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World Class Poetry For World Poetry Day (Don’t Argue With God)

My book of short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, consists of many conversations that an Elephant has with God. In one of the stories, he breaks out into {his version of} poetry.

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

The monkeys, in the trees,

Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.

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

I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.

It was older, and much colder.

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

It is a stone, which has grown

In a zone, all alone.

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

It is a thrill, to have free will,

That is until, others say `nil’.

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

That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,

My muse to cast, into the past.

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

The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,

And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.

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

It’s just a guess, I do confess,

That more is less, in the wilderness.

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

God – as God is wont to do – did have the last word.

Poems are made by fools like thee,

But only I can make a tree.

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Trapped On Partridge Island And Freed By A Cat

I allowed Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as all thunder

With one white mitten,

To walk, without cage or leash,

On this so-close to Spring day.

He’s gotta learn.

So, I was surprised when

He came dashing back,

Hooked a claw to my pant leg,

And pulled me forward.

I followed.

Down near the shore,

Close to the water.

Was a deer.

It had a hoof trapped

Between rocks.

Deer don’t swim over often,

And when they do,

They don’t stay.

But this doe,

In her way, young as Paw,

Was not going to leave.

Paw went up to her.

She didn’t struggle.

And, I swear to God

– Yes, Jehovah Himself –

That Paw started digging

Around the hoof.

Now, I would have had

Heavy second thoughts

Of helping,

If it had been a back leg.

One kick, and it would have been

Arse over teakettle for me.

But the deer tolerated Paw,

And Paw tolerated me,

And I got her free in a minute.

And away she ran.

And away she swam.

And I swear again to God

– Yes, Jehovah Himself –

Paw smiled.

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 A Soul 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 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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I Sing Wagner As Arctic Winds Howl Straight From The North Pole

You don’t see it often,

(And you don’t want to).

The water along the rocks

Is splashing up as ice

On this frigid, frigid day.

Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as the ice

Sometimes can be,

With one white mitten,

Does not cease in his complaints.

I’ve brought him with me

In his cage,

Because,

On his own

He would be blown away.

He doesn’t realize that.

We cower on the shore,

And look out to sea.

We spy a ship

With its sails down

And a white aura

Enveloping her.

A snow squall perhaps,

Or,

Perhaps something else

As you can only see

Out at sea.

And, to appease the cat/kitten,

To calm him down,

(As well as myself)

I sing some Wagner,

Belt it out against the wind.

“That storm it wants a battle
And it’s sure that we’re outgunned!
That ghostly ship is hunting us
It’s bringing on the gale!
She’s called the Flying Dutchman
And it’s rage that fills her sails!”

And – indeed – it does us some good.

And then,

We high tail it

Back to the shelter

Of home.

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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Who Was Looking At The Island As The Day Moved Forward?

I felt eyes upon me

This morning

From the Mainland.

And it isn’t just me.

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as the

Bottom of a barrel,

With one white mitten,

Felt them, too.

We stared back from Partridge Island,

Wondering if someone had set up

A telescope, on a tripod,

From the closest shore.

Or if a spyglass (or two)

Was peering from The Martello Tower,

To catch a glimpse of our

Sequestered life.

Paw gave a hiss

(As he is wont to do),

For he is not fond

Of them Mainlanders.

So, to appease him,

I gave a spit of tobacco,

While secretly wondering

If it was Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Pondering her next visit

While reminiscing of the raptures

Of her last.

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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Wotz Been Did & Wotz Been Hid 4 Friday 13th

I wish to state before this assembled multitude;

This packed house;

This captive audience;

That I have every right

(as much as each of you)

To be here

To represent my interests;

My justifications,

My associations,

Because

I am a member

In every day,

And,

Perhaps

Even on nights which are too cold.

And then the elevators,

(as they so often do)

Stop.

You look askance.

Indeed, you look at me

In that manner

That indicates the corners of your eyes

Are full of mistakes.

Which proves to me

Beyond and above

– to heaven even –

To the very Golden Gates,

Where various saints

Hang to the golden bars

And swing to and fro

In the Celestial breezes,

Which cause clouds to scud across the sky,

And there is barely time to think of a reply.

DE

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The Ghost Ships Of The Old Year Sail Past On New Year’s Eve

here needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

I’ve been reading my Shakespeare(As I often do)

Aloud, to Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as the grave,

With one white mitten.

He usually sleeps.

But he would agree with Horatio, that:

“There needs no ghost, my Lord/

“Come from the grave, to tell us this.”

And Paw, as is Horatio, would be right.

But still, the wrecks of ships,

Gone down to their watery depths

In the preceding year,

Float in a line

Stern to bow

Across the mouth of the harbour.

I go out, and always watch

In the dark dark dark of the night,

As one year of wretched release

Slides into another.

What can I do for them,

Other than to acknowledge

Their passage.

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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Preparing For Christmas On Partidge Island

Squalls and snow and high seas and chill and blow,

And the whistling whistling wind.

Screaming wind!

Lead to Christmas Day.

I feared that Sister Darling  of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

Would not make the tide,

Let alone make a visit

Of Salvation,

To Partridge Island.

To bring Festive celebration to

The Lighthouse Keeper and

Paw, his cat/kitten

Black as the storm-churned sea

With one white mitten.

But,

Heaven be praised,

And joyous greetings to the King of the World,

Jesus Himself!

Sister Darling managed to wrangle a ride,

And bring festive gifts

For man and cat.

(And a rum-soaked cake)!!

And the night can whistle around us

In my snug Keeper’s House.

I hope Jesus was as warm

As we will be.

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

om

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Christmas Eve Prepares For Christmas Day On Partridge Island

Squalls and snow and high seas and chill and blow,

And the whistling whistling wind.

Screaming wind!

Lead to Christmas Day.

I feared that Sister Darling  of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

Would not make the tide,

Let alone make a visit

Of Salvation,

To Partridge Island.

To bring Festive celebration to

The Lighthouse Keeper and

Paw, his cat/kitten

Black as the storm-churned sea

With one white mitten.

But,

Heaven be praised,

And joyous greetings to the King of the World,

Jesus Himself!

Sister Darling managed to wrangle a ride,

And bring festive gifts

For man and cat.

(And a rum-soaked cake)!!

And the night can whistle around us

In my snug Keeper’s House.

I hope Jesus was as warm

As we will be.

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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