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Paw, The Cat, Wants To Hunt On Partridge Island

Paw, the cat,
Yes
“The cat”,
‘Cause he is not
“My cat”
No one ever owns a cat,
They are wrong about that.


Is getting old enough
To hunt.
But he can’t decide
(Or so I interpret)
Whether to go for
Fish or Fowl.


‘Cause he eyes the seas,
And he eyes the trees,
Making little, plaintive, chatters.


But the partridge,
That look big enough
To carry him away,
Oh
They must be
Tempting.


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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Kitten Answers The Questions Sent From Ship To Shore

Paw, the kitten,
Named such because
He’s an all black cat,
With one white mitton,
Sits on my shoulder,
As a raggle-taggle line,
Of storm-delayed ships,
Pass my Lighthouse.


I get flag signals,
And shutter signal lamps,
Asking about my new feline.


I tell Paw
To raise his white paw.
And he does.

Extra fish for him tonight.

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

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Kitty Cat, Kitty Cat, Where Have You Been? For I’m The Only Game In Town

I don’t know if,
I have proof,
Or not,

That it was a

Ghost ship, out in the Bay,
Last night.
But
This morning,
As I waked the shore,
I found a

Kitty cat,


Little more than
A kitten,


As black as night,
As sin.

And unless he’s been
Fishing
He was hungry.


I’m sure it will not
Be difficult
To satisfy him with
My questionable stew,


And
Yes
I am going to call him
Paw.

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

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I Doubt It Was A Ghost Ship – But I Just Don’t Know

I was tending the Light,
For the last time at Night,
When I saw a glow
Way out in the Bay.
Not the usual lantern lights,
At bow, and stern, and
Up the mast.


It was glowing,

Steady,

Not the flickering

When brushed

By the wind.


It’s the First of October,
And the ghosts,
Well,
The ghosts are getting ready.

It’s that time of year.
The dying time.

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

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I Heard A Dog In The Dark And Wondered

It was the last ship
I expect to see tonight,
Its ruddy lanterns
On the stern
Passing my Lighthouse
On its way to safe harbour.


Most ships do not want
To sail after dark,
Near the coast,
Near the rocks.


And a dog barked from
The deck,


And i wondered
What it thought,
What is smelled,
So close.


What were its
Expectations?

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

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Enough Fog To Lose My Dog In The Bog

Mind you,
I have no dog
Here
On Partridge Island.


And
There is no bog
Here,
On Partridge Island.


There is grass,
And shrubs,
And fewer trees,
And the rocky,
Rocky,
Shore.


But I still would not
Have found my dog
In last night’s fog.


In fact,
I had to hold
Onto the rope,
Between my Lighthouse Keeper’s House
And the Lighthouse,
That I use in winter blizzards,
To find
The Lighthouse.


In that fog
You don’t even
See
The Light.

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

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It Was A Dory Without A Story

There were rough seas at night,
But they did not keep me awake
For long.


The lighthouse keeper’s house
Has thick, stone walls
Like the lighthouse itself.
Built to last.


I snored away.


But the next day,

Which is clear but full of

Rough seas.


I walk the shore
Of Partridge Island,
To see what’s

Been blown in.


There’s always something.


Today, there is a dory,
As pristine as if someone
Had just rowed her here.


Though there are no
Oars.
Or any other item,
Or name on bow.
Barely a trace

Of water, awash

On it’s flat bottom.


I doubt I’ll ever
Know its origin,
Or its history.


In a couple of months
It’s mine to keep.

‘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 sea,lighthouse,history,poem,poetry,harbor,harbour,Partridge Isl

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All Work, And Maggots, Too, Cause Havoc On The Tossing Blue

Has no one before


Watered the floor


With the tears of


The poor

Sailorman?

Months out at sea


Is no place to be


No loved ones in sight


And to never feel free.


Alas!

The seas are oft rough


The boatswain is tough


The work never ends


And it’s never enough.


Drat!

The days yawn into fog


And the doldrums do bog


And create such an itch


Not relieved by the grog.


Hic!


So, any port from the foam


It doesn’t have to be home


Just some food that tastes real


Without maggots that roam.


Sigh!

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

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Sailors With Heads Of Stone And Bloodshot Eyes Leave Port

Just as these sailors,


On A Friday night,


Were overjoyed when they


Entered the port,

Sailing past my Lighthouse


With smiles and cheers,


For a weekend where they


Could


– And would –


Let loose


In all those ways


That sailors do.


Now they return to the sea

,
With full days of


Hard and harsh work


To test their mettle.


No smiles now.


They barely look my way.


Nary a cheer,


Nary a wave,


And I,


The lighthouse keeper


Of the Lighthouse


On Partridge Island,


Bow solemnly


At their passage.


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

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