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I See As Far As The Eye Can See Out To Sea

It’s a rare, balmy day

Near the end of November.

I’m sitting on a bench with a back.

I made it myself,

Because a bench with a back

Is a thing of luxury.

I can lean

And not perch.

It is situated safely

Up from the shoreline,

Looking out to sea.

It will not get washed away

Regardless of the fierceness

Of the ocean and its storms.

The Lighthouse is behind me,

And Paw, my cat/kitten.

Black as black can be

With one white mitten,

Is snoozing in the sun

Beside me.

I ponder whether to wake him,

To see a half dozen ducks

Paddling their way around the island.

Paw has his whims,

And might try to catch one.

He won’t, of course,

And I have no desire to scoop

Him out of the cold, November water.

I’ll let him snooze.

I’ll let the ducks go upon their way.

I’ll just sit and enjoy the sun.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report

DE BA. UEL

All The Ducks Were Not In A Row As They Sparkled

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as soot

With one white mitten,

Was beside himself

(almost literally),

When he came across

A mother duck,

And a dozen ducklings,

Frolicking in a small pond,

Inland, on Partridge Island.

He came to get me.

I always follow.

The ducklings swam in,

And out,

Of sparkles on the water.

At times, it was as if

They wore sparkling jewels.

They’d bob for food, and

Pop back up with jewels of light

Around their necks,.

I have never seen such a thing.

And Paw . . .

Paw stood in awe.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

When Birds of A Feather Are Crows Together Do They Ponder Murder?

The crows are gathering outside my window. One crow at a time. On the street. On the sidewalk. On the grass.

I noticed two at first. Close together, and walking around in tandem. On the street. Then one fluttered down from a tree. Also on the street.

There is a single pigeon on the grass, minding – as far as I can tell – its own business. Peck-peck-pecking. Neck jerking as it moves along. Seemingly oblivious.

Then another crow flies down out of the sky. Lands on the grass near the pigeon. Doesn’t move.

Another crow swoops down with a sudden landing on the grass. Takes crow hops to the crow on the grass. They stand together looking at (it looks to me) at the pigeon. The pigeon (as far as I can tell) is minding its own business.

Then a crow lands on the sidewalk, close to the pigeon that is minding its own business.

Its business, almost immediately, is to fly away.

And then the crows on the street fly away. And then the crows on the grass fly away. And last, the crow on the sidewalk flies away.

So – what was that all about?

The Monarch Of The Lighthouse

I try to hoist the Union Jack

By sunrise,

And lower it by sunset.

I am not always faithful

To the former.

This morning, I was slow to the mark.

The sun was fully risen

In the East.

The colours caught the sun

Part way up the mast.

However, my chagrin was overtaken

By the antics of my cat/kitten,

Black as the disappeared night

With one white mitten.

I call him Paw.

So I went over to see

What was what.

He was huddled over

A folded Monarch butterfly,

Getting warmth from

The flag stones,

And much the worse

For wear.

It stood firm on its feet,

And stayed upright when the wind

Ruffled its wings.

Paw sniffed around, but kept

A respectful distance.

The smell of Death,

I suppose.

Still,

That Monarch has lasted out

The day,

And might still be present

When It is time to

Lower the flag

For the night.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

HMS Styx And The River Raise A Question By The Almost King

HMS Styx hove too afore my dock,

And dispatched a boat containing,

HRH Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales,

Destined to be our rightful king –

Eventually.

I had on my grand uniform,

But paled in comparison to the amount

Of gold braid upon HRH.

He had arranged this meeting

By the last naval ship,

That came through the port.

So I met him, and presented the

Only other loyal subject

Upon Partridge Island,

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as ship’s tar.

With one white mitten,

But absent any braid..

HRH was quite pleased,

And asked to hold the cage.

And then he asked me

(Which was the reason for his visit)

How these Reversing Falls worked,

For he was to take a boat up river

To the Capital.

He did not want to appear ignorant

To the locals so,

He wanted someone local

To explain it to him.

So I told him how the

Power of the ocean,

Pushed back the flow of the river

At high tide.

“So the river really

Reverses?” he asked.

“It does”royal,royalty,cat,island,poem,poetry,history,navy,ocean,river,nature,naval,, I assured him.

With that, he then asked

If he could pat the cat,

Which Paw appreciated.

Then back to the HMS STYX

Went HRH,

And departed to the

Awaiting crowds.

I doubt I’ll be made

An Admiral,

But Paw . . .

Oh, dear, will I have

To salute him?

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

The Sky Turns To Anger And Danger

It is one of those strange skies.

Strange morning light,

Not silver,

Not copper.

But both at once.

And the morning started so sunny,

Promising a fine fine day.

But now,

Even Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as a midnight sky,

With one white mitten,

Is backing up

With a hiss.

