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Paw

In The Storm, Did The Cat, Disappear Just Like That?

If my cat/kitten,
Black as coal,
With one white mitten,
(I call him Paw)

Was not black as coal,
He’d be lost to me,
And to the ages,
In these drifts of snow
Covering Partridge Island,
After the storm,
From down the coast,

That left us so white.
I kept him in while
It raged,
Which he took to kindly.
But I let him loose,
The next afternoon,
Because a cat/kitten
Got to learn the

Ways of the world.
He took to the huge drifts,
Like a fish to water.
And when he tried to
Chase a rabbit,
I laughed myself silly.
And, (I bet),
So did the rabbit.

(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report} DE BA. UEL

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Flotsam and Jetsam Wash Ashore On Partridge Island

As the Lighthouse Keeper on Partridge Island,

I have to make a monthly inspection

Along the shore of the whole island.

Of course, I make reports, and haul the 

Moveable trash off the shore, and put it

Above the tide line (which is high),

So it won’t set sail again.

All this is true,

But,

What I’m really supposed

To report,

Are the bodies I find.

There are generally three or four a year,

Mostly beyond recognition.

I can spread out this chore if I desire,

But – generally – I prefer to do it over a

Couple of days.

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as deep tide pools

With one white mitten,

Always wants to come along. 

He always regrets it,

When we reach the ocean tip,

Where he is surrounded, 

On three sides,

By water.

He doesn’t like that.

And he always complains,

But he soldiers on.

Today was no different.

Although the day was beautiful,

With clear sky and pleasant wind,

The ocean had an odd, opaque shimmer.

It was like looking at the coated side

Of a mirror.

Paw – who has been known to step

Over a dead body to see what

Was on the other side –

Avoided the shore,

And stayed above the 

High tide mark.

I guess he didn’t want to see

Something he couldn’t see.

He was impatient for me to haul ass.

And he let me know it.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA UE

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What Do You See When You Are Black As Agate?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as agate

With one white mitten,

Is turning into Narcissus.

He is gazing at himself

In a quiet pool of water,

Becalmed along the shore

Of Partridge Island.

He does – sometimes – look

Into the mirror,

And lingers.

I assume he sees 

What I see.

But I know cats,

And many of the other animals,

Also look with their noses,

And ears.

Perhaps that is why 

He gazes so intently,

Not being able to recognize

What he sees.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.  DE BA. UEL

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Is The Summer Solstice The Top Of The Hill For Life?

Michael, my Mi’kmaq friend; 

Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (reformed);

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as smudge

With one white mitten;

And myself,

The Lighthouse Keeper

Of Partridge Island;

Are banded together to celebrate

The twenty-first day of June

The Summer Solstice

The first day of summer.

Really, say what you will, 

We are all going to stay out 

Until the sun goes down.

Michael points to trees, leaves

And shadows,

To explain the importance 

Of the Day.

Sister Darling quotes parts

Of Genesis, and the sun, 

And what happened when

All was in place.

I have some seafaring instruments,

And twist dials, and

Slide pieces of metal

To prove summer’s existence.

And

Of course

There is a FEAST!

Michael brings a haunch,

And steaks,

Of Venison.

Sister Darling brings

Two pots of stew,

And two rhubarb pies.

I have delved into my

Bread recipes and

Offer three different selections.

And Paw, the cat/kitten

Catches a plump robin,

But he lets it go.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.

DE BA. UEL

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What Did The Black Cat Find?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as a starless night

With one white mitten,

Has outdone himself.

Again.

He came and got me,

Tracked me down,

(I was repairing part

Of the Partridge Island

Dock)

And bade me follow.

Demanded, actually.

So (of course) I did.

He has yet to understand

I can not scramble

With the alacrity

His four paws

Allow.

He stood waiting

At the top of

The rough trail

And complained.

He then stood by the base

Of the Lighthouse

And complained.

He paced at the

Entrance

Of our rough little forest

And complained.

But he didn’t enter until

I stood beside him.

No complaints now.

So . . . I wondered what 

I was going to find.

And – no – I would 

Never have guessed.

Paw moved carefully,

But unerringly,

To a spot not far

From the water.

He stopped in front

Of a swath of tall grass.

He sat down.

The rest was up to me.

I stepped (deliberately) over him,

And peered.

In the middle of the

Swath of grass

Was the leg of a deer.

One leg.

Nothing else.

No head

No antlers

No exposed bones

No hide nor hair

(Save the tiny hairs

on this solitary leg

complete with hoof).

