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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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There Are No Small Gifts On Christmas Day On Partridge Island

Christmas Day is like
Any other day at
The Partridge Island Lighthouse.

Ya gotta trim the wicks,
And renew the oil.
So, I went about my business
At the usual time, only noting that
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as soot

With one white mitten,
Had abandoned me.
‘Mice’, thought I.

For there are always mice
On Partridge Island.
But, I found out

(After my chores were done),
That wily Paw had used stealth
– and his sensitive hearing –
To scurry to my Lighthouse-keepers house.


When I returned, as darkness settled,
I saw twinkling lights 
Through the windows,
And smelled the  delightful warmth

Of roasted fowl, and sweetened baking,
As I walked through the door.

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Had hired a fishing boat to
Bring her to the Island, whilst I

Was occupied in the tower.

She had put her pre-baked goods
Into the oven, and
Stoked the fire.

A bottle of red wine, and
A bottle of white,
Sat upon the kitchen table.
And

Paw, the cat/kitten
Had a red red riband tied

Around his neck,
With a key attached.
I took it. 
When I turned,
Sister Darling removed a small casket.
And handed it to me.

I used the key
To open a tiny lock.

I Opened it,
And looked inside.
Oh, My!
Oh, My!!
It GLOWED.

{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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Christmas Eve Approaches With Suitable Anticipation On Partridge Island

As arranged,
I met the fishing boat
At my Lighthouse dock,
Within the first hour
Of sunlight,
With my cat/kitten,

Black as coal in your stocking,
With one white mitten,

Perched on my shoulder.
To which he has taken
Right well.


Aboard was Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed).

I told the Captain,
Before even speaking to
The religion-professing Darling,
That he need not retrieve her
Upon his evening return.
And wished him
A most
Auspicious Christmas.


She carried a hamper of Christmas fare
And good cheer.
As we together walked
Up toward the Lighthouse Keeper’s
House,
My cat/kitten,
With one effortless leap,
Transported himself
From my shoulder
To hers.
He is perhaps anticipating
 Some culinary miracle
In addition to
That of Christmas Eve.

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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The Druids Prepare / The Dead Approach

The Celts  have learned every celebration has its risks.

The Druids taught them this, and the Druids are correct. Samhain is a festival of the harvest; the end of summer; the preparation for the winter to come. Samhain is a juncture. 

As they all know, junctures lead to sundry places. There is both the leaving and the coming. A time of disquiet. A time of danger for those unprepared.

It holds the magic and the power of midnight. Midnight is a powerful time because it is the juncture of two days. Midnight of Samhain thus holds double the power. It can not be avoided. It must be met with all the power mortal man can muster. It must not be met alone.

On the Eve of Samhain, the border between Life and the OtherWorld is breached. A door swings invitingly open, but it is not inviting those who live. It is inviting  those who have died. The Dead who still miss their lives. The long Dead who still are curious.The distant Dead who get a whiff of fresh air, and have their memories stirred.

So the Dead approach.

The Dead approach. The living must prepare to meet them, just as they prepare for the vicissitudes of winter. The same threatened cold holds sway over both. The living assemble the treats and threats that will assuage the longings of the Dead.

Because the living have a healthy fear of death, they equally wish to avoid the Dead. The Dead can prove to be envious, and attempt to relieve the living of their lives. Lanterns from the earth are hollowed out of turnips. Their light will guide the dead to safer places (safer for the living). Candles will shine through carved faces. Some faces are friendly and welcoming. Some are ugly and fierce, to give aggressive Dead a pause.

There will also be treats to entice the Dead – apples and pastries and savouries and some roasted game fresh from the bonfires. There will be ale and other spirits to keep the Spirits at bay. The living will wear costumes and masks to disguise themselves from those Dead who might wish their company to be more permanent.

They will remove the masks if the Spirits are friendly.

They will dance and sing and raise a right ruckus to entertain the Dead.

The boneyard is on the outskirts of town. Revellers approach with noise and caution. A bonfire is set. The moon hangs from the trees. The gated fence stands closed and latched. The living pause and watch. And listen.

Is it the wind, or do the hinges scrape the stone?

