It’s the shortest day
Of the year.
~ The December Solstice ~
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, my cat/kitten,
Black as hidden 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 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
You don’t see it often,
(And you don’t want to).
The water along the rocks
Is splashing up as ice
On this frigid, frigid day.
Paw, my cat/kitten
Black as the ice
Sometimes can be,
With one white mitten,
Does not cease in his complaints.
I’ve brought him with me
In his cage,
Because,
On his own
He would be blown away.
He doesn’t realize that.
We cower on the shore,
And look out to sea.
We spy a ship
With its sails down
And a white aura
Enveloping her.
A snow squall perhaps,
Or,
Perhaps something else
As you can only see
Out at sea.
And, to appease the cat/kitten,
To calm him down,
(As well as myself)
I sing some Wagner,
Belt it out against the wind.
“That storm it wants a battle
And it’s sure that we’re outgunned!
That ghostly ship is hunting us
It’s bringing on the gale!
She’s called the Flying Dutchman
And it’s rage that fills her sails!”
And – indeed – it does us some good.
And then,
We high tail it
Back to the shelter
Of home.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report
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 hidden 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 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL
He is not a man for grand gestures.
The gift came as a surprise, the kiss a shock. He was embarrassed by the first and aroused by the second. Time, always a constant worry – not the futile minutes, hours, days, the whirlwind passage of months, but the disappearance of the now into the past -had again taken a bite out of his life before he had realized it was gone.
“I thought you would like it.” she said, a gift somehow made more important because it was not planned, an obvious display of spontaneity. A chance meeting in a store on a Saturday afternoon. “I’m leaving soon, in two weeks I’ll be in France.” Eyes taking in his every reaction, her voice tinged with reproach. “Do you like it?”
And of course he did, but there were too many memories laced with half smiles jamming into his head, not painful in themselves but adding now to finality. The party where he met her, surely that was just last week, at the most a month ago. Surely it did not stretch back to soft Autumn nights.
“Well, here,” she writes something. “It’s for you, you know.”
A look of puzzlement crosses her face as the gift changes hands, the too brief touch of her fingers. he clutches it carefully, looks back to her eyes and imagines he sees a twinge of that nonexistent past. or does she only reflect what is in his own face?
And then the kiss. So unexpected that he almost jumps back.
The touch of lips and warm breath, the smell of fresh, soft hair against his cheek. His own mouth open in surprise, her farewell brush of lips turned partially into passion. And then she is out the door, onto the street, and he is standing by a counter feeling very old, his heart an icy moon of Jupiter.
Ah, Christiane. Salut.
(image) https://apod.nasa.gov/apod/image/9805/callistoplus_gal.jpg
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