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Will The Cat Extend His Toe Beans, Or His Claws?

Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me,

The Poet Laureate of Partridge Island,

To publish

A booklet

Of my poems.

She swears

(well – you know

as much as a lady of God

will actually “swear”),

That Paw, The Cat/Kitten,

Black as printing ink

With one white mitten,

Does wish the same,

If

(You know)

He could speak our language.

Perhaps she is correct.

However,

I am not convinced

That Paw,

Could he articulate

A review

Of my graceful,

(Though somewhat slapdash)

Lines of verse,

Would be an appreciative connoisseur.

I have seen him, oftentimes,

Express his natural nature.

He can be,

Remarkably,

Savage.

{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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Saint Patrick’s Day On Partridge Island And Sister Darling Brings Stew (With – Perhaps – The Luck Of The Irish)

Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the Ides of March
With one white mitten,
Has a green ribbon
Tied around his neck,
As we stand on the dock
And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,

Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

On this Saint Patrick’s Day,
She steps off the fishing boat,
And unceremoniously hands me
A hefty cauldron,
As she scoops up Paw
And holds him close, the way
(I trust)
She will eventually hold me.
“Irish stew,” says she.
But I didn’t even have to guess,
For I can recite, by smell,
The ingredients:
[Lamb on the bone

Carrots/celeryonions/leeks/garlic

Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper

Lots of potatoes]

And two (I hope) pints of ale

“You are right,” she says
As Paw snuggles into her hair,
“And you will get

A Reward.”

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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A Valentine’s Day Feast Awaits Sister Darling On Partridge Island

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed),

Steps upon the dock of the Partridge Island Lighthouse.

My humble self (the Lighthouse keeper) awaits her,

As does Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as Liquorice candy

With one white mitten.

I pondered tying a red riband

Around his neck, in celebration

Of the day.

But our cat/kitten is not as young

As he used to be,

And took umbrage at my attempt.

Still, he is young enough

– And spry enough –

And has memories enough,

To jump upon Sister Darling’s shoulder

And nestle in her hair.

And thus, we three climbed our way

To my Lighthouse Keepers house.

I have prepared a most wonderous fish stew,

Bubbling on the hob

(It even has lobster),

And, I have baked a pan of biscuits,

For her edification.

Sister Darling presents me with

A red envelope, wherein resides

(If I don’t miss my guess)

An embossed card to celebrate the day.

But,

Before I can open it,

She shoos Paw from her locks,

Opens wide her winter cloak,

And

“Oh, My!”

Our repast is threatened

To be delayed.


{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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Scots Wha Hae W/ Robbie Burns On Partridge Island

I’ve made a special meal

For Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as dark ale,

With one white mitten.

It will be his second

Robbie Burns Night feast,

 And again, to keep him

In good cheer,

I am going to omit the haggis

(A hellish thing to make anyway),

And lay on the

Tatties & neeps.

But,

Since I doubt Paw will enjoy

Either Spuds or Rutabaga,

There will be a couple of

Mutton chops each,

And a piece of steak.

I will, however,

Have the whisky flowing.

And be in full voice

When I recite:

‘The Selkirk Grace’ by Burns himself.

“Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it,

But we hae meat and we can eat,

And sae the Lord be thankit.”

And,

If the little bugger

(And myself)

Have more luck than we deserve,

We’ll be sharing our wee feast

With Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Who is

(Hopefully),

Boarding a fishing boat

On its way to our Lighthouse,

Right Now.

{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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New Year’s Eve On Partridge Island With Ships At Sea

Just past sunset,

A Frigate and a Brigantine

Sailed past Partridge Island,
Heading out to sea.
The former had a line of sailors

Giving the Lighthouse a salute,
The latter paused to let Sister Darling

Of The Rarified Church of The World (Reformed)
Step onto the dock of the Island,

After she tossed me parcels and bundles

Containing a New Year’s feast.

The ships plied their way to the outer harbour,

Whilst Sister Darling gathered up

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as the new night

With one white mitten,
And we wended our way

Up to the Lighthouse Keeper’s house.


By the time pots and bowls and platters

Of food,

Were ready on the table,

And a haunch of venison, was re-heating

In the oven,

We followed the excited cat/kitten

Toward the Lighthouse, and up the stairs.

We awaited perhaps ten minutes, before

The two ships began firing starburst shells

Toward the approaching year,

Entertaining us, and the boisterous
Crowd on the shore.

