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lighthouse

The Mermaid Is My Girl / With Her Tail In A Curl

When I hear
The Mermaid
Singing,
She sings for me.


She comes to the rocks,
At the base of my Lighthouse,
And sighs
And sings
And fills the froth
With her frothy voice.


She doesn’t try to lure me,
But to calm me
On my way to sleep,
Or on my return to wakefulness.


Always at the twilight
Of night,
Or the dusk
Of dawn.
So I have never seen her,


Which I assume

Is her intent.


She knows my desire
Is to pursue,
And also knows
I would perish
On the rocks.


We need
Each other
Alive.

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

The Inviting Lights Glow On A Friday Night In A Distant Port

Except the port is


Not that distant.


I don’t even need


My spyglass


To see the street lamps


Well-lit,


Especially the Three Sisters Lamp,


Lined up straight with


The steeple of Trinity Church


To give the captains


Of the ships


Somewhere to aim.


For they all aim,


Past me,


In my lighthouse


At the mouth


Of the harbour.

.
And they all


Go past me


To safe haven

,
And Friday night


Deviltry and celebration,


And rum galore!


Whilst I can


Only watch


From a distance.

{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

Razzle Dazzle, Oh Mighty Monarch of the Sky

{I’m The Lighthouse 

Poet Laureate of Partridge Island

1821 – 2021

A lot of stuff have I seen

A lot of stuff to report}

I opened the door

At the bottom of 

My spiral staircase

Twisting

Beside the wall

Just white-washed

In the Spring.


And


Oh! And!!

Came out into 

A sea

A forest

A  cacophony

Of orange

And black

And white-spotted

Brilliant-winged

MONARCH butterflies.


They covered the edifice

From Light

To Entrance steps,

Soaking up


The heat

Of the stones.


I grabbed my trusty

Bum-worn

Wooden chair

And moved it

Distant enough

To watch the

Whole structure at once.


I’m still sitting.


~ DE BA, UEL.

Fog Shrouds Hides Protects The Ocean And The Island

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

I see three ships

Saw three ships

see/saw

sea/saw

Come sailing in

Come sailing in

Though I didn’t (really)

Because of the fog.

Partridge Island fog

Saint John Town fog

Hides everything

It damn well wants to

Christmas Day 

Or not.

~ DE BA UEL

To The Lighthouse – A Tale Of A Keeper

 

I have been thinking of lighthouses, as I am very fond of them. I came across new information about some local ones, and even found a web site (courtesy of some lighthouse articles) which is excellent for all of North America. https://www.lighthousefriends.com/index.html

So, I will share a lighthouse story which is part of one of my novels. It is a fictitious lighthouse, but the story has roots (as so many tales do) in reality.

Excerpt from: He Lives In The City / He Drives To The Country

“Well, Blaine, the place is as sturdy as the rock it’s on. Government inspected every spring. We even sat pretty through the Great Groundhog Day Gale in 1976, the worst storm in over a hundred years.”

     Fred Gannet nudged Blaine to the huge windows. He pointed into the distance, although neither could see through the fog.

     “Waves forty feet smashed up against us. We clocked winds at one hundred and thirty-seven miles an hour. We had the warning, so we got most of this battened down. Turned over my van, but I had it far from the cliff. Smashed out a window in the living room. I had a bitch of a time getting plywood over it. Lost power and phone of course, but everything here can run on emergency generator. And part of the roof lifted, but it didn’t do that much damage.” He jabbed his finger at the rain spattered windows. “This is a baby compared to that whore.” 

     He gave a whoop of a laugh, and took off his cap. 

     “Old George Crenshaw, he’s the keep on Goat Island, a mile square drop of nothing about eight miles further out to sea. Well, he took the brunt of that bitch, and we were all sure he was a goner. For hours after it passed, there was no boats could get through the waves, or helicopters through the wind. Even the radios were gone, and no one had talked to the old bugger for twelve hours. 

     “We kept trying and trying, and finally I heard his call letters, but real faint like. I turn my juice ’til the needle’s in the red, and I’m yelling, to find out how he is. You know the first thing any of us hear that old son of a bitch say?”    

     The large man’s body was actually shaking with laughter, something Blaine had rarely seen in anyone. 

     “Old George’s thin voice comes out of the radio, like a fart out of a ghost, and he says: `Well, boys, that was quite a breeze’.” 

