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Who Was Looking At The Island As The Day Moved Forward?

I felt eyes upon me

This morning

From the Mainland.

And it isn’t just me.

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as the

Bottom of a barrel,

With one white mitten,

Felt them, too.

We stared back from Partridge Island,

Wondering if someone had set up

A telescope, on a tripod,

From the closest shore.

Or if a spyglass (or two)

Was peering from The Martello Tower,

To catch a glimpse of our

Sequestered life.

Paw gave a hiss

(As he is wont to do),

For he is not fond

Of them Mainlanders.

So, to appease him,

I gave a spit of tobacco,

While secretly wondering

If it was Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Pondering her next visit

While reminiscing of the raptures

Of her last.

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

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Christmas Decoration Exuberance

I walked around a few residential streets to look at Christmas lights. There is quite an array, as the 25th comes closer.

However, the one I would have given first prize to, (if I were doing such a thing) was an interior display in the front room of a modest single house.

There were two fir trees, fully alight, with strings of coloured lights. Between the two, up on the wall, was a big television screen with a crackling fireplace dancing away.

That is pizzazz.

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The Police Pulled Over The Dump Truck Of Delights

It was not a day like any other day, so I suppose it did not start like any other day. I don’t know.

However the day started, it did not end well. It did not go well. It ceased being well half way through.

Half way through the day that did not end well, on the street that leads to the Causeway that crosses the Bay that leads to the street that takes you into the heart of the city, the police pulled over the dump truck of delights.

One police car with flashing lights approached the dump truck of delights and pulled it to the side of the road and parked behind it with its lights still flashing and  . . .

Well, that was it.

The dump truck, painted a utilitarian grey with a rusty dump covered in a tied-down tarpaulin, was stopped. Halted. Pulled to the side of the road by the black-and-white police car with its flashing blue-and-red-and-white lights flashing dully off the dull dump truck.

Far enough!

End of line!

Turn off the engine!

Chock the wheels!

And that was that. In sight of the city proper. So near and yet so far. Over the Causeway was the forbidden land. Do Not Enter!

For the Dump Truck of Delights would rouse the populace and inflame the imagination and loosen too too many tethers.

There were unicorns, of course, in the Dump Truck of Delights.

And Spheres with moons and stars whizzing around them.

And rabbit holes to disappear into.

And cotton candy, floating floating floating like clouds.

And real clouds coloured like cotton candy.

And the Tree of Knowledge weighted down with fruit.

And angels and seraphim with trumpets and harps and chubby cherubim with big brass drums.

And the joys of the flesh and the hopes of the soul.

And the biggest, the widest, the firmest beds where anyone, anywhere, ever eased off into sleep.

There were warming winds.

There were cooling breezes.

The food and drink were – well – beyond description.

So – of course – the police were instructed to stop the Dump Truck of Delights, and keep such pleasure and peace from the people. To make sure it would not cross the Causeway and disrupt the commerce of the city.

Besides – the driver had no permit to transport unicorns.

DE BA UEL

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For World Oceans Day: She Had God In Her Feet And Angels In Her Summer Hair

I visit wharves and gaze out to sea.

It is a pleasure that took hold some ten years ago. I don’t know why, for I certainly had experience with oceans and coast long before that. For some things it seems its time just comes.

I prefer small working ports, gritty and smelling of fish and lobster and ocean. The scurry and comings and goings (though I also like them in the evening when most work is done). I walk the docking between the boats and peer from the end of the wharf. I ponder distant shores or endless sea and screaming gulls with sometimes seals and whales and archaic Blue Herons.

Last night, when I thought the wharf was my own, a man, woman, toddler and dog arrived. They seemed to do much as I was doing, though they knew the owner of one of the fishing boats. The man was gruffly talkative, the dog was rambunctious, the woman apologized for the toddler’s dirty face and the little girl didn’t quite know what to make of me. Friendly and chatty but she wouldn’t take my hand as I offered to walk her up a gangplank.

I left them on the docking between the moored boats and started to walk on the wharf itself.  The fishing boats and the docking were parallel to the wharf.  I was half way along when I heard a shout. I heard the dog. I looked over and this is where life becomes art becomes life. It was a Kodak moment. It was a Motorola moment. It was a ‘freeze frame/real time/fast forward’ moment. It was a composition/edited moment. It was all these things which came to my visual mind. All this and the knowledge that there was no way I could get there if I was needed.

The little girl was going for the gold. She had God in her feet and Angels in her streaming hair as she raced between the moored boats. Her dirty face was wide with excitement and it is probably the happiest she has been in her life. The man was restraining the dog and the woman was in athletic pursuit. They raced between the boats and the mooring lines and the tools of the fishing trade. The dock swayed in the movement of the waves.  I could not believe the swiftness of the child. The woman finally took what seemed to me a runner’s stance and eventually grabbed the exuberant child. I heard, over the water, admonishments of what could happen if she had “gone under a boat.” All – of course – true.

But the dog understood.

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Four Crows Wait For A Bus

To be at my most truthful,
“I was there first
Waiting for the bus.”
But then one crow came along,
And settled into a tree,
And then fluttered to the ground,
And then hopped upon the fallen leaves,
Making quite a noise, it must be said.
And I, of course, looked around,
And up and down,
Because I didn’t want any sorrow.
But within a minute of my searching,
Another crow settled into a tree
So there would be joy in my life.
Then it hopped and landed on the ground,
And made a fuss in the grass,
Which perhaps encouraged a third crow
To swoop and settle beside it.
So then I assumed a letter
Was coming to my door,
But then crow number four
Made a quartet
Just as the bus arrived.
Then all eight eyes
Fixed me with a stare,
As the doors swung open
And I paid my fare.
DE BA UEL

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