It was a glorious sight,

And,
I will report,

That Sister Darling

Supplied

A glorious feast.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

—

http://DaleEstey

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Bedford the Cat Goes Reluctantly Into A Christmas Eve Storm

Bedford the Cat had been stuck inna house for three days. He did not take heed (really) to the explanation that it was -17C with a windchill, and iffen he went out, he would freeze off his ears. He complained and sulked and batted the tree ornaments. Oh, yes – and sulked.


But this morning, the temperature was reasonable (even for thin ears) and his kindly humans decided he could skedaddle into the outside. However, when the door was opened, he was met by a howling snowstorm. Howling loud enough to almost – almost – drown out his howls of complaint.


“This is it, kitty cat,” said one of the kindly humans

Get your arse in gear,” said the other.
For, you see, the kindly humans had already rugged themselves up – hats, scarves and mittens – and that darn cat was going out.

And out he went.


Now, the kindly humans were not so kind that they planned to stay out long. Only long enough, for Bedford the Cat to get a decent run of exercise, and (with luck) desire on his lonesome to go back in.
Well, down the street he trotted, taking some time to bat at snowflakes. And then he reached the end of the street where the fence is, and looked around, and sniffed the air, and then, in the blizzard, took a great, heartfelt, and long-lasting poop.

Although Bedford-the-Cat had adequate facilities inna house, it looked as iffen he had not utilized them. And after this triumph of satisfaction, he proceeded to cover it all up.


And then he proceeded on his usual way. This is along a rough little road, with trees and a field and bushes to explore. There are also two abandoned vehicles near the other end, and he went under each in turn to get out of the storm.


Then, Bedford the Cat came to a narrow lane, which leads up a hill on the way back to the house, where he had been HELD A PRISONER for three days, so his ears wouldn’t fall off.


He was now more used to the blizzard, and took some time to sniff under favourite trees, and look into a backyard to see if his friend, the orange cat, was there. Then he sensed where a more familiar trail might be, under the snow, and went in that direction. He was back near his house, so his kindly humans let him be, and beat their fearless way back to the house themselves.


In about ten minutes, Bedford the Cat was himself at the front door, letting his humans know it was time to open the door. His benevolent humans did as requested.


Bedford the Cat went to his food dish, got a bit of food and a bit of a treat, and went for some rest on the couch.
Bedford the Cat has not indicated a desire to go out since.


DE

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When Does The Change Of Season, Affect Paw, The Cat/Kitten?

Paw the cat/kitten,
Black as dirt, with one white mitten,
Sought me out in the lighthouse.
He climbed the whole way

Up to the Lantern Room,
Which he usually avoids

Because the revolving light
Spooks him.
He doesn’t like the shadows.
But, there he was.
He meowed,
Which he doesn’t do

All that much.
But,
When I kept at my chores,
He came over and put his claws
Into my pant leg,
And pulled.

When he’s this insistent, I follow.
So, down through the tower,
Impatient at the door,
Outside and waiting,

To be sure that I follow,
Then he heads to the shore
Facing out to sea.
It’s a well trod path
(For a cat)
And I move swiftly (but carefully).
I find him waiting at the base
Of a five foot, stunted tree.
So I went over to look.

There was a small amount of snow,
Caught between the gnarled roots.
The remnants of some snow squall,
That obviously had passed in the night.
Knowing he had my full attention,
He stood over it
And pissed mightily,
Turning it yellow.


It’s going to be a long winter.

{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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It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First / Part The Second

PART THE FIRST

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper, I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since

I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.

I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.


PART THE SECOND

I had wished for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.

But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,

Unrobed of their vestments,

And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,

Await on the dock, 

On shore,

In the deserted port,


To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{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 Go When You’re Lost In The Fog?

Paw, the cat/kitten

Black as being blind

With one foggy mitten,

Is lost,
And coughing,

In the fog.

He lets me know

Of his displeasure,

Which I can hear from him
Even if I can’t see.

It is a Friday of fog,

Which has followed a
Week of fog,

From the Monday last.

It has made Partridge Island

Disappear into the sea.

The Lighthouse light

Is so smothered, even I

Can not see it from its base.


Paw blames me for this,

And also blames me for 

The incessant foghorn that

– I hope –

Penetrates the gloom to

Ships at sea.

I sit

And knit

Paw, my protesting cat,


A woolen cap

To stop up his ears.

{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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