It is a whirlwind in here



Paw, The Cat, Wants To Hunt On Partridge Island

Paw, the cat,
“The cat”,
‘Cause he is not
“My cat”
No one ever owns a cat,
They are wrong about that.

Is getting old enough
To hunt.
But he can’t decide
(Or so I interpret)
Whether to go for
Fish or Fowl.

‘Cause he eyes the seas,
And he eyes the trees,
Making little, plaintive, chatters.

But the partridge,
That look big enough
To carry him away,
They must be

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

The Moose of October Get Hunted and Killed


On a recent bus trip through the forests and hills and valleys, which offered kilometres of burgeoning Fall colours, and many other delightful distant scenes, this wee incident happened at a bus stop.


The bus went into a small village because a couple were getting off. The bus stop is in a parking lot of a Mall, beside a Tim Horton’s (I think).
Anyway, as the couple got off, a heavy-duty Ford pick-up drove in beside the bus. Attached to the truck was a a longish metal open-bed trailer. On the trailer was a deceased female moose. Perhaps it was too big to drape over the hood of the truck. This was a commonplace occurrence in the days of my youth. Or are those days long gone?

Buddy with the moose pulled up beside the Liquor Store.

Out he gets and walks with purpose into that fine establishment.

Intones the bus driver:

“There you have the perfect combination. A dead moose and a bottle of rum to celebrate.”


Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