Paw didn’t make a sound,

But his tail twitched.

There couldn’t be

Enough meat on it

For even a cat to chew.

There are no deer on Partridge Island.

Nothing much larger than

Paw, himself.

Some hawk or osprey or eagle

Might have dropped it.

Some storm might have 

Heaved it ashore from some

Hunter’s field-dressing 

Of a fresh kill.

I let Paw do what he wanted.

He didn’t want much.

He did walk its whole length,

Sniffed and licked,

And once

Rubbed his face

Against it.

He paid special attention to the hoof.

He was satisfied.

I was satisfied.

The deer was

With its ancestors.

I carried it 

Across the rocks

And tossed it back

Into the sea.

By the time I turned 

Back to shore,

Paw was on his way

Home.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.

DE BA. UEL

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Will The Cat Extend His Toe Beans, Or His Claws?

Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me,

The Poet Laureate of Partridge Island,

To publish

A booklet

Of my poems.

She swears

(well – you know

as much as a lady of God

will actually “swear”),

That Paw, The Cat/Kitten,

Black as printing ink

With one white mitten,

Does wish the same,

If

(You know)

He could speak our language.

Perhaps she is correct.

However,

I am not convinced

That Paw,

Could he articulate

A review

Of my graceful,

(Though somewhat slapdash)

Lines of verse,

Would be an appreciative connoisseur.

I have seen him, oftentimes,

Express his natural nature.

He can be,

Remarkably,

Savage.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025/ A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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The Blood Moon Engulfs Partridge Island

The moon didn’t disappear,

Tonight,

Because of the total eclipse.

It bathed Partridge Island

In blood,

As it turned dark.

There was no way to convince

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as an eclipse

With one white mitten,

That it wasn’t dripping blood.

He spat

He howled

He bared his teeth

And claws

He paced

He sometimes cowered

(I swear from exhaustion, as

the bloody thing went on

and on).

I finally threw a towel

Over him,

And tucked him

Into a closet.

Closed the door,

And talked to him.

(I confess, using baby talk),

’till the blood stopped.

It exhausted me, too.

And, when the moon shone full,

I let Paw out, and took him

For a walk outside.

If cats could howl at the moon

That is what he would have done.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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There Are No Small Gifts On Christmas Day On Partridge Island

Christmas Day is like
Any other day at
The Partridge Island Lighthouse.

Ya gotta trim the wicks,
And renew the oil.
So, I went about my business
At the usual time, only noting that
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as soot

With one white mitten,
Had abandoned me.
‘Mice’, thought I.

For there are always mice
On Partridge Island.
But, I found out

(After my chores were done),
That wily Paw had used stealth
– and his sensitive hearing –
To scurry to my Lighthouse-keepers house.


When I returned, as darkness settled,
I saw twinkling lights 
Through the windows,
And smelled the  delightful warmth

Of roasted fowl, and sweetened baking,
As I walked through the door.

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Had hired a fishing boat to
Bring her to the Island, whilst I

Was occupied in the tower.

She had put her pre-baked goods
Into the oven, and
Stoked the fire.

A bottle of red wine, and
A bottle of white,
Sat upon the kitchen table.
And

Paw, the cat/kitten
Had a red red riband tied

Around his neck,
With a key attached.
I took it. 
When I turned,
Sister Darling removed a small casket.
And handed it to me.

I used the key
To open a tiny lock.

I Opened it,
And looked inside.
Oh, My!
Oh, My!!
It GLOWED.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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When Does The Change Of Season, Affect Paw, The Cat/Kitten?

Paw the cat/kitten,
Black as dirt, with one white mitten,
Sought me out in the lighthouse.
He climbed the whole way

Up to the Lantern Room,
Which he usually avoids

Because the revolving light
Spooks him.
He doesn’t like the shadows.
But, there he was.
He meowed,
Which he doesn’t do

All that much.
But,
When I kept at my chores,
He came over and put his claws
Into my pant leg,
And pulled.

When he’s this insistent, I follow.
So, down through the tower,
Impatient at the door,
Outside and waiting,

To be sure that I follow,
Then he heads to the shore
Facing out to sea.
It’s a well trod path
(For a cat)
And I move swiftly (but carefully).
I find him waiting at the base
Of a five foot, stunted tree.
So I went over to look.

There was a small amount of snow,
Caught between the gnarled roots.
The remnants of some snow squall,
That obviously had passed in the night.
Knowing he had my full attention,
He stood over it
And pissed mightily,
Turning it yellow.


It’s going to be a long winter.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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