brown.
Add the meat to the pot. I never drain. And a half cup of whatever wine you are going to drink with the spaghetti. And two tablespoons of Parmesan cheese. Add a quarter teaspoon of sugar. Bring to a bubbling boil while stirring. Reduce heat and simmer for two hours, stirring a few times per half hour.
Pour on cooked spaghetti noodles.
Sprinkle on an outlandish amount of Parmesan cheese
Drink a glass or two of the wine.
My father, who helped liberate Italy in the Second World War, told of the time he was invited into a farmhouse to share a meal. Spaghetti sauce was simmering away in a cauldron in a fireplace. He was told that same sauce had been simmering for decades.
[image] https:/cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2015/02/01/16/23/pot-619785_640.jpg
As a child, I had two ‘encounters’ with Santa. I can’t place the years, but I remember them from the houses I lived in.
The first time I would have been no older than five. I was going to the outhouse on a dark Christmas Eve. The outhouse was a couple of minutes walk from the house. On my way, I heard the bells on Santa’s sleigh. Don’t try to dissuade me, I know what I heard. I even remember the direction I had to turn to see if I could see anything. I was right quick about doing my business.
The second time would have been a couple of years later. On Christmas Day I saw the marks from Santa’s sleigh runners on the snow beside the house. Never mind your smiles, I know what I saw.
And, a few years after that, I was with some younger friends who questioned me about the reality of Santa Claus. Now, by then I did not believe that Santa existed. But, I didn’t want to tell the “children” that. Neither did I want to lie. I don’t know how long it took me to think of a way out, but long enough (obviously) for it to remain strong in my memory. My answer was: “Well, there must be a Santa Claus. How could your parents afford all those gifts?”
In the years when I did a fair amount of house-sitting, I did so for one couple where the husband had a perfect resemblance to Santa Claus. Thus, for many a Christmas, he was the hit of local gatherings. And he had a beautiful suit and hat and – of course – a real beard.
I also know a poet whose first book was about Mrs. Claus. She is also known to dress up the part (even with a Christmas bonnet) and read at Christmas gatherings.
As for myself, one day I entered my financial institution around Christmas and got into line. As we snaked forward, I came opposite a mother and father with a young child. He looked at me and screamed (literally) “Santa Claus!” Then he burst into tears. I don’t know what troubled him (maybe I was out of uniform).
A few years ago, (and this was not around Christmas, though it was Fall) I was walking in a park. A family approached, two parents and three children. One of the boys (and he looked five or six) dashed ahead and stood in front of me. “Santa Claus,” he said. I thought it was some sort of joke, but he turned excitedly to his siblings. “It’s Santa Clause.” He was quite happy. The father said “Maybe not.” but did not really try to dissuade him. And neither did I.
Finally, a few weeks ago, as I was seated beside a very early “Visit Santa” display, an old codger, with whiskers of his own, approached, pushing a walker in front of him. He stopped and looked down at me.
“When do you take the chair?”
“What?’
“And get the red suit on?”
“What?”
“At least ya got the padding for it.”
I think it is fair to say that the twinkle was in his eye, and not mine.
(Image) https://slm-assets2.secondlife.com/assets/8867706/view_large/Santa_Chairs_003B.jpg?1386456018
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