Old.
And cold.
And not so bold.
Broke the mold.
There is no gold.
It’s time to fold.
Nothing to hold.
Bought and sold.
DE
I had the dream again.
Not a bad dream,
But an odd dream.
I have it often.
I’m on shore, and looking at
The Lighthouse
On Partridge Island.
And
As I sit there,
I wonder what I am doing
On the Island.
(You’d think I could have
Dreamed up a spyglass).
However, now awake,
I plan to turn my dream
Into reality.
I made everything right
At the Lighthouse.
And I made sure Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as night
With one white mitten,
Was played with, and fed.
I walked him to my dorey
So he’d know I would be away,
And
Away I went.
It’s a peaceful row,
The sea is calm,
The distance isn’t great.
The biggest chore
Is climbing up
From the rocky shore,
To settle into the comfort
Of the trees.
But, I did,
And I did.
I sat upon
A grassy perch
And looked back
With my spyglass.
What did I expect to see?
What revelation did I hope?
Well – yes – I wanted to see
Paw, my cat/kitten.
And he did not disappoint,
Though he revealed no secrets,
He did the same damn fool
Leaps, and bounds, and rushes
From place to place.
I spied no secret trysts.
I was, however, myself
Taken by surprise,
When Michael, the Mi’kmaq Indian,
Approached my seating place.
He used no stealth,
For I would have never heard him.
He asked no questions.
I handed him my spyglass.
He adjusted it, and peered.
Many minutes passed.
He handed it back to me.
“Wild cat,” he said,
“Got Glooscap in him.”
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
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 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 through our eyes and ears
To battle with those thoughts and fears
that 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.
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as good-bye,
With one white mitten,
Has disappeared.
I sent a note,
By boat,
To Sister Darling of
The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
To come and help me search
Partridge Island.
She arrived with a
Boatful of Evangelists to assist.
Now, put their proselytizing beliefs aside,
And you can’t do better than
A boatful of Evangelists
To get a job done.
They packed seventeen adherents of
The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
Onto a fishing boat,
And faster than you can say Holy Roller,
A search of Partridge Island began.
They – like me – first started at the Lighthouse,
But to no avail.
Nor any luck at my Lighthouse Keepers House.
So,
They broke into three groups,
One up each side and shore of the island,
And the biggest group up through the centre.
It’s not a big island,
But – Jesus –
It’s big enough.
Sister Darling and I
Moved from group to group.
Five and one half hours and four minutes later,
There was a yell,
From the direction of the left shore.
“Come!” “COME!”
Sister Darling and I ran.
I stumbled, and she pulled me up.
And we ran again.
When we got to the searchers,
They just gaped and pointed.
I hesitated, but Sister Darling
Pulled me again.
And when we reached the place
I gaped myself.
That miserable, cantankerous, intransigent cat.
That insistent insistent insistent animal,
Was guarding a brood of baby rabbits,
Their pecked and ravaged mother at their side.
Paw had become a feral protector.
And would let nothing near.
Until Sister Darling spoke, and cooed his name.
When she touched him, he almost fell over from fatigue.
Those Blessed Evangelists picked up each baby,
And snuggled them carefully into a pocket.
Sister Darling handed Paw to me and
– Sweet Jesus, I confess it –
I was crying.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
It’s a “kick in the arse” day,
On windswept Partridge Island.
The sun rose with enough red sky
To make even Paw, my Cat/Kitten,
Black as the dwindling night,
With one white mitten,
Shield his eyes.
But then
– Oh, then –
The sky tumbled full of
Dark, hellish clouds,
And then
– Oh, then –
The snow started
To fall
Like there was no tomorrow.
The Almanac tells ya
“Spring has arrived.”
I’ll let Paw tell them
What he thinks.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
What slides through the Fog?
Or hides in the fog?
Or lies in the fog
In wait?
These are the questions of,
The Lighthouse Keeper of Partridge Island,
Feeling his way from Keeper’s House
To Lighthouse,
In this fourth day
Of fog
To consume the Island.
It is a futile chore to maintain
The Light,
Which remains unseen from
Shore to ship.
Yet, I do.
From treacherous day,
To treacherous day,
Proving
– I think –
Some sort of Faith.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
I am submitting
To the blandishments
Of Sister Darling, of
The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),
Because she is a woman of God.
(Though her take on the teachings of the Lord,
Do have a belligerent slant).
And,
She can play me like a fiddle.
So, at her suggestion,
I let her make, for Paw, my Cat/kitten,
Black as the night
With one white mitten,
A winter suit,
For days like today,
With wild winds cold
As an iceberg,
And snow enough to
Bury any cat.
She has knitted him a body suit,
And four booties,
Coloured blue, so we
Won’t lose him in the snow.
Paw is none too happy
Being press-ganged into this gear.
Nor does the chore,
Fill me with cheer.
But out she tosses him
Into a drift.
Two other days he protests,
But this morning, he is calm as a clam,
And stays out for hours.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
I’ve made a special meal
For Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as dark ale,
With one white mitten.
It will be his first
Robbie Burns Night feast,
But I do not want him
To hope
That it will be his last.
So,
I am going to omit the haggis
(A hellish thing to make anyway),
And lay on the
Tatties & neeps.
But,
Since I doubt Paw will enjoy
Either Spuds or Rutabaga,
There will be a couple of
Mutton chops each,
And a piece of steak.
I will, however,
Have the whisky flowing.
And be in full voice
When I recite:
‘The Selkirk Grace’
“Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.”
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
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