Is the ocean going to throw,

And pound,

Our island and our lighthouse,

With storm and waves,

Wrack and ruin?

Or will it pass us by,

Like ghostly ships in the night?

I’m going to take Paw in

And give him meat.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

A Feast From The Earth On EARTH DAY

I saw a sight that I believe I have actually never seen, though it is fabled the world over.

Standing on the front stoop to test the air I saw a robin on the grass. Robins are rather skittish and usually, when a human presence is so close, it will make them hop (and they truly do *hop*) away. But this one stayed put.

My understanding is that birds ‘hear’ the worms under the earth – that is how they detect them. I assume that is why they so often have their head in a cocked position. However, for this robin, the listening part of the chase was over.

As I watched the robin made a strike into the earth with its beak. It was then that an almost cartoon-like image occurred. The bird had a portion of the worm in its beak and began to pull. It pulled and pulled and the worm stretched and stretched. It made me think of someone pulling a threaded needle from the fabric they were sewing. The length of the worm became even longer than the robin’s body. With this constant and slow tug, the worm finally popped out of the earth.

Then the robin had a go at it.

The bird took at the long, brown earthworm and began to snip off pieces with its beak. It could not have been more effective if it had a pair of scissors. Substantial, beak-sized pieces which it swallowed quickly. The long earthworm became shorter and shorter, giving the robin less to hold on to. In under two minutes the worm became one remaining morsel hanging from the robin’s beak. It was only then that the robin began to hop across the grass. The last piece of worm disappeared inside the robin and the robin quickly took off.

One satisfied predator.

One less worm.

Who Found The First Flowers Of Spring First?

I don’t know if

It was Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as the night

With one white mitten,

Or Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Who is as lithe as Paw

And as inquisitive.

When I joined them,

On the sunny side

At the base

Of the Lighthouse,

On Partridge Island,

They were equally enthralled

Each in their own way.

Paw had his nose inches

From the white petals,

While Sister Darling leaned

Forward to brush her fingers

Against them

But

Instead

Patted the cat/kitten.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

The Almighty and The Elephant Share Poems on World Poetry Day

The elephant was contemplating his muse.

He was lying beside the river, trailing one of his big feet in the water.

He watched as the current rippled and sparkled past, and noted the occasional
leaping fish with bemusement.He looked across to the other shore with a sigh,
and then closed his eyes to more fully experience the race of the river against his toes.
After indulging himself in this manner for awhile, he flopped onto his back, so he could
look at the trees.

He traced their outline against the blue sky with his trunk, and followed

the curve of some branches overhanging the river with interest. He even smiled benignly as a family of monkeys clambered up one tree, leapt through the canopy of leaves, and

raced down another.

He suddenly slapped his forehead with his trunk, rolled over with such force that

he jostled a boulder with his flank, and began to emote.

The monkeys, in the trees,

“Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.”

“Pardon me?” said the boulder.

I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.

“It was older, and much colder.”

“Oh boy,” said God.

“I am a POET,” said the elephant.

“Oh boy, again,” said God.

It is a stone, which has grown,

“In a zone, all alone.”

“Would that I were – alone, and away from the voices.”

“I’m expressing myself,” said the elephant.

“That is a statement of truth,” said God, “which does not contain the whole truth.”

“It is a thrill, to have free will,

“That is until, others say `nil’.”

“To be fair,” God stifled a chuckle. “You seem to have grasped the concept of

rhyme – although your reach sometimes exceeds it.”

“But that’s what heaven’s for,” pointed out the elephant.

“You’ll get,” said God, “no Browning points from me.”

“That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,

“My muse to cast, into the past.”

“You’ve heard about too much of a good thing?” asked the boulder, giving a nudge of its own.

“Yes,” said the elephant.

“Well – this isn’t it.”

“You don’t like the way I make the words dance?”

“I’d rather sit this one out.”

In the misty morn, he sat forlorn;

“He wouldn’t adorn, the dance floor well-worn.”

“Oh boy,”said God.

“As you can see,” said the elephant. “I provide a lot of bon mot for each and

every occasion.”

“Such a threat is enough to make a boulder crumble,” said the boulder.

“The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,

“And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.”

“Oy veh,” said God. “I’ve become a straight man for a stand-up elephant.”

“I could pack a hall,” said the elephant.

“You could pachyderm,” pointed out God.

It’s just a guess, I do confess,

“That more is less, in the wilderness.”

“This could go on forever,” said God.

“You’re the expert there,” pointed out the elephant.

“Then I think I’ll repair to the forest,” said the boulder.

“He stood, in the wood,

“Where he could, do most good.”

The boulder rumbled with a voice which filled the jungle.

Poems are made by fools like thee,

“But only I can make a tree.”

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