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Oktoberfest

I begin my novel, Fame’s Victim, during Oktoberfest in München. Here is the abridged first chapter.

ST is famous for his discoveries about Space and Time – hence the initials. He is fodder for magazine and movie fantasy. His is the life from which envy is made.   

Fame is a seductive life sentence. ST suffers consequences as he strides the red carpet.

In Fame’s Victim, ST ends one century attending Oktoberfest in Munich,  the biggest party in Europe, and starts the next hiding away from the world’s Press that hound him for his opinion

~~~~~******~~~~~

UM PA PA! UM PA PA!

Tuba sounds assail ST as he forges through the clogged streets and packed alleys of Munich during these last hours of Oktoberfest. This, and the thousands upon thousands of revellers apparently heading to his own destination.

ST  worries what will happen when he reaches the Kafer’s Wiesnschanke tent. Because it is situated on the very edge of these huge Oktoberfest fairgrounds, ST is in one of his impeccable disguises. However but will it prove so effective (as it is proving now), that he will be unable to gain entry? Without immediate entry and quick access to his reserved table, he is not going to get to his waiting bottle of Glen Grant scotch.

ST has never had to deal with this problem. He uses camouflage to get from one private destination to another, and always has the luxury of removing his disguise in the comfort of some bath or bedroom. Here, he will have to prove who he is in one public place, so he can get out of another public place.

ST passes the Hofbrauhaus, with still a long way to go. He regrets he consented to spend these last two hours of the week deep in the gemutlichkeit of Bavarian sausages, chicken and beer – horse-drawn wagons of which trundle past even as he aims unerringly for Kafer’s Wiesnschanke tent.

This dramatic scene is foreign to him, though he supposes he is no longer foreign. It is through his inheritance of vast tracts of land and chattels along the coast of the North Sea (to say nothing of the interesting pockets of real estate and apartments still being revealed across the face of Europe, America, Australia, and the Bahamas) that his special invitation to this evening arrived. And the obligation to attend.

The acres of vibrant lighting cast a multi-hue glow across ST. He notes his roughly-shaped beard (one of three dozen – each cropped differently), takes on such bizarre colouring that he doesn’t remember what it really looks like. He probably could have gone without disguise and passed unmolested. That is what his hosts had told him, but he has had such assurances before.

Under a set of flashing amber and yellow lights, ST looks at his watch. The crowd is slowing him, and he should have used another entrance, instead of the broad way through the tents. He tries to get closer to the edge of the crowd, but the edge in an ever-moving mass is difficult to find. It is analogous to the boundaries of Space/Time, which he can never actually discern either. ST rarely gets such a chance to put his world-famous theories to a practical test. Head up and elbows to the ready, he begins a vigorous forward thrust. This attitude alone is enough to make more people give way, plus he is not without practiced skill at dodging and pirouetting among crowds.

As ST advances the garish lights become more extreme, and he has difficulty distinguishing the various tents. The one he wants is in the upper corner, and supposedly not easy to miss. But it is also one of the smallest (holding slightly over 2000), and for all he knows it may get lost in this absurdest hurly-burly. He may succumb to this incredible throng, and get carried away on its tide to the more boisterous Spatenbrau, or whisked back to the very beginning of his trek at the Hippodrom.

In an attempt to fit in, when ST first arrived at the fairground he had purchased one of the large gingerbread cookies, which so many people are wearing around their necks. This is now proving a mistake, for it keeps bumping back and forth across his chest. As he has never actually seen anyone eating the damn things, he hesitates to take this course of action. On the other hand he is concerned that if he just tries to remove it from his neck, the cord might get tangled in his fake beard.

ST clamps a hand over the cookie as if he was taking an oath, and continues through the noisy revelry. He is just passing the Winzerer Fahndl tent and thus is not far from his destination. A turn to the right and some more well placed elbows, and he might be able to arrive in another five minutes.

Just as ST can lose Time when he attempts to track it, equation by equation, through the vast quadrants of his computer programs, so it begins to elude him here. The overwhelming chore of Oktoberfest becomes surprisingly addictive. Although he still wants his scotch and reserved place at table, he looks longingly at the Winzerer Fahndl tent with a desire to enter. As he stares overhead at the amusement park rides, he wonders if he would find them as thrilling as the screaming participants indicate they are. ST is even tempted to gravitate to the nearest thundering band, and settle in close to the tubas. Perhaps he might risk an inquisitive munch of his over-large gingerbread cookie.

