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It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First / Part The Second

PART THE FIRST

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper, I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since

I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.

I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.


PART THE SECOND

I had wished for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.

But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,

Unrobed of their vestments,

And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,

Await on the dock, 

On shore,

In the deserted port,


To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{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 The Fog Is A Shroud For Death, Do The Mermaids Still Sing?

It’s illegal, of course

What Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me to do:

But who am I,

Belated sinner, and open to

Any supernatural suggestion,

Going to do?

Acquiesce, of course.

Submit, of course.

As is (I am sure) God’s will.

So she has transported her beloved aunt,

Dead these past three days,

On a boat to Partridge Island.

Captained by a cousin and

A crew member who will ask no

Questions,

So they will not have


To give any answers 


– If asked –

As to what might have been

In their coffin-shaped cargo.


Sister Darling’s beloved aunt

Wished – implored – to be buried

On Partridge Island as,


Over a half century ago,

It was the place of her birth.

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black himself as Death,

With one white mitten,

Tolls a tiny bell which

Sister Darling has affixed

Around his neck.

The grave (of course)

I have already dug,

And Sister Darling is

(Of course)

Full of the appropriate prayers.

{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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It’s Saint Patrick’s Day On Partridge Island And Sister Darling Brings Stew

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the Ides of March


With one white mitten,

Has a green ribbon


Tied around his neck,

As we stand on the dock


And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,

Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

On this Saint Patrick’s Day,


She steps off the fishing boat,

And unceremoniously hands me


A hefty cauldron,

As she scoops up Paw


And holds him close, the way


(I trust)

She will eventually hold me.


“Irish stew,” says she.

But I didn’t even have to guess,


For I can recite, by smell,

The ingredients.


Lamb on the bone

Carrots/celery

onions/leeks/garlic

Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper

Lots of potatoes

And two (I hope) pints of ale.

“You are right,” she says


As Paw snuggles into her hair,

“And you will get

A Reward.”

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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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}

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Dead And Drowned And Waiting To Go Home

It was another body,

Washed up,

On the rocks.

There are a number every year,

Coming in on the waves.

A fisherman by his garb.

You can’t tell anything

From his face,

Or extremities.

Food for fishes.

I put up two flags,

For assistance

And for death.

Some incoming boat

Will heave to,

And take the remains

To port.

I used the  peavey, 

To get him out of the water,

And rolled him in a tarpaulin,

And left him in the trench

I’ve dug

For just this reason.

Then I sang

“Nearer, My God, to Thee“,

Because,

What else can I do?

I wished Sister Darling

Was here,

To say proper prayers.

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

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Sister Darling Saves My Soul And Ignites My Coal For Valentine’s Day

Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Stepped onto the dock of

The Partridge Island Lighthouse

This Valentine Day morning,

From an outgoing fishing boat,

To spend the day (and night)

On behalf of my religious studies.

Provisions she brought, beyond

Usual Lighthouse Keeper fare,

Incl. chocolates and bottles o’ wine.

There were even finely cut

Fresh fish fillets for

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as soot

With one white mitten.

And when my religious instructions

Were done,

And before our festive feast,

We greeted each other with

Such enthusiasm,

That her hair-holding bun

Became undone,

And cascaded across her shoulders,

Giving Paw, the cat/kitten,

A place to hide.

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

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A Jack-o’-Lantern Prepares The Way For Halloween On Partridge Island

I have made a lean-to

For the Halloween Pumpkin.

It faces all incoming

And outgoing

Ships.

I check my jack-o’-lantern

On the Hour

From eight after dark,


When it’s lit,

To the first hour


Of the next day.


When it is extinguished.

It is alight for


A Trinity of Nights.

It offers the Souls


Warmth,


And a place to cluster,


Away from the Lighthouse.

Sometimes their shadows

Dim the flame.

Sometimes those incoming


And outgoing


Ships


Veer their course,

Away from Partridge Island.

Sometimes I don’t make


My hourly check.

For the Dead


At this time of year


Can be

None too friendly.


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

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