     Blaine started to laugh as hard as the other man, who was now wiping his eyes with the cap he had in his hands. 

     “His place was a wreck. He had no heat, no power, there was three feet of water in his bedroom, and they even found a crack at the base of the tower. That crazy old guy had hand-cranked the generator on and off for ten hours to keep some light going. Jeez, Blaine, they don’t make them like that anymore.”

(Image) https://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large-5/lighthouse-in-the-storm-simple-beauty.jpg

Down To The Sea In Ships On National Lighthouse Day

nova_scotia_-_cape_george_lighthouse

Cape George Lighthouse

Since it is National Lighhouse Day, let me celebrate.

I have enjoyed going to lighthouses, and have done so for years. If anything, I keep finding them more and more evocative. A number of years ago, from high cliffs over the Northumberland Straight, this is what I saw one afternoon from a lighthouse.

One old fishing boat:

One sleek new fishing boat:

One chubby fishing boat:

One fading green fishing boat:

One distant white sailboat under sail:

One close white sailboat under sail:

Two small outboard boats:

One tugboat pulling . . .

One rusting barge.

Happily, the Cape George Lighthouse is now listed as a Heritage Site by the government of Canada.

(photo)https://opto.ca/sites/default/files/pictures/featured_items/nova_scotia_-_cape_george_lighthouse.jpg

DE

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

I have also written a couple of chapters in one of my novels that were set in a lighthouse. This is a section of one of them.

Let the light shine.

 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Excerpt from: He Lives In The City / He Drives To The Country

“Well, Blaine, the place is as sturdy as the rock it’s on. Government inspected every spring. We even sat pretty through the Great Groundhog Day Gale in 1976, the worst storm in over a hundred years.”

Fred Gannet nudged Blaine to the huge windows. He pointed into the distance, although neither could see through the fog.

“Waves forty feet smashed up against us. We clocked winds at one hundred and thirty-seven miles an hour. We had the warning, so we got most of this battened down. Turned over my van, but I had it far from the cliff. Smashed out a window in the living room. I had a bitch of a time getting plywood over it. Lost power and phone of course, but everything here can run on emergency generator. And part of the roof lifted, but it didn’t do that much damage.” He jabbed his finger at the rain spattered windows. “This is a baby compared to that whore.”

He gave a whoop of a laugh, and took off his cap.

“Old George Crenshaw, he’s the keep on Goat Island, a mile square drop of nothing about eight miles further out to sea. Well, he took the brunt of that bitch, and we were all sure he was a goner. For hours after it passed, there was no boats could get through the waves, or helicopters through the wind. Even the radios were gone, and no one had talked to the old bugger for twelve hours.

“We kept trying and trying, and finally I heard his call letters, but real faint like. I turn my juice ’til the needle’s in the red, and I’m yelling, to find out how he is. You know the first thing any of us hear that old son of a bitch say?”     The large man’s body was actually shaking with laughter, something Blaine had rarely seen in anyone.

“Old George’s thin voice comes out of the radio, like a fart out of a ghost, and he says: `Well, boys, that was quite a breeze’.”

The View From The Lighthouse

It’s hard to pry me from a bench.

There was a documentary about Maine lighthouses on the local PBS last week. A relatively (in this day and age) ancient documentary, as one of its features was the current (then) president, George Bush (HW) giving a speech. So at least a quarter century ago.

I have enjoyed going to lighthouses for longer still. If anything, I just keep finding them more evocative. I have a couple of chapters of one of my novels set in a lighthouse. A number of years ago, from high cliffs over the Northumberland Straight, this is what I saw one afternoon from a lighthouse.

One old fishing boat:

One sleek new fishing boat:

One chubby fishing boat:

One fading green fishing boat:

One distant white sailboat under sail:

One close white sailboat under sail:

Two small outboard boats:

One tugboat pulling . . .

One rusting barge.

Happily, the Cape George Lighthouse was recently listed as a Heritage Site by the government of Canada.

DE

(photo) https://opto.ca/sites/default/files/pictures/featured_items/nova_scotia_-_cape_george_lighthouse.jpg

(news item) http://globalnews.ca/news/2089945/14-lighthouses-across-nova-scotia-granted-heritage-status/

(Cape George Lighthouse) http://www.parl.ns.ca/lighthouse/

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