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Paw

The Ship Parade On All Hallows Eve

Paw the cat/kitten,

Black as black can be

With one white mitten,

Drapes himself

On Sister Darling’s shoulder,

As we wait (perhaps unwisely)

On the Lighthouse dock,

To watch the passage of sunken ships,

On this night when the Otherworld

Enters into our own.

Sister Darling,

Of The Rarefied Church of The World (Reformed),

Notes that Paw has (perhaps wisely)

Nestled beneath the waves of

Her long, flowing hair,

So one can only see

His gleaming eyes and

One white paw.

The sunken ships, each in their disarray

Of tattered and shattered

Sails, spars, jibs,

Yards, booms, masts,

And other savaged rigging,

Moan and splash and sigh

As they pass.

The dead sailors stand at the rail,

Beseeching,

Without word or movement.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2026 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.  DE BA. UEL

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The Full Moon Leading To All Hallows

Paw, the cat/kitten


Black as a witch hat


With one white mitten


Is pacing


And waiting


To get back into the night.


And I’ll let him.


For it’s more his night


Than mine.


He does not need the full of the moon


To find his way


To find his places.


But the round, bright Moon


Shows him the sights


Beyond his vision.


Particularly those 

Sprites

Banshees

Dullahans

Kelpies

Goblins

Will O’Wisps

Mjijaqamij

Sg’te’gmuj


That all have their queer ways


To befuddle.


A Man has sense to stay inside


But I opened the door for Paw.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2026 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.  DE BA. UEL

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I Am Full Like The Moon

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as a sky night

With one white mitten,

Was up yesterday morning

And saw the waxing gibbous moon. 


The moon – of course – affects Paw,

As it does all the animals

(Including us).


But Paw,

A persnickety little bugger 

At the best of times,

Seems to take umbrage

With the moon,

Or 

At the moon,

When it grows (and glows)

To its full height and size.


Paw,

Being a cat,

Does not howl at the moon,

But he spits,

And hisses,

And growls,

And goes “Itititititititit”,

And makes himself quite a nuisance.

He will get the crazies,

And dash back and forth

From window, to door,

To window.


I’d let him out (I swear, just to be quit of him),

But I have no guarantee

– None at all –

That he would come back,

And I’d miss the little bugger.

[That’s the truth]


I bundle him firmly

(So I won’t get lacerated),

And carry him up 

To the lantern room

At the top of the lighthouse.

I let him loose.


I’ll find him in the morning,

Finally asleep, 

But still, occasionally,

Muttering “Itititititititit” to himself,

While he dreams. 

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2026 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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Will The Shortest Day Of The Year Impress The Cat?

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 black 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 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen /A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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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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