These thoughts put him in a better frame of mind as he eases himself into the slowly moving crush. He gets behind a trio of husky teen-agers, and lets them unknowingly clear a path.

It seems their goal is to sample beer from each of the fourteen tents, but so far their boisterous gung-ho remains good-natured and useful. ST keeps just the right distance behind the three so he is not considered a part of their group, yet manages to glean the benefit of their passage. Much as the stern of a ship glides through the wake of the prow.

When he comes within sight of his own goal at Kafer’s Wiesnschanke, he wonders if his trio of outriders is going to steer in its direction. An argument can be made that it is next on the list of any pub-crawl, but the youths are loudly debating the merits of either the Sportschutzen or Lowenbrauu.

ST has the temptation to clap them boisterously on their shoulders and invite them to his more rarefied destination. His popularity with youth is particularly high right now, as he appears to be quite the rebel with his contention that the year 2000 is not the Millennium. This is not his desire, but who is more going to be asked all the questions about this momentous event than the expert on Space/Time?

Even his obvious equation – obvious to ST, at least – that if someone owes you $2000, you are not going to be satisfied in only getting $1999 back – has become an embedded catch phrase in nearly every article now written about the Millennium. It has even become a refrain in a contemporary pop song.

ST starts to hum “Don’t Shortchange Us”, having no fear of ever being heard over the din of Oktoberfest. The decision as to whether or not he will befriend the teen-aged trio is made for him as they abruptly link arms and make a wide swing toward the Lowenbrau tent. ST may be mistaken about the sound of his own voice, for the trio of teenagers breaks out in a thundering rendition of the refrain to “Don’t Shortchange Us”. They create a wide path through the packed revellers, many of whom applaud and join in.

OKTOBERFEST (See what you are missing): https://www.oktoberfest.de/en/informationen/oktoberfest-webcams

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Robbie Burns Night 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 first

Robbie Burns Night feast,

But I do not want him

To hope

That it will be his last.

So,

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’

“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.”

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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Christmas Eve Promises A Most Auspicious Christmas

As arranged,
I met the fishing boat
At my Lighthouse dock
Within the first hour
Of sunlight
With my cat/kitten

Black as coal in your stocking,
With one white mitten,

Perched on my shoulder.
To which he has taken
Right well.

Aboard was Sister Darling, of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

I told the Captain,
Before even speaking to
The religion-professing Darling,
That he need not retrieve her
Upon his evening return.
And wished him
A most
Auspicious Christmas.
She carried a hamper of Christmas fare
And good cheer.
As we together walked
Up toward the Lighthouse Keeper’s
House,
My cat/kitten,
With one effortless leap,
Transported himself
From my shoulder
To hers.
He is perhaps anticipating
 Some culinary miracle
In addition to
That of Christmas Eve.

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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Birthday Bash Fit For A Pirate 19/09

My day of birth has been usurped by “Talk Like A Pirate Day” Who ya gonna call? Who do I sue? Pirates are already beyond the law. What would I do? Make them walk the plank?

But – anyway and regardless – (or should I throw all propriety to the winds and say “irregardless?) I will tout my own birth (it couldn’t have happened without me) and describe a birthday celebration I wrote some years ago.

Still waiting on that suckling pig.

There will be scampi on a plate with breakfast for my birthday.

Quarts of wild strawberries will float in flagons of cold Rhenish wine. Blueberries will be hidden by thick cream, and golden honey shall trickle from plates of buttered toast. Braces of quail and brown roasted turkey will be surrounded by steaming heaps of new potatoes and tender ears of corn. Joints of beef and lightly curried lamb will stand between bottles of red Anjou wine and jugs of red Italian fire.

A smoking, suckling pig will have bowls of dry, yellow squash at its feet and stacks of cheeses at its head. Pastry and pies and a foot high chocolate cake will stand among jars of brandied fruit. A cask of aged port will remain, to do justice at the end.

Then I shall settle back to patiently await my dinner.

DE

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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.

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