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Sea Smoke On The Water And A Cat On The Land

Too much excitement,
And confusion,
For Paw
My cat/kitten,
Black as last night

With one white mitten.

Down by the water.
I had to grab him
By
The scruff of his neck
(Just like a mother cat),
And haul him back
As he batted at,
And reached for,
The fog on the water.
Mind you,

I held him over it,
And let him kick

His darn fool legs
In every direction
At the white mist.
He growled
But they were,
Contented growls.

(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

Kafka Dreams On Christmas Eve

In my novel,  Kafka In The Castle, I gave Kafka a dream about a husky. Kafka’s dream, however, was based on the very true event which happened to me as I took a country walk.

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. So it goes.

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

24 December 1916

Dreamed I was in Amerika last night – playing with a Husky.

The dog was all white, and possessed an intelligent face. The shape of the muzzle made it look as if it were smiling – even laughing – and having a good time. It was free, and could do such things.

It did not speak, but that does not mean I thought it incapable of speech. I played with him, and because of his gentle persistence, we went running through the snow together. I chased him as he wanted, along a winding trail and through young woods.

I hid from him once, and he was much confused, his breath hard, and his feet scratching across the snow as he came back to look for me. I jumped out of my snow cover with a shout. He smiled at me, and he nearly spoke.

I looked for him, this morning, on the way to work. And then again, tonight, as I came up to the castle. Before I leave, I shall gaze into the Stag Moat from my darkened window. The snow there must be the purest in the city. If I see him, will I give chase?

Two Crows Joy Play Silly Buggers With A Cat Kitten

The cat/kitten,
Black as a crow
With one white mitten,
(I call him Paw),
Was prowling
By the Lighthouse,
As he likes
To do,


When two crows

Decided
On a bit of
Sport.


They flew toward him,
Then one veered

Left,
And the other
Right.


Paw twisted,
And dodged,
And fell
Ass over tea kettle.


And I,
For the first time
In my life,
Heard
The laughter of crows.

(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)

Paw The Cat Makes A Late Late Summer Friend On Partridge Island

Paw,

The all black cat/kitten,

With one white mitten,

Has

A butterfly

On his back.


A blue butterfly,


A small blue butterfly.


Blown in from some storm,


Hitch-hiking on some ship,


Alighting on a cat/kitten’s back

For the warmth

From black black fur.


Or, perhaps to play.


For the small, blue butterfly,


Flutters across the warm

Black back

And

Bats at the agitated

Tail

And

Boxes


Those twitching ears.


And Paw,

The cat/kitten,

Frolics along,

Dashes about,

But never rolls,

Never jumps,

Never snaps his

Sharp sharp teeth.

Because


(Let’s face it)


This is a lot of fun.

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

A List Of The Ways We Broke The Bed

hi414335246

We were having a fencing match with turkey drumsticks
We were attempting to make a tent with the bedclothes using an experimental pole
We were trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel
We were wondering if there was anyone else under the covers
We were playing ‘scissor / rock / paper’ with our feet
We wondered as we wandered just a little to far
We attempted to prove the angle of an isosceles triangle
One of us was the boat, the other an outboard motor
We were trying to checkmate each other
We were trying to take a cork out of a wine bottle
We were practising the cancan
We had an unfortunate incident with a hot pizza
We were trying to count to a thousand on our toes
We were lip syncing to Bohemian Rhapsody
 
We were laughing our darn fool heads off at knock knock jokes
We attempted to ride the stallion
We tried that one again
~ DE BA. UE
(image) https: //edge.media.datahc.com/HI414335246.jpg

The Theatre For The World

theatre-clipart-stage-background-1

The stage is as bare as my lady’s ass in his lordship’s bedchamber.

Rough-hewn in the most knockabout way, leaving splinters in the palace lawns of the imagination. There’s many a dip ‘twixt the trap and the lip.

It fares little better than hastily strewn boards covering parched ground, and barely enough elevation to keep the understanding masses at bay.

Were one fool enough to come from out the wings, and at centre front begin a soliloquy about the beauty of the wretched arena on which he stands, to fight the resulting and justified spontaneous combustion, there would not be found one drop of piss from any a Thespian’s hose.

For who could allow this sacrilege to be spoken? Even the flag atop the pole knows that the magic is not yet arrived.

 

A stage without commercial trappings:

without solid doors and thick drapes,

uncluttered by pillars,

and arches,

tables and chairs,

windows and fireplaces;

sans orchestra, sans balcony, sans pit.

A stage revealing all its secrets.

Profound as emptiness.

A stage in wait.

For in this world writ small – as in the globe around – the audience has nothing to know, nothing to learn, until the actor makes an entrance, and prepares to fight past our eyes to battle with those thoughts and fears which lurk in sheltered halls.

What’s Hecuba to him?

Why – nothing. Merely a name on a page of script, a cue at which to turn his profile thus.

