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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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An Eclipse Without The Rapture Redux

I did NOT go up in the Rapture, even though I waited around for some time. However it was a darkling event, and well- worth my effort. Not total, so things did not disappear, nor did birds and other animals go off the deep end. The crows, upon occasion, cawed bloody murder. But they often do that anyway.

However, the Eclipse was nifty. One couple gave me a pair of “Resting Eyewear AAS Approved” from Moonviewers .com to wear. And another chap gave me a printed photo of the Eclipse.

So, a good time was had by all. Except – you know – I did not ascend into Heaven.

DE BA  UEL

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An Eclipse Without The Rapture

My father saw a total eclipse. He only describes his age as a child, so I make the guess it was in the 19teens. His one comment about the effects of the darkness was that the cows started mooing, and began heading back to the barn.


My last total eclipse was in 1972. How time and the sun flys. And the moon.

I was at an archaeological dig at Bartibog Bridge, about fifteen kilometers north of Miramichi in New Brunswick. The archeologist in charge of the dig obviously knew of the eclipse (I know I didn’t) and had brought a professional, tripod telescope with him. He had attached a screen over the lens, and everyone was given a chance to take a look. My memories about the whole event are almost as succinct as my father – and at least he talked about the actual event itself. My biggest memory of that day is that I found a bone that might have been human. But – yes – it did indeed get dark, and it could have been three in the morning. I did not find it spooky or otherworldly. 


But I did find out something kinda spooky this morning. The local radio show had an interview with someone who was at the centre of the eclipse in 1972. It was at Arisaig, Nova Scotia, and it was such a favoured location that scientists came from across North America to see it. The fellow who was interviewed, remembered cars and trucks filling the parking lot and the fields around the harbour. Some of the scientists had large pieces of equipment and even larger telescopes (and cameras) on tripods. Hundreds of private cars were parked along the roads. The harbour and the pastures surrounding it offered unrestricted views.  


Also, during the Eclipse story, mention was made of the Carly Simon song  You’re So Vain, with the famous refrain: 

Well I hear you went up to Saratoga 

And your horse naturally won
Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia

To see the total eclipse of the sun

Carly Simon was actually interviewed about this, and revealed she used those verses because she wanted a rhyme with the word “Saratoga” and the word “won”. Which, as a writer, pleased me to no end.


The oddity (to me) is that Arisaig is (at least as the sun shines) just up the coast, on The Northumberland Strait, from Bartibog Bridge. And, decades later, Arisaig Harbour became one of the most enjoyable places I would ever visit. And have done so often.


And – of course – I wondered at the time if I might get famous enough for Carly Simon to sing about me.

And now, just after I post this, I am going to walk up a hill with barely a tree on it, and await this eclipse. And see what happens. I should reveal that I have been awaiting the rapture for years.
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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If Kafka Welcomes Spring, Can Summer Be Far Behind?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

08 April 1917

I seem to end in the most absurd situations. This afternoon, before Sunday dinner, Ottla took me away for some gardening. Rooting around in the earth, with the frost barely gone. Only Ottla could find such a plot of ground in Prague, or expect me to grub about in it like some hungry animal.

It was obviously some sort of communal land – such places are popular during this war. There were even families at work. Children also. One small boy was caught between his interest in the garden, and his desire to be a small boy. And what a dilemma it was. He’d work in the ground for awhile, following the example of his mother, then suddenly race around, exploring like a small boy. He came over to Ottla and me, and hunkered down beside us. He shook his head with a sigh of exasperation, and reached over to put his hands on mine. “Mummy says that’s wrong,” and with great patience and determination, began to show me how to prepare the earth. I thought there could be no better proof to Ottla of how inept I was.

I followed the movements of his hands, and between us, we dug quite a hole. At last the little fellow stood, obviously satisfied. “I go now,” he said, and ran away to see some other entertaining oddity. Ottla hadn’t laughed for fear of offending the boy, but she didn’t show such restraint when we were finally alone.

It fell to me to find the flowers.

Such things prove God’s sense of humour, for I have no interest or understanding for flowers. There was a fellow at university who could talk about flowers for hours. Otherwise, he was quite pleasant to be with. So it seems a joke that I would find them, between a pile of rubble and the wall of a house.

I had been exploring, much as the little fellow had done. In fact, he was running past when I found them, so I showed him also. They were white, with frail leaves close to the ground. Quite nondescript. But the boy was fascinated. He put his face close, although he didn’t touch them.

“Can I tell Mummy?” He obviously thought they were my flowers. “Yes,” I said, and he ran to get her. She followed him as he chattered all the way, and then she too hesitated, looking at me cautiously. “Perhaps your wife would like to see them,” she suggested. It took a moment to realize she was referring to Ottla. The flowers had become my possession. “Yes,” I said, “And tell anyone you like.”  “The first flowers of Spring,” she said, and she went to tell the others, taking care to stop at Ottla first.

Tiny white flowers.

I can still not believe the looks upon their faces, as they crowded around. Even the children were silent.

The relief they showed.

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A Feast (Oh, Such A Feast) For Saint Patrick’s Day

I almost dropped Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as blood pudding

With one white mitten,

When Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed),

Stepped onto the dock

Of the Partridge Island Lighthouse.

She wore an  emerald green gown

On this Saint Patrick’s Day, 

Which fit her form

In a very alluring fashion.

She was bringing

A feast for myself, and Paw.

A hamper filled with (I sniffed it out)

Colcannon

Shepherd’s Pie

Corned Beef

Black-and-Tan Pork

Lime Poke Cake

And the clink of bottles

promising many Half and Halfs

which she knows how to pour

to perfection.

We exchanged hamper and cat.

Paw went directly to burrow 

Into her long hair,

Which I, myself, will do

When the time for slumber

Arrives.

Then we began our walk

Up to The Lighthouse Keeper’s House,

Which I have festooned with

As many green doodads as

I could find.

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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Kafka Finds Out The Dying Know No More Than We Do

 In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

11 March 1917

             To the country again.

To the dying.

The family questions why it has not yet happened. Friends take their place in the background. There seem as many social obligations here as elsewhere. I look for something profound, but the dying know no more than we. He does, however, gather his strength for a formal leave-taking. Apologizes to his sons for being a poor father, then expresses his surprise that they take the time to show him so much concern and attention.

They are confused, and wonder why he says such things. They insist his fears are groundless. I can tell their shock is honest, and that they tell the truth. The old man can not smile, but tells them he is glad they say what they say.

And I wonder, if I were in their place, how I could twist the truth to appease the dying.

DE

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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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