It is what Hecuba becomes to we who wait,

that turns the key upon the heavy gate.

(image) moziru.com/images/theatre-clipart-stage-background-1.jpg

Shakespeare’s Birth And Death Day Is A Couplet

Shakespeare could look you in the eye and tell you who you are – so well-versed in the ways of people he was. He would then place you upon the stage, and have an actor have a go at you. With puns and foibles and insights.

Thus do I repeat my Shakespeare (though not exactly Shakespearean) homage.

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

The stage

Is as bare as my lady’s ass

In his lordship’s bedchamber.

Rough-hewn

In the most knockabout way,

Leaving splinters

In the palace lawns of the imagination.

There’s many a dip ‘twixt the trap and the lip.

It fares little better

Than hastily strewn boards

Covering parched ground,

With barely enough elevation

To keep the understanding masses at bay.

Were one fool enough

To come from out the wings,

And at centre front

Begin a soliloquy about the beauty

Of the wretched arena on which he stands,

To fight the resulting

And justified

Spontaneous combustion,

There would not be found one drop of piss

From any a Thespian’s hose.

For who,

Could allow

This sacrilege to be spoken?

Even the flag atop the pole knows

The magic is not yet arrived.

A stage without commercial trappings:

without solid doors and thick drapes;

uncluttered by pillars and arches,

tables and chairs,

windows and fireplaces;

sans orchestra,

sans balcony,

sans pit.

A stage revealing all its secrets.

Profound as emptiness.

A stage in wait.

For in this world writ small

– as in the globe around –

the audience has nothing to know,

nothing to learn,

until the actor makes an entrance,

prepares to fight past our eyes

to battle with those thoughts

and fears

which lurk in sheltered halls.

What’s Hecuba to him?

Why – nothing.

Merely a name in a script,

A cue at which to turn his profile thus.

It is what Hecuba becomes to we who wait,

that turns the key upon the heavy gate.

~DE BA. UE

 

What Is Hecuba To Him – To Us – As We Gaze Upon The Theatre Stage?

 

image

The stage is as bare as my lady’s ass in his lordship’s bedchamber. Rough-hewn in the most knockabout way, leaving splinters in the palace lawns of the imagination.

There’s many a dip ‘twixt the trap and the lip.

It fares little better than hastily strewn boards covering parched ground, and barely enough elevation to keep the understanding masses at bay.

Were one fool enough to come from out the wings, and at centre front begin a soliloquy about the beauty of the wretched arena on which he stands, to fight the resulting and justified spontaneous combustion, there would not be found one drop of piss from any a Thespian’s hose.

For who could allow this sacrilege to be spoken?

Even the flag atop the pole knows that the magic is not yet arrived.

A stage without commercial trappings:

without solid doors and thick drapes;

uncluttered by pillars and arches, tables and chairs, windows and fireplaces;

sans orchestra, sans balcony, sans pit.

A stage revealing all its secrets. Profound as emptiness.

A stage in wait.

For in this world writ small – as in the globe around – the audience has nothing to know, nothing to learn, until the actor makes an entrance, and prepares to fight past our eyes to battle with those thoughts and fears which lurk in sheltered halls.

What’s Hecuba to him?

Why – nothing.

Merely a name on a page of script, a cue at which to turn his profile thus.

It is what Hecuba becomes to we who wait,

that turns the key upon the heavy gate.

DE

(image) https://media.timeout.com/images/101695099/image.jpg

Every Stage Waits For Action On World Theatre Day

3405608142_9c99681644_o

The stage is as bare as my lady’s ass in his lordship’s bedchamber.

Rough-hewn in the most knockabout way, leaving splinters in the palace lawns of the imagination. There’s many a dip ‘twixt the trap and the lip.

It fares little better than hastily strewn boards covering parched ground, and barely enough elevation to keep the understanding masses at bay.

Were one fool enough to come from out the wings, and at centre front begin a soliloquy about the beauty of the wretched arena on which he stands, to fight the resulting and justified spontaneous combustion, there would not be found one drop of piss from any a thespian’s hose.

For who could allow this sacrilege to be spoken? Even the flag atop the pole knows that the magic is not yet arrived.

A stage without commercial trappings: without solid doors and thick drapes; uncluttered by pillars and arches, tables and chairs, windows and fireplaces; sans orchestra, sans balcony, sans pit.

A stage revealing all its secrets. Profound as emptiness.

A stage in wait.

For in this world writ small – as in the globe around – the audience has nothing to know, nothing to learn, until the actor makes an entrance, and prepares to fight past our eyes to do battle with those thoughts and fears which lurk in sheltered halls.

“What’s Hecuba to him?”

Why – nothing.

Merely a name on a page of script, a cue at which to turn his profile thus.

It is what Hecuba becomes to we who wait,

That turns the key upon the heavy gate.

DE

(image)https://farm4.staticflickr.com/3628/3405608142_9c99681644_o